I Go Away 12/22/2015

12/2015

Farewell, I'm off to the woods,
Where the little birdies are

To the river,
Where the crows and the eagles are

To the grassy meadow
Where the Deer people paw the snow
And no-one is blown in wordy winds of war

Farewell, I leave you arguing for your crown
My diadem is made of leaves
That have floated to the ground

River of the Heart. December 4 2015

Do you remember freedom?
How the men of the people walked in their splendid nature
Before the captivity of their disappearance?
Do you remember?
How the women walked in their noble beauty
In the waxing and waning of the majestic moon
Before they were reduced to cattle?

Little more than seven generations
And the memory in the blood
Still mourns the bodies in the dust

I ask now,
Do you remember freedom?
How we walked barefoot
In the holy place
Wearing cloaks of skin and hair?

Seven times seven generations
And the memory in the blood still moves.

Can you remember before this here now came to be?
It is a long walk back
To where we were free

Yes, I can remember, but only because the blood informs my heart.

The blood informs my heart
With the memory that flows beyond seventy times seven
All these generations of the people before this:
When we were free and walked where we would, unafraid.

And now!
We are all sectioned out, lined and crossed out
By denial of blood and ransacking of the sacred ground
That holds the dust that once drew the breath down
Into the blood that informs the heart.
The heart, which carries the torch of the splendid nature
And the noble beauty
The one who stood, and of whom it was said,
"By the hand of the Creator."

We must all walk through our times
But to surrender memory?

For a brief eternal moment
The soul fluttered in the hand of God.

Memory fords the river of blood
The life of the people
And I must walk forward
Walk forward
With the river pounding in my ears.

We were once a little stream
A rivulet in the high mountain
Now a river coursing to the delta
Rich in fertile mud
The delta
To the sea.

12/4/15 

To The Heart of the Sacred

To the Heart of the Sacred                                   December 4 2015

(Where are You calling me?
You have come up from the ground for me, this I know.)

In this great horde of tribes, I am looking for mine.
I am not of the dry tribes.
They had their true seers, but they have little in me; neither their logic
Nor their legal brilliance
The zeal, the stony damnations

For a season, I settled there in that sandy city under the silent shawl
My heart understood, but how tired I am now of all the bloodshed
So much blood in the name of God.
I wandered off, looking for the River, and lost the way back, so I kept on.

I traveled with one from a Green Island,
Who sat in the trees and delighted in birds and bees
Antlered like an elk, like a Hawthorne Tree
And he was wise, he showed joy to me
And a heart that my own skipped after.
Music comes from there.  Healing also, and histories of the sun.
My memory dances, there.

I traveled as well with one from a New World
All up and down, like a tree in the ground
Spreading, like an Oak, like a Joshua Tree
And he was kind, he showed wonder to me
And pattern that my word could not describe.
Music comes from there. Medicine also, and milk of stars.
My memory rests, there.

The golden moon sometimes slays me
The sky sometimes translates me, with beauty
Or the incense of trees
Of grass
The smell of the forest, her aromatic apothecary
Rising up from the ground

Before the city and her ruffians,
Merchandise and politics and religion and their unnatural seduction and hell
I was working out the walkabout
By heart, and You were my lover.

These ones in all fervent foolishness
Keep offering You blood
Blood of their enemies
Like some kind of propitiation
Blood also of land and sea
Until all becomes dry dry dry

Here now, one grows more kind
Another, more bloody.
The ground waits for all.

You came up from the ground for me
I will follow thee.

As A Woman Who Watches Over The Earth 12/4/2015

I think that before Europe invaded the new world, the Americas were like Eden.  The people who lived here had not yet been cast out, but were living an unbroken life in an unbroken land.

As for Europe, Europe was conquered by Rome and eventually by the political Church, and group after group of indigenous were controlled, or cast out, or quenched, or enslaved, and sadly much worse, once the Church fell to politics and murder instead of conversion, until all of Europe seems nothing but a confusion of trauma and abuse.  With such history, how could there have been anything but tragedy for the American, the New Zealander, the Australian indigenous?

