My Elder Soul ~ a poem

February 11, 2014 · Category: Men as Elders, Poetry 

by Reuel Czach

Elders, we are losing our Soul.
We are so caught up individually in petty offenses
and bickering and wounded-ness,
that we are letting our civilization and our planet die.
But most importantly,
we are letting our souls die.

When I chose to be wounded,
and walk through life withdrawn in my cave,
or I choose to be over-armored,
to the point of being weighed down,
with such heavy baggage,
nothing else matters,
…..my soul is lost.

I chose to take a step toward claiming,
my lost soul,
when I chose to meet with men in an honest, open circle.

I choose my soul,
when I decide to be so humble,
that no one can offend me.

I choose my soul,
when I chose wisdom,
over being right.

I choose my soul,
when I chose service,
over selfishness.

I choose my soul,
when I chose looking within,
to find all the evil I see outside myself.

I choose my soul,
when I walk the path of life,
where I am nothing,
and I am everything,
in sacred balance.
My choices mean everything,
my offenses mean nothing.

My offenses mean I still have inner work to do
and for the sake of generations to come,
I better get it done as quickly as possible.

My choices mean I have the power to save myself,
my loved ones, my friends, and possibly many more people,
from a mean, selfishness and a lonely death.

I feel great sadness and sorrow,
for all that is being lost.

While the distractions of hurt,
wounded-ness and bickering,
suck so much energy out of my soul,
…..and the soul of my people.

Every hurt and wound and chance to be right,
is a mirror of my soul,
and an opportunity to heal.

Do it! Choose healing.
Then choose wisdom and kindness,
and be the Elder you were meant to be.

Distractions are my enemy,
anything that tries to pull me off,
my narrow mission.

I just need to let Spirit control my life,
where my spirit joins and serves,
a much bigger wisdom,
than I could ever fully understand.

I am asked this day to request of myself,
and men who call themselves Elders.
A humble request,
that we focus on the wisdom to light a path,
for those who come after us.
Humble man, Jan 2014

Reuel Czach

Reuel Czach is a 60 year old, Christian man with a wonderful wife and two sons, a daughter and a stepson. He has lived in San Luis Obispo County, California for over 30 years and practiced architecture for most of those years. Czach is an I-Group Coordinator for the Swallow Creek Coastal Circle in Cayucos. He actively supports and builds the Elder community in San Luis Obispo and is the Co-Elder Chair of the MKP Santa Barbara Community. Czach leads a weekly men’s circle in my church and is a leader in the men’s ministry.

The Twin Brothers, The Horse Twins

December 3, 2013 · Category: Poetry 

by Rebecca

 

The Twin Brothers, The Horse Twins

The Ashvino
The Horse Twins
The Twin Brothers
Tall, strong,
Long black hair flowing
They are the Ashvino
Call to your brothers,
And they will lead you on your way.

Nobody knows where the Ashvino Twins live.
They make visits to villages
As they roam free.
When they enter a town,
The children are the first to know.
They go running on their little feet
Pattering, laughing, spilling with delight.
The Ashvino Twins,
glowing softly bright like the afternoon sun,
Brown eyes bright,
Play with them, laugh with them.
They pick the children up to their shoulders, and hold them tight.
They speak true words to them,
Speaking to them,
never above them or below them,
As children always want to be spoken to.
Children everywhere call them,
Our Big Brothers.

They enter into homes
In the late afternoon
When the sun is high and golden,
When women are baking bread
And making supper.
The women always welcome them in
Because they know what the Ashvino are.
They love them,
In a way different from their husbands,
In a way different than their sons.
The Ashvino bring their children with them.
They bring a quiet, strong joy that lasts long.
After they leave,
The earthen walls speak long after they have gone,
A deep vibration,
Soothing, saying things that words could never speak.
In a house where the Ashvino have sat,
Disease will not lodge
And the fortune of long, lasting happiness will come.
The Twin Brothers bring a warm, contented, deep peace.
They bring fortune that money or riches
Could never bring.
The women know this.
They know about the Ashvino
They know about the Twins.
And that is why
The women are always happy to let the Twin Brothers in.

No one knows where the home of the Ashvino is.
After they pass through a village,
They walk past the outskirts
Out into the rolling plains,
And the Two Brothers
Change into Horses.
They run free in the grasses,
In the wide expanse of the world.
In thunderstorms,
They revel in the pounding rain
Their hooves are like the thunder
And their speed is the lightning.
Their black manes are the wind.

In their bodies runs the strength of a horse.
They know what it feels like to be prey
but they have the mind of a good human king.
They’ve felt the spikes of fear in their own bodies,
And they are sensitive as horses—
they are gentle because of it.
And they know sensitive assertiveness
is better than timid kindness—
they know without it,
the heard falls into fear and strife.
They know what it is to be a predator,
And that as men they are only animal on earth
That has a choice about it.
They are a horse and a man in one,
the best of both.
They are the Ashvino.

