Among the great, tall trees

Among the great, tall trees there lies a trail
     burning with purpose and the fire of the natural.

Among the cascades of water coming down the grey stones
    there are tiny fish darting from one frothy side to another.

Among the bending reeds of the meadow
     spiders cast their ornate and intricate webs.

Among the Small, the seemingly Unimportant
    there is the truth of life, the sound of largess and strenth,
contrary to what is visible.

For there lies the secret.
There lies the whispers we listen to
    when all the curtains of our solid lives open and leave us
gasping for breath.

Among our needs, our desires, our wishes
  for what is and what will come and what we will DO
lies the quiet moment when we just ARE.

H.L.

If you're going through Hell, keep going

   

 

       In the past few months I have been met with a number of personal challenges. I have felt, in turn, sadness, anger, frustration, strength and weakness, doubt and uncertainty. Though some of them have been through my own doing and some of them given to me of no fault of mine they are equally difficult. There is something, though, about any kind of struggles that they make one MORE than they were before. One find within some spark of the soul that can bring strength when one is at their weakest.
       I must remember that the energy of the universe is always drifting towards entropy and that nothing lasts. Good times end. Friendships change and drift away. New friendships can be forged.Love can come and go. Circumstances are always changing and the feelings that accompany them shift over time but hard times also don't last. They are not a solid rock which remains but flow over ones life like water. I must envision that whatever is now causing me pain cannot last. 
       I believe that this time is put there for me to find the Spirit. Whatever ones view of that spirit is I think all people believe in something whether that has a name or face or whether it is just the simple faith that though the universe may sometimes seem to be a cold, empty, unsympathetic place there is good there somewhere. 
      I remind myself of this several times a day. I tell myself that since things are always in flux that there will be time soon when things will be better. If I just push through and settle into the fact that things right now are not as good as I wish them to be then I will find something golden at the end. If I just take care of myself and keep myself in a good space then good things will find their way back to me. 
      As the adage says "If you're going through Hell, keep going."If things right now seem too complicated and too much to bear just keep walking for through this desert one can eventually find the light.

   Though sometimes the world may seem too big, too overburdened and uncaring there must be a belief that people are not inevitably forgotten and no one is completely alone. 

Peace be with you

Poem: I Went To The Mountain

I Went To The Mountain

     I went to the mountain

      to ask it for its snowbound secrets.

             It lifted its robust trees to the skies--

          its only answer the rush of stern winds

       and the calls of eagles flying.

I went to the mountain

      and its icy springs covered me—

         a frozen blanket that bade me be silent.

      The great peaks high above me

   looked down with the grace of their

    millennium wide gaze.

I went to the mountain.

       I asked---Can I be part of you?

      It called the sun upon it and

                      took me into its white, sun-soaked embrace

                and I was swept up to the skies 

           with the cries of wolves and the

  rush of raptor wings.

Heather Lake

Dipping down and rising up

Dipping down-rising up

Feelings going in all directions

Seagulls in the wind

Crazy quilt of downward, upward,outward

Heart jumping, mind thumping

Navigating to the ends of my world

A knee shaking long distance cry

to the tilting sky

Dipping like the wind into the ocean.

For words are arrows

that pierce the mind.

Be careful with your syntax.

Be wary of your promises for

no one can trust the mouths of liars

No one can be in harmony with one who is

in an aura of doubt and mental decay

Be still, breathe.

There are better things out there

for you, for us, for everyone.

Be the seagull dipping down.

Be the wind rising up.

Be the mountains standing firm.

Be the tree that sways not breaks.

Be the soldier at the gate.

Be guarded, be strong, be fulfilled.

For no one can tell you what to be but yourself.

No one be the mirror to your denial.

You must accept your future.

You must forgive your past.

Snow falling, rain stalling each thought to the

window panes

Coming down like sunshine, like rivers, like

rain.

And in that stillness, that joining

of soul to mind to heart to body, that

Drawing down and tilting up,

that effervescent tide of hope, despair, doubt, forgiveness,

sanctity and cliff-hanging fear

You will find yourself sitting quietly as

a stone that doesn’t need the movement

of what you know and what you suspect,

What you dream or think or become.

You are only stillness coming home.

Poem: THE HOUSE

THE HOUSE

Dusty corners and cobwebby stairs

Furniture in dusty plastic waiting for a new home

Old newspapers stacked and bound

Recycling, re-using, re-inventing what was to what could be.

The faintest whisper of children’s voices

As they laugh and jump down the stairs

The rustle of a wedding dress as it is pinned to fit

A newly blushing bride to be

Who now lays dormant and gone.

Her memories lay with her----husband tall and charming;

Three curly haired girl children now lay as cold as she.

The house stands ready for new things around the corner

It lays in wait for those sweet, small voices, those tiny steps.

It wants to see the floors swept clean, the cobwebs torn down,

New things—new memories—new people to live, make mistakes, fall in love,

Yell, shout, make sweet smelling food, dirty up the kitchen floor,

Snuggle in for a cold winter’s night;

Take out the flashlights to camp in the backyard.

There will always be this place. The people may not remain

But the LIFE will.

Poem: Snow

Snow gives us back our innocence
It frees us from any ugliness
hides it all beneath a glimmering 
cascade of white. 

Snow--bringer of sleds and skiis,
hot cocoa and warm blankets
thoughts of fires brightly burning
and stories told in the bright white night.

Stars shine in those crystals laid down,
the stuff of the atmosphere here in our midst
stepping on a bit of frozen ocean 
that rose to join the cold, cold air overhead.

Running through that white moment in time,
I remember all the reasons I love to run. 
It creates moments where there would be none before. 
This simple activity gets me out among the clean,
the white, the pure, the morning blanket which 
both chills and warms. 
It reminds me why we are born.
It reminds me why we are alive. 

H.Lake
 

Poem: Stones

Stones

Stones live where dust settles

They sit with patience upon the soil

Stones are family with dirt and mud,

weeds and flowers and fields,

Stones have long memories

of ages when glaciers roamed

And silt settled in places of water

that  don’t exist now.

Stones dream of the days when

they can move with the tides

down to new homes, new things to see,

 new dirt to sit among,

perhaps some water to cover them like a blanket.

They move slowly, with purpose, never straying

from what they are.

Stones are there to remind us

nature never turned it’s back on us.

Poem: Mind, heart and soul

Mind, Heart and Soul

My mind pounds down that thin corridor of past mistakes,

heart drilling staccato beats like a drum,

willing my feet forward so slowly,

I yearn for that prior love.

Grand schemes of larger things,

I feel betrayed by my false sensations of love.

The clouds gather a withering down to grey

as I watch.

My heart is no longer a living thing.

My soul needs that eternal quiet.

Dancing through my dreams she lives

but down here there is only me.

You never have to feel lonely

If you feel safer alone.

There is a windowsill where my geodes rest,

remembering those times in the wild woods when I

collected them clears my head.

There is only this time.

There is only these feelings.

There is only me deciding who I am.