They came upon people who were unbroken in unbroken lands, and did not recognize the new world.

I come from European stock, mostly English, Irish and German.  These are all fierce people in their own right, and in their own lands, Celts unbroken from their sacred lands.  Dispersed for every reason now to other corners of the world, the call of the homeland is still audible in the heart.

My ancestry in America goes as far back as the mid 1600's, when Josef Bartels got tired of the border fighting between France and Germany over Alsace Loraine, and gave it up. And there is a huge assortment of bloodlines and countries all in my genes, yet my ancestry is here, in America, for between 12 and 20 generations.  Is this long enough?  Once here, many families suffered further as their particular group was singled out for prejudice, even though we all came here from somewhere else.  Is it any wonder we live tentatively, on the very top surface of this land?  Insulated in houses and barely connected through various cultural impositions? Displaying the shattered patterns of our lost souls in our inability to connect?

My quest over my life has been to retrieve the connection with the land, and to dream of living here imperceptibly.  To dream of community there.  My success has been slow and gradual, marked frequently with the stories of how cruel we are, and how devastating.

I watch in deep sorrow as the first people are dispersed and harried and all their words, wisdom and knowledge lost, replaced with the mind functions of science, chemistry, gadgetry, machinery, and the people who have lost their souls to a colonial church/government that sanctions such.  For whatever Christianity was in the Deserts of the Middle East, by the time the title was assumed by Rome, and a single man was ever ordained as the only representative of Christ, every particle of spiritual reality seems to have evaporated in the edifice.

For people who have lost their souls, there is God who restores the soul.  I have met this God.  In my own personal life, I have evidence of the love of this God, and the slow restoration of my soul that has been, in this lifetime, scattered in the winds of this age.  I have experienced the gentle power of this God. But this is not government, or parties, or denominations, or gerrymandered territories, or mandates, or loud culture, or warring religious factions. This is a foundation grid that predates all that, rendering them unnecessary, or obsolete.  There is a river in the desert, that brings the green life back.

I cannot make a difference, anymore.  That is, I must conform to this foundation grid, realize that this is holy, that this time, this place, this soul, this is holy.  This ground, this very ground, obviates the need for a built altar, a temple, a ritual.  Because I am the altar, my body is the offering, we are the temple, and breathing... Breathing is the ritual. The beating of the heart, this is the ritual.

Such is the state I am in.

Language of the Mother Tongue ca Spring 2013

1.  The Right to Have.  The Right to Be.  Security.  Food, Clothing, Shelter, Safety

(Sleep, sleep, my dreamy eyed treasure...I've waited so long, hoping and praying..Now you lie sleeping so close to my heart...You know the God finds HIs way with us, He sends us Dreamy Eyed Treasure..)

Somewhere in the distance there was a home I came from
A mother who cared for me, fed me from breast and fingers
Her cup and garden
I was a gift from her to the village
A gift to my father
My soul incarnated through song and prayer and effort and grace
"What will she become?"

This is the promise of embodiment.  She said, "I will build you a People."
You are born.  THIS is your right to be and your right to have.

But this time
It was so inconvenient.  I came at the wrong time.
Too early.
And ever since, it has been more important how I could fit in
Than what I could become
The expectancy of gifts and wonders tarnished
By the scuffle after coin
Which is the only measure here, now
The only measure of the right to be and the right to have

Thrown back on myself, I feel alone
And not at all the center of the universe.
Still, She calls me back to Herself; to an earlier and more primitive home
A wilder sustenance where medicine and food are not separate,
Clothing made of plants and trees and skin
Safety constructs rest in the camouflage of the deep home.