Women always love them.
But what men think of them
Depends on the Man.
A jealous man says,
“Get out of my house! Stop messing with my woman!”
An insecure man sees the Twins’ easy, warm confidence,
and feels empty.
A men who thinks himself strong,
but only makes an image of strength on the outside, judges and says,
“They are not really strong. They are too gentle, too kind.”

But a man who strives to be free, wild, kind, and strong,
His heart yearns after them
From deep in his soul.
He wants to be like them.
He wants to run free like them.
He wants to be strong like them.
He wants to be kind like them.

Call to the Ashvino
And the Horse Twins will come running
Quicker than the lightning
Rumbling deep and long like thunder in the earth
With the easy warmth of the afternoon sun,
With the heart of a Horse
And the mind of a Man,
They will come
As your Brothers
And lead you
On the way you yearn to go.

 

Rebecca is a woman who heartily supports the Men’s Movement. On her words: ” We need it now more than ever. I am deep into Jungian studies, and I work daily towards living a responsible, full, conscious life. I have written this piece in the place where men’s and women’s journeys intersect. We often do the same thing in our inner life, while looking at it from slightly different angles. The Ashvino Horse twins are an ancient Indo-European  tradition that I want to bring alive into our world again.”

All/You/I, a poem

December 2, 2013 · Category: Poetry 

by Dave Klaus

All/You/I

don’t give me a pitch
don’t tell me a story
don’t serve me pie in the sky

tell me the truth

the dark parts
the hard parts
the parts that don’t want to be told, the parts that hide from the sun
(toothy little things, hungry for blood, hungry for love, hungry, hungry…)

tell me the sad parts, the parts where you’re afraid, really afraid. Trapped in Amber.

tell me the parts when you gave up, just gave up,
because you were tired, and it was too much

the parts you wish were different

I want to see the shadows.

I want to see them, bold and stretchy, looming and translucent.

trans/lucent

because behind those shadows is a shining light
and though I can’t look straight at it (like the sun, you know)

I know you

and I feel the Light shining through

I feel it there and it warms me and I am safe,
and it adds to my light:

with your light my shadows

fade,

a bit,

flickering,

pensive.

I want to see the shadows because inside them I see the rest of you,

inside them I see the All of you.

inside them

I/All/you.

I have no exit strategy, no plan for the door, no escape route in mind

I am here. With You.

I have no reason to doubt,
no reasonable doubt
(well a few, maybe; a few, more than that; ok yeah, I got doubts)

but there’s NO doubt I/you can hold what I/you got,

because I/you am large and I/you contain multitudes

I/You

I have a willingness to suspend disbelief, a willingness to be-lieve

I have a faith that treads water over 50,000 Fathoms,

head above it, mostly,

but not always, sometimes under

we will tread together and I’ll brush the wet hair from your eyes.

And when its time I’ll mop your brow,
and I will sit with you,

just sit,

and hold your hand,

I/you.

only so many breaths.

only so many.

so don’t give me a pitch.
and don’t tell me a story.
and don’t serve me pie in the sky.

I want the All of You.

I/All/you

All

163511_10151535429977350_1023836638_n

Dave Klaus completed the New Warrior Training Adventure in June 2010 in the NorCal Center, and things have gotten better and better for him ever since. He is a senior supervisor in the Alameda County Public Defenders Office, where over the last 17 years he has represented thousands of clients in cases ranging from petty theft to special circumstance murder. He is married and has two awesome kids. In his spare time, he leads a large Burning Man camp (www.bEEcHARGE.com) and is starting an art collective. This is his first completed poem.

Healing from wounds

November 30, 2013 · Category: Poetry 

by Michael Kullik

Healing from wounds

Wounded  Child

Crying  in  Corner

Lost  between  the  years

Crying  out  Silently
No  One  Comes
No  One  Hears

A  Prison  of  Silence
Surrounds  Me,
Into  an  Early  Grave.

How  do  I  start
to  Breath  Again?
Am  I  Someone’s  Slave?

A  Wounded  Child
grows,  As  Does
A  Wounded  Man.

The  Wound  Becomes  My  Sword.
Like  Tempered  Steel,
I  am  strong  again,  Oh  my  Lord.

A  Wounded  Man  Sat
Crying  Lost
Within  his  Years.

Silence  at  last  was  Broken
Shattered  Wounds  Turned
Into  a  River  of  Tears.

A  Sword  of  Anger  Broke  me  out,
As   I   Yelled
Screamed  and  Roared.

The  Prison  wasn’t
Mine  at  Last
It  Was  Yours.

 

Michael Kullik  is a teacher, professor, singer, and published poet.  He was first published in 2000 in a book edited by Jill Kuhn called “In Cabin Six”.  He has run writing and drumming workshops and retreats for male survivors of abuse.He has also volunteered his time running a group for survivors from 1999 to 2004.

I’m a weak man.

October 17, 2013 · Category: Men and Shadow, Men and Work, Poetry 

by Brooks H.

I’m a weak man.

I’m not strong enough to live up to this _warrior_ shit
24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, 160 years a life.

lord knows I try.

Just can’t do it all the time.

Sometimes I just want to run away and hide.

Curl up into a little ball and tell the world to fuck off.

Scream ‘NO’ into the face of any asshole that wants me to do ONE MORE FUCKING THING!

help in ONE MORE FUCKING WAY. No way, FUCK OFF!

and I feel bad about it.

feel guilty that I’m not strong enough.

feel guilty at the mistakes I make being irresponsible, self-indulgent, un-conscious, un-truthful, withholding,

un-feeling.

and then, when it gets too big,

I realize that I _am_ feeling …

feeling sad.

and as I let myself feel that, I begin to think about my I-Group,
and what they would say if I brought this into a circle.

I imagine the number of raised hands of men I know that have fallen in these same ways

I can feel the smile starting on my face as I begin to feel again, what it means to be human, and fallible,

and supported.

and know that this is all it takes to keep going on,

to keep watching my behavior, and changing some habits,

to keep getting better.

and I take a breath.

and another,

and the smile begins to warm the cold places and I am grateful.

and into that gratitude comes the feeling of being blessed by this community.

Some warriors do get bloody. Their brothers help them up.

Thank you men for being in my life,

It’s time to get on with my day.

peace and blessings,

Brooks

Brooks H. completed the New Warrior Training Adventure in June of 1999, at Clara Barton Camp in Central Massachusetts. He is a member of Men On The Loose I-Group, a ManKind Project Men’s Group meeting outside Boston on a weekly basis. He lives in Arlington, MA.

Rolling in the Tides of Ash

September 19, 2013 · Category: Poetry 
by Ryan Keaton

Rolling in the Tides of Ash

A speck of gold
In a sea of shadows
Rolling in the tides of ash
It’s getting late and I am tired

I step outside myself
Only for a moment
And in that moment
I am free

Free to laugh
To smile
Free to cry
Or breathe deeply
Free to be myself
And it doesn’t hurt

And suddenly a whisper
A doubtful wind
Sweeps across my eyes
I fall to the ground
Knees to the Earth

There is a light that glows
Buried deep beneath
Memories of salted tears
And broken glass
There is a light that glows
It is small but I can see it

It is familiar
It has a face; a name
It has wants and needs
Hopes and dreams
A voice that wants to speak
And a longing to be free

And suddenly
I am afraid -
I am afraid of me

A speck of gold
In a sea of shadows
Rolling in the tides of ash

Original writing by Ryan Keaton, a ManKind Project member in the greater Washington DC Community.

Conflagration – a poem

April 22, 2013 · Category: Men and Health, Poetry 

CONFLAGRATION
by Two Crows Calling
DEDICATION — For the Dream of the Earth — held by Father Thomas Berry.

Tree people roots in mother Amazon, burned alive
crucified with whirling blades of steel
whipped with chains
Blood sap oozes onto the face
of the crying mother of us all.
Tree people dragged by massive caterpillars
shamed with no explanation

Caterpillars crawl across sacred ground, hungry,
relentless, bright electric eyes burn through the night
devouring, addicted to wood
their steel scoops could eat your entire house
in a single bite!
“Why is mother earth being burned alive?” The tree people ask
each other, weeping.

Deer people huddle in council with raccoon and squirrel.
Bird people forget their ancient prejudices and circle up,
crow with eagle and owl.
Now earth mother is burning … conflagration
Conflagration! Have the two legged ones gone mad?
Messages coming to us from the other world.
Messages of earth and heart. Shift the letters. Same word.
Earth. Heart. Heart-Earth.
As heart dies, mother earth dies.
Wake up sisters and brothers.
Go to the Lodge of the heart.
Ten thousand ancestors stand in a circle of hearts on fire.
Drumming, chanting, invoking.
The ancient ones call us back to full heart.
Back to loving our mother
Spirit and blood of sun dancers mingles with grief of pipe carriers.
Grandfathers and grandmothers in lodges across the stomach
of Mother Earth pour spirit water into the flesh and bones
on ancestors soon to be.

The sun rises. Water pourers open the door to the East,
to the creator.
Ten thousand shamans light their sage, cedar and sweet grass.
Invoking, praying, doing give away.
A spiritual war is coming.
Fire must yield to water.
Tears of the Grandfathers and Grandmothers
Sweat of the Creator.
Soul waters come pouring in.
A mighty storm is coming to heal the conflagration.

Two Crows Calling
From This Well Has No Bottom: A little book of spiritual poetry

I am a man – a poem

March 24, 2013 · Category: Men and Shadow, Poetry 

I am alone
No one cares about me, but me
I must do it on my own,
I am a man

You don’t get me,
and never will
There’s a pain inside that you will never know,
I am a man

I am by myself,
alone without support
If I don’t do it, no one will,
I am a man

I don’t need help,
I don’t want help
Can’t ask for help,
I am a man

Hiding from the world,
living in shadow
Don’t see me,
I am a man

If I wanted help,
you wouldn’t give it
Don’t know how to ask,
I am a man

I am deeper than you will ever know,
My feelings run wild,
powerful, passionate
I am a man

As I tell you I don’t want or need it,
I am longing for you to reach out,
Touch my heart,
I am a man

It is time to break my isolation
I don’t want to be alone,
I want connection
I am a man

 Copyright 2013
Trusting Eagle

October Poem: #1 for DAD

June 15, 2012 · Category: Fatherhood, Men and Parenting, Poetry 

by Qutbuddin Loren Ruh Smith

Hey! Dad! How long’s it been?

How long’s it been since we’ve talked?

Huh! How long?

And there’s more distance between us

now, than there is time, isn’t there? Dad?

Dad? Can you hear me?

We never did talk much did we? Dad?

Oh yes! In my 40th year, on that hillside

we reached out to one another

you came from over there

I from my meditation

we crossed the void in mutual communication

came to an understanding about Bruce’s needs.

But we didn’t talk about all of it did we Dad?

We really had never talked, had we Dad?

I was 18 when you died. Were murdered!

We hadn’t talked!

We hadn’t talked since I’d smashed your new teeth

with my fist over the breakfast table because

You were hurting mother. We hadn’t talked

Father to Son to Father

in my entire life, had we Dad?

Are you here now? Can you hear me?

Let me tell ya what I remember, Dad!

First though, let me tell ya that I LOVE ya!

But this is what I remember: I must have been three or four

you were ‘punishing’ mom. Beating her around the house.

I remember a central structural wall,

a kitchen, dining and living rooms on one side

a hallway on the other side connecting bedrooms

and bath, you were beating her

up the hallway through the living

room, into the kitchen and back up the hallway.

And this I remember:

 

Bicycling or hitchhiking to bars and card rooms in Port Angeles,

Arcata and Eureka, from the 4th grade into my 11th

and 12th grades, standing, waiting, drinking coke

while you lost your paycheck and your ego.

I remember too: Heart-0-the-Hills Lake, the Elwa River

Agate Beach, Crescent Lake…going to those and

other places with you, but you not being there with me.

I don’t remember conversations.

Was conversation difficult for you Dad?

Particularly with your eldest son,

particularly in the later years,

my high school years? The year you died?

You know, I also remember:

Grandpa Smith, or, that is, relatively little of him

except for the negation His presence generated in

you. Your brother was like that also. Victor, who

feared that Loren, that California cultist, was home to

the funeral to rip off Grandpa’s estate which he had already spent.

Have you had the opportunity to meet any of my

stepfathers, Dad? Bob? Al? Jim?

Curious lot aren’t they? They were all a lot alike

you. You know what I mean. Bruised and

battered egos. Broken by brutally unaware parents, and

war, either directly or indirectly, like your self.

No place to go. No counseling adept enough in those days, or

that could be afforded. I know a bit about that one.

When you’re down and out and there is no Father there for you…

what do you do? You drank, gambled, continued

down, and got yourself murdered. Yeah! I remember that too…

 

I’d just turned 18. Grandpa didn’t care enough to go

after your killer; and frankly, at that time, I

didn’t either. Looking back, it would have made

no difference at all. That guy was down.

That’s what being down, and making the decision

to stay down, can do to a Man.

Yes! That’s the reason I didn’t understand you.

Why did you choose to stay down?

Why were your habits any harder to break than

those of any one else?

Why did you continue to subscribe to your father’s and

your brother’s oppressions.

Tell me! It may help me to throw off my own yokes,

my own limiting foibles.

To set them aside and proceed with my life.

Hey Dad! Talk to me! Its Time Now! For a Talk?

Isn’t it? Hey! Dad! Dad?

Qutbuddin Loren Ruh Smith – Poetry Contributor & Editor

Qutbuddin Loren Ruh Smith: I’m 75 years old, born in Tacoma, WA and went to high school in Arcata, