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Bamboo knows the art of being empty

My prayer, to hollow myself out

so the wind of God may blow through me

To play the song of my soul on It's wooded flute

When Change Whispers Your Name

Slough off those old comfortable

clothes of your becoming

comfortable is too small

Worn like suites of armor that
encase and smother new possibility

When the sweet sound of soul's song

whispers sometimes shouts

Stand naked before yourself

Let no one stand before you

Learn to love skin surrounded by air

Feel the goosebumps that announce

the path that is opening to you

the invitation that beacons

Draw comfort and warmth from

the old fire lit within

There is an art

in tending to a fire

and way too many ways to put it out

When I was in Hawaii, I could see across a lava field the indentation made by the bare feet of the Hawaiians as they went back and forth to their sacred site. It reminded me how the soul moves back and froth from the inner world to the outer world in meditation and in every day life.

The Soul's Path

The Soul says I’m here, ask me.

I am here, invite me.

Please, let me into your life.

The dark stone path

leads inward and outward.

Wear down these stones

with soft naked feet,

treading softly or forcefully

but consistently

to places known and unfathomable.

The sirens of my outer life

seduce me, hold me hostage,

locked in chains of things to do.

The path is struck - you know the way.

Sink down

in warm bubbling pools of light

with fragrances of things

so deep in memory but never forgotten.

Completely asleep and

completely awake,

the cauldron opens

where the two worlds reside.

Spirit desires to be in the world,

unbending intent to influence.

It does not want new eyes

green with unknowing to blindly

repeat unchecked

all that has gone on before.

Change and evolution need

the eye of an eagle

to help secure the outcome.

The world too parched and efficient

hungers for the food of soul.

In the heartland the Muses imbue our lives.

The nine daughters of Zeus

unwind us and open floodgates

to anchor us with mobile grace.

Thread reaches out into the web

to connect or to repair the tear.

The resolve is not in the hands of God

but in the fists of those who hear

the voice that beckons.

Hearts open and the Soul

soars with opportunity.

The Soul delighted as beast of burden.

Let me take life on.

All on, preferred to dark,

empty, endless sleep.

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