II.  The Right to Feel.  Sensation and Emotional Response.

(Weep, weep, my dreamy-eyed treasure...I've waited so long, hoping and praying, now you lie weeping so close to my heart...You know the God finds His way with us, through our own labors and pleasures..)

It was as if you were God the first;
There was wonder and awe as your eyes
Swept around everything that appeared when you simply opened your eyes.
And there was something else; feelings of hunger.
Feelings of comfort in the warm breast and the breath of The Other
Feelings of sorrow when The Other went away
And delight when The Other returned.
So, the emotions took shape and were tempered by relationship.

But this time, it was so painful!
The breast was dry and instead, a foreign substance,
Which induced pain in the gut and remorse in the heart.
I longed for the breast, but it had been usurped
By an impostor.
So finally, I didn't need my mother.  I had a bottle.

Still, she calls me back to Herself; to the warmth of Her Body
And the comfort of Her understanding.
Her wisdom sent me a boy cub who became a man
Whose whistling throws light all through my heart,
Whose whispers in the night throw my sorrows into sparkle dust
And my fear into the cocoon of grace and possibilities.

III.  The Right to Act.  To Be Effective In The World.

(Creep, creep, my dreamy-eyed treasure...I've waited so long, hoping and praying,  now you come creeping so close to my heart...You know the God finds His way with us, it's just His natural gesture)

And why was I born, if not for some purpose?  Is it possible to be born without it?
It is the quest of the seeker to discover.  Am I on time?  Is it the right moment?
Who am I?

They were expectant for me, for my role
For my ability, my power.
In that time, I was needed for a purpose,
To have an effect upon my time and people.
The Mother who cared for me also trained me and gave me to learn.
For the honing of power, which we need, if we are to survive and thrive.
They watched me,
To discern how to lead me to my power.

But this time,
Instead of the gifts and wonders within me,
They want something else.
They train me against the grain, to buy and sell the soul
When I wake up I must slip away
Fan the fire until the wood flares up
And in the light of that sacred fire, I see what it was I was meant to be
I was meant to be free.

Still, She calls me back to Herself, to the wisdom of Her way,
The ebb and flow, the cycle that circles,
The spiral that recovers the sacred ground;
The sun that rises and sets
The seasons world without end.

It is simple.  To act at the right time
In season
There is power
And there is the catalyst for change
In a present time when people have forgotten.

Rialto Beach

Rialto Beach.  Sept 2013

The Man-cub runs down to the waves
With whoops and arms outstretched
He prances like a horse, ecstatic
Stops in awe
To watch the thundering weight of tide
And froth of foam

Wondrous beauty:

Rocky beach:  Rocks, pebbles, sand, millions of years.  Surf.
Tree bones silver, front line of the green behind
Silver on silver water making green
Flashing sun making every blue, green, yellow

Pelicans glide in perfect oddity
Ancient souls sliding just above the sensuous water
Tipping casually over waves and banking back up
Running the sequence again
Whirling and arrowing down into the magic waves

Surging water aprons up the sand and over my bare feet
Soothing and washing and rinsing back to sea

At first I am exhausted
But my strength builds with each plodding step
I am as strong as stone
As rhythmic as water in her holy mass
Stalwart and exquisite as wood sanded by tides
A small "selah" to the improvisation of the ages
Etching my brevity on the eternal shore.

The Winds Sept 29 2013

The Winds.   Sept 29 2013

So strangely has panic entwined my heart strings
My gut
Shrieking inner wind rattles my bones
Tears at my inner forest
In truth, I am not legion
But the leaves of my days number thousands
Each aware

Adversity strips the branches
It has been hard to let the leaves fly
Even knowing there is only this option
My prayer flags fray
I have tied them tight
The colors once bright
Now they yield their hues
To wind and rain and sun
As I bend under the roar of the wind

Advent of a new cycle
Monk's slow footsteps toward a new age.

Fear belongs to the raging sea called flesh
Which is the manifest
At any time, flesh may die
Which is reason enough for panic
Ample stimulus to run

I recognize you
You are afraid.
Please, come in out of the wind.

Shelter is an immeasurable grace
And who offers it
Has already the pin feathers of angel's wings
I must remember this.

Wild horses run like the wind
Ears flattened and tails flicking
To run, strength.
The big birds cavort in the sky
They strengthen themselves in it
And when they ride the gust
Ecstacy

Lucy June 16 2014

Lucy   June 16 2014

My cousin.

When I woke up this morning
The old familiar fear-ache leaped into my stomach.
I know what to do, now, immediately begin the Lord's Prayer
It's not a bloody battle, more like offering the breast to a crying infant.
Then I cradle the Infant Fear-Ache and whisper "Sh--sh, it's okay."
Harder for her own children, her husband.  Beyond any words at all.

Such a death rips a huge hole in the world
And wind rushes through like a tornado pulling us with it
As we are helpless to grab at anything
Death ends the world as we know it.

The Fear-Ache Babe falls asleep suckling
And I am reminded that what is internal will stay
What is internal will stay.

Lucy
I am reminded of others who precede her
I want to tell her children,
You will change,
But you will never be unrecognizable.
You are her blood.

I want to tell her husband, Life.  But this takes time.

Everything changes.  We are fools to ignore this.
Born, lives, dies, disintegrates, and disappears.
Rocks, trees, insects, rivers and seas
All they carry.
Tigers, rhinoceroses, humans, all they carry.
Even the earth.  Even that.
When I realized that, I began to sit in vigil.

It is the Other Half of Life, which we ignore as long as possible,
Which is inevitable
The Other Pole of this duality.  Life and Death are absolutes
We don't rock back and forth, we travel from one pole to the other
This much is linear.
The individual life is a linear thing, holding within it the cycles and seasons,
But traveling toward an end.
Life continues because dualities must cycle, even though individuals die.

On Earth, as it is in Heaven.
This is the Incarnation I want to carry internally
As I fall through the huge hole in the world.

It is pure solace.
Imagine the shroud of the Monarch,
Which becomes transparent, revealing the caterpillar
Transforming into a folded butterfly
Waiting for the world to split.
What else can we possibly know?
Back to Mystery.

Mystery never leaves.
It needs no veiling since it is beyond comprehension
Even in its most naked glory
It is dawn of the deepest trust
This is internal, to be sure.

Box of Pictures, Garden of Flowers July 21st 2014

                                                  Box of Pictures, Garden of Flowers July 21st 2014

(Molded I am by The Grieving Woman.  I do not turn her away.
        Her Low Places are familiar roadways to me.
                Her Great Load, my most faithful companion.)

On the table in front of me, a Box of Pictures
Evidence of my life: the Storage, the History
                I don't live there, anymore,
                But the imprints remain, the themes continue..

We decide about Good and Bad, Happy and Sad
However, You, when you made Everything,
                 Simply said, "It is good."
                 I am ever under this mercy.  It is the Garden of Flowers.

I am so grateful for the opportunity to sit
To remember
To sift
Realizations of what was true then and still
This Box of Pictures reminds me.

(I was always asking then.  I am still.
        I ask to see You.
                You show Your handiwork and it is beautiful,
                        Whether I stand back or peer close.  Peerless handiwork.)

This is the turning wheel, the Garden of Flowers,
And the farther we walk, the more we are here now;
                It is we are crossing thresholds, like jumping rope,
                In rhythm, in sequence, with every turn.

(Oh.
        It is the Grieving Woman, dancing in the whirling ropes.
                She is laughing.
                        When She dances, all of life gathers to her energy
                                She will delight and affront
But She goes through all the movements.)

We stylize her unfolding with memory's expectations,
Recording and storing,
                But she always interprets the dance anew
                Right now, the Garden of Flowers, astonishing.

She moves and changes,
        Shape-shifting through the whirl of the ropes,
                Swinging around a core like an orbiting globe
                        Like an actress
                                Defining an eyebrow
                                        Grading through every emotion of color
                                                   Every state of being and service,
                                                          Every calling, every imagination

However subtle
However transcendent
There is a Matrix giving context for our sake.

It is in our nature to rebel against its form and function
To despair of Life's Fleet Nature,
Of the blood and dirt of Her Birth and Death
We even find fault with the unique signature impressed upon us
Our likeness, our family

But there is a threshold!
Jump over!

Oh, Look!  She becomes You
        And You become
                Me
                      And suddenly (although it is gradual)
                                   The Incarnation is Everything.

The Box of Pictures is a reminder.  We were That.

I realize, I will always ask.
I will search for meaning and purpose, and direction
                And I will be surprised, relieved,
                By secret pathways in plain sight to the Garden of Flowers,
                The confirmation of Who We are Now.

You, Beloved
        Are the Guide who is silent through all my cycles

            The axis of my orbits
                And who opens the Secret
                        Back to the Sanctuary

Old Heart December 5 2014

Old Heart

December 5th 2014

What a depressing day for no reason at all.  Yes, cloudy and rainy and I had to drive to Poulsbo and back, but really?  I feel like crying?

December 6th, 2014

Same sort of terminal feeling this morning; it’s not anxiety.  I think it was triggered by watching a fb video of 2 or 3 cops harassing a black family in a car.  It was horrible.

The whole world is exploding right now.  The media is so toxic I cannot stand to listen even to music.  Riots country wide, protesting low wages and racial prejudice, police brutality and riot brutality, terrorism, and people just trying to escape.  Isn’t it clear YET that we are refugees?  All of us?

Anxiety is a rising feeling.  THIS feeling, however, is a bitter death curling in feeling, that wants deeply to be done.

Angry Gods.  Righteously vigorous Holy men.  Suicidal crusaders and zealous politicians.  Generals.  Brigands and cartels; Anybody who thinks it’s their divine right, duty, profit and/or delight to hurt another human on philosophical, economic, or just plain insane grounds.  I am a woman.  I cannot live here.  It’s grinding the life out of me.

Still, in this America, there is rank prejudice against our own U.S. citizens and small regard for the thousands of souls trying to find refuge legally or not, in the ideals of our country, who are fleeing from murder and mayhem, and we to storm off to other countries, policing their own bigotry?  I saw race riots in our cities.  I watched us extend ourselves with great precision and destruction overseas.  All these mounting conflicts and abominations, because one person thinks he’s better than another.  Actually has the right, or duty, or license, or spiritual authority, to kill.

I am 64 years old and have not yet personally experienced war.  But I grew up on it; Newsreel footage of extermination camps, watching in horror as naked skeletal people, many still barely alive, were dumped by loads into huge graves.  World War II movies with John Waynes of many descriptions.  Supper for four years of high school watching the 6:00 news with my folks.  Nightly body counts, bombings, warnings, and Vietnamese streaming their lives to the ground.  This, padded with the Man from UNCLE, Bond, and several more decades of increasingly brutal war movies which I struggled to avoid, since they make me physically sick, give me terrible nights, and depress me with no end in sight.  

I have watched, with crumbling heart, a world at war boasting the ability to annihilate everything, and proceeding to do so, starting with violence, forming into politics, moving into agriculture, stock, commerce, and ending in extinction.

This is an evil spirit we have aligned with, which despises our potential for peace and quiet and neighborliness, which hates the underlying truth that ultimately, we all have the same mother.

I am not strong or clever enough to deal with this, any more than the whales or the dolphins or the rhinoceros or the elephants, or the cows and pigs, or the vegetation, or the orphans and the homeless.  He has all the weapons, and he has the science, and he has the money, the media, and the governments.  All I have is this hollow old heart.  He is in every way wicked, coldly holier than I, and in spite of all this exposure, my heart still feels every exquisite pain as deep as the first cut.

Anam Cara, I ask you to forgive me my abandonment of manly structures and channels; even ritual and intercession lie almost inert. My stomach is gone.  It is impossible for me to consider myself holy; my own journey is circuitous and I hide a lot.  I too am a refugee--from the world of mankind, from the troubled havens of spiritual community, even the holiest courts of the unseen God;  I have sought these harbors; but all that we have, preached of the Most High in his fury, terrorizes me so much I cannot form even in his mildest presence.  My vapor evaporates immediately in this holy zeal.  This is the fear of Almighty God indeed.  So, where to run?

I have fled to lesser Gods.  Buddha, my guru.  Jesus, my blessed savior.  The Tao, my map and my mother, branching slowly over Europe’s grassy fields into the Celts’ restless wanderings, coming to roost in the Bards and Druids whose blood runs inside me, urging me to remember.  Saint John, my walking companion, who breathes my heart back to warmth. And here, in this America, with all the coydogs, I stumble along with Wakan Tanka wishing I could call down the Rain, wishing I could call up the Buffalo, crying bitter tears because my Red relatives are not. I cannot side with one against the other, brethren, we all serve the table.

Little Steps Toward Blessings Oct 4 2014

I want to wriggle out of the old skin                                                    
The old food, the old emotions                                                
The old tactics of fear and anger                                            
Truly, I cannot breathe like that any more.

Please, look.  Everything transforms.

To escape the past that shaped us,                                                
One must die                                                            
Or be transformed                                                           
Or maybe, both, since some things can only be erased in the grave                                                 
I walk with quiet little feet.  Hospitality is paramount.                                              

(Please, look outside.)                                                   
Humans could stampede like a pack of lemmings over cliff side                                            
And the birds feast,                                                          
And everything transforms.

But in the meantime I will continue to wriggle out                                                     
To achieve a movable truce                                                                 
With peace                                                  
With food                                                    
With stuff                                                     
With people
                                                           
With love                                                     
With God and all the powers that be.

My own righteousness, 
Humbled to dust and ash by vast upheaving ages of transformation,                                              
By huge galaxies of light and dark that spin out to destinations inconceivable-                                            
( I am obliterated..and yet, I live)                                                                
By the grace of benevolence..

Is it then that we die to our dejection                                                      
And live always to benevolence?

Death of The Godmother

Life rises above itself

We go to sleep

And sometime during the night

We slip out of our body of pain.

Perhaps we just want relief

Which doesn't strike one as particularly noble

Still, we leave everything the way it is

And face a great unknown.

One may say, "I know where I'm going,"
 Or, "I know who's going with me,"

Yet it is a high trust;
Faith beyond measure, when we yield up the ghost.

Since we hardly know where we are, or who indeed!

All along the way, we partake. 

Where we came from, such a mystery

Who we are, such. 

"Know Thyself," is well said.

But you are none-the-less, unknowable

All your very suchness beyond sacred

Held in trust for a few decades

After which it wriggles out

And the mystery envelopes you completely

Leaving only wing dust.

Out of some other chrysalis then, mystery slowly spills

Into the light of sun, moon and stars.

One part falls to earth. 

Another rises into light.

Sacred Fire

Sacred Fires July 9th 2012

First they say yes, you have the right, because they must, 

According to their own law. 

But then later they come secretly and forbid us.

You would think that by now, the irony would shame them so much 

That they would relent; and realize.

To trespass against one’s own soul is sorrow. 

This place, this piece of land  
                                                                                                                                                                
Is holy, and we reverence it with fire and the tradition.

If this were a war of Gods, then perhaps we could feel their power.

But it is a war of skin.  The power is only fear, and the insult is to the Great One.

How long can a people insult the Great Spirit?  

The Great One is very patient, it is true, and we have learned to sit with Him there, 

In humiliation.

But we light our sacred fires, and this is a ceremony that cannot be forbidden.

It cannot.

The truth is, I am a sacred fire.  

Long Walk In The Woods

A long walk.  Very long.  I walk not just to get somewhere..I am curious.  My heart beats inquisitive.  How shall I be a pillar when I must ramble?  The Sanctuary is my heart, it’s true.  But I must process.

I sometimes muse on the obvious thought that for all those people questing for a higher level of existence, for peace, for enlightenment, this kingdom here is our Hell.  No wonder we haunt the edges.

Once again, I must admit that the life and future which this unnatural culture panders is not the one I want.  Especially as a woman, one who early outlived all the reasons her brothers hold knives to each other’s throats.

Every tribe has its hero stories, the legend of quest, war, victory, and defeat.  Our heroes have lived or died, and we sing the songs, wave the flags, watch the movies, read the books, and it never ends. My heroes are not these heroes.  In times of my own struggles, in the agonies of conflict, this knowledge gently haunts me into remembering that there is more than material victory and martial peace.

Man has proven that he can penetrate and destroy any sanctuary of this earth.  There is no place to hide from his appetite.  He will come at you with his demands, his system and pin you in shrouds.  Kings must rule or murder trying.  Their purposes marshall us like chess pawns.  Is it any wonder then that I sit in the garden murmuring my apologies to the roses and the fir trees?  We are all just firewood.  Can you see a future?

My tribe is a scattered tribe communicating in the prayer of healing.  Prayer is not some high holy precinct of monastics, it is the way we live.  We hold up life.  Of course, sometimes we grieve, because this earth, this once-upon-a-time sanctuary, is captive in the grip of those who would destroy her.  But we hold up life, for her sake, for our sake, for the sake of the creator, even for the sake of our destroyers, because of what we know.

We know about the agony of rejection.  Bad enough, the cruelty of humans.  Worse yet, the eternal destructions of an Angry God.  I cannot walk with that one.  So we pray for the now future with the living Trees, not for an armageddon followed by a fiery hell roasting the losers.  Can you see see this?

True North

True North                   2011

Oh my love!

He brings me thunder and light!

He brings me a song in the sunshine 

And a candle in the night..

Sword in Stone

Sword In Stone

In my dreams I fly away

I leap into the sky

In my awake the wings won’t stay.

There is a face I hold in the memory of my heart

The face of life itself

And the one I love

Who draws me all these years

That which cannot be named

Remains the foundation

And the one who is named is the footing.

Anchored in it

Like a sword in a stone

Yet when wielded

It is as if the stone is anchored in the sword

This is a power beyond.

In this cycling earth

Light returns and so does warmth

In the world of experience, the same.

In the ages of God there is revelation and turning into darkness

Then, the light returns.

Never has man been so bright by his own fires

He has cauterized the earth in great flashes of power

But I know that when my love returns,

He will bring back the green

A salve for burns

A soft Wine for the heart healing

And will turn my face to nuzzle his.

In my awake I am broken, I am not shiny

But let this spirit dance for you

My heart beats for you

In the darkest valley of the shadow of death

Where there is no apparent future

Only a grim past

I still remember

You are with me, 

The stone in my blade in the stone, power beyond. 

This is the faith I bring: I have a high Mystery.

I am eloquent in sorrows:  Make me ebullient in joy

That I may provide light and shine upon the path

A Trobairitz to the high King

Strong in confidence and fearless in my walking

Life, you are all powers

I name you Highest of all

Anchor in the Stone

which cannot be broken by men.

Lead me out of sorrows and into your jubilation

I see a Kingdom of lights unhindered by turning

Give me keys to spring locks 

And music to unbind

Give me hands of healing and love

And a heart that is round and strong

Me in you

A sword in a stone

You in the One

A power beyond

The Spirit within us all 

Within, the realm of Heaven

Behind the thinnest veil