Imprint

You call me...

tribal voice within
quieter than breath
awakening my essence

You coax me...

song i can't resist
luring me
with whistles on the wind

You envelop me...

beauty to behold
entwining melodies
embroidery within my soul

Is this the muse?
This tribal voice?
This heartfelt cry?
This whispering force?

With open face and open heart
I hear, I taste, I feel...
Vibrations of creation
No longer can lie still...

Humbly I acquiesce
Spirit's imprinted symphony...
Rhythmic ancestral echo
Tunes every cell in harmony...

Beckoning I surrender
With honor and a dance...
My heart glides in joyful unison
The triumphant shout of "YES!"

april, 2007
judithpiper
___

In my true believer days, the word "muse" was a dirty word...one that opened the mind to devil spirit possession. We were not to follow our hearts because the heart was deceptive above all else and exceedingly corrupt. Intuition was stunted, creativity stifled.

It may seem a small thing to some people, but for me to utilize the word "muse" was a big step toward freedom. Freedom...what an elusive thing...so many definitions, so many interpretations.
___

vapor pressure

My stomach gnarls as i read
smooth words drip
one letter at a time
from finger tips
tapping 'cross your key board

You write of wounds
your own and others
yet what of those
you've inflicted
amidst your so-called
justified tone

A hypocrite of hypocrites
one who offers healing
while exacting harms
without remorse
dismissing the inflictions
as inconsequential

Such can cause my blood to boil
perhaps burning away the chaff
of my own self-hatred
to which you at one time
offered solace

Your genius calls
and you are heeding
i'm sure some will profit
i pray it be not at the expense
of another wounded soul


judithpiper
12/16/10

***

When I read certain essays or articles or sharings from people who offer help and healing among those who are in process of recovery and rediscovery after cultic involvement... When I read certain pieces penned by authors with whom I've had personal and intimate experience of their own hypocrisy exacted toward myself and/or others that I know... When I read such, I sometimes find myself feeling rage, leaning toward a feeling of hatred, of their words, and even of them. Their words to me lack authenticity, even though the words may sound compassionate, smoothly laced with honey.

No doubt, the authors have helped some people...maybe many...and perhaps even me. But then The Way helped me too. Other organizations, by whom people have been harmed, have helped other people...and initially maybe helped even those who ended up harmed.

As I've stated elsewhere: In any so-called service/support organization, if people are expendable, therein the org is fraudulent.

We all harm others at some point. It is the denial, the dismissing of those harms, that makes the hypocrite.

At times, I imagine most all humans find themselves as the hypocrite. Hopefully we own up and thus become more Hippocratic than hypocritic.

The catharsis of the keyboard. It doth help me when anger tries to squeeze its grip upon my heart toward vengeance.

Paradox

Upon my porch I sit
Wrapped in the morning melody
Birds, breezes, cicadas
Singing in perfect harmony

Weeping willow in full array
Swaying with the tune
Sunbeams dance upon her
Tiny lights, a multitude

Yet the oak leaves are not shimmering
Nor the elms, nor the figs
Only the weeping willow
Displays one thousand glitterings

Tears perhaps, is she crying?
Yet her display is not of gloom
Rather tiny sparkles glistening
Tears of God renewed

Splendor of hope
Upon the weeping willow

judithpiper
july 4, 2007

***

Not much need for explanation. The prose simply describes that July morning that I wrote the poem as I sat upon my back porch. The weeping willow was the only tree that glittered in the sunlight, the leaves still damp from a gentle rain or dew. A breeze lightly danced the leaves, and thus the shimmerings.

Tears are our friends.

In the wee hours of today, February 25, 2010, this poem comes to mind as I listen to a Leonard Cohen song, "Hallelujah," sung by K.D. Lang. {Thank you Chris.}

Perhaps the song brought this poem to mind because love (and life) can be such a paradox.

Day's End

Today came.  
Today went.

Reading. Writing. Speaking. 

Singing. Hoping. Giving. 

Receiving. Smiling. Laughing.

Working. Typing. Thinking.

Eyes now closing.  

Feet tapping.  

Pause.  Pray.

Give thanks.

 december 18, 2009
jchwelch
~*~*~
I got home from work after midnight.  My mind was swimming with all I need to get done...so many things left undone.  The things on my list that will soon have to get done.

I thought, 'Well, what did I accomplish today?' Just the small list in my little prose makes a worthwhile day.

Most of my days, and I would think most everyone's days, are spent relating.  The only way we can't relate is if we cease to exist.  Some think that we never cease.  I don't concern myself much with that.

My day began laughing with my son and ended laughing with my daughter. In between involved good conversation with others, even the dogs, Maggie and Butter.  What more can one ask for?

~*~*~

Intersections

I like autumn

and winter

and spring

and summer

and up

and down

and sideways

and especially curves

on mountain roads

with fog it's hard to

see

the yellow line

at night

those little reflectors

help a lot

little eyes coming

up from the hardened tar

tar eyes

that's what they are

other eyes

live in the forest

whose pupils

shine like

lights

in the

dark

in autumn

in winter

in spring

in summer

september 29, 2009
judithpiper

****
One of my favorite activities at my job is communicating with artists. We mainly communicate via email, though sometimes via phone. Every so often face to face.

One artist who I enjoy going back and forth with is Ray. Ray is a collage artist, a musician, and a poet. He always causes me to chuckle, or think, or ponder. He has the most entertaining subject lines for his emails.

At work earlier this evening, I opened one of his emails entitled "M.T. Graves." M.T. Graves...hehe... I chuckled wondering what he'd be sending along. He usually always writes something about Artomat, and then throws in these side notes. This time it was about autumn, and the reality that stuff dies and decays in autumn. So I reminded him that the decay feeds the soil. It's all in good fun.

And out came the above ditty (a rendition) in response to Ray. He wrote back his own poetic verse; complex and dark with a hint of humor.

One of the visuals that came to mind was a memory of driving in thick fog at night in the North Carolina mountains some twenty-five plus years ago. The fog was so dense, I had to open my car door to look down at the middle line in order to drive; there were no reflectors on the lines.

All of a sudden the line disappeared. I applied the brake to come to a complete stop from my 5 miles per hour speed, if I was even going that fast. Panic momentarily struck my heart.

Then I realized I was in an intersection. I creeped slowly forward, and the line reappeared.

Seasons are kind of like intersections too.

Maybe that road has reflectors now, but probably not.

Dear John (The Real Thing)

~*~*~

You've tended my soul gently,
how can I repay
the goodness you infuse in me
the trust your heart conveys?

We've been through hell and back again
weathered tempestuous storms,
internal bruises, wrenching pains
through conflict courage forged.

You saw beyond my weaknesses
horizons I couldn't see
through buffets, trials, sicknesses,
endurance, forgiveness, mercy.

My heart forever devoted
with you I'll always stay,
love of my life, my soul
until our dying day.

And then throughout eternity
our lives continue to unfold,
with peace and perfect harmony
the stories yet untold.

may 17, 2007

I love you John.
With all my heart,
Carol
****

John, my dear John.  How my heart overflows with gratitude.  You have stood beside me through thick and thin. By the time May, 2007, came along we were continuing to help care for my mom, had survived and thrived through over a decade of helping care for my dad through his quadriplegia.  You had been by your dad's side when he drew his last breath fighting emphysema.  You stood by me through years of battling to breathe and function, physically and emotionally.  Been there when both our children were birthed.  Gone to work day in and day out; a hero for our family.  You even learned to cook a little bit.

By May, 2007, we had both recently made major changes in our belief systems and had survived an online and phone affair with both of us looking elsewhere to meet our marital needs.  Our deepest pains had been exposed; our marriage had been on the verge of divorce just a year earlier.  By 2007 we were welded so intricately at our hearts, like that of a Celtic knot which holds mysteries and bonds that almost nothing can separate.

I do hope there is an eternity in which we will learn more of each other, and continue to weave stories of hope, of life, of victory.

Happy Anniversary to both of us, 25 years ago on September 15, as we exchanged vows, tasted the salt, and sipped from the cup....

~*~*~

Open Hands

***
At times I don't feel good enough
to approach certain folks of rank
who in my eyes seem holier
where my voice begins to shrink.

In their presence I am small
yet they have been kind to me
but seldom do they let me see
that side of them that's dirty.

I cannot hide my filthy side
it's part of who I am
through it I find redemption
the need to hold a hand.

Perhaps we would be holier
if we allowed with candid face
our dirtied souls' exposures
and open hands that offer grace.

judithpiper
april 30, 2007

***

Hmmm.....

I don't really feel like explaining this now. Perhaps it needs no context.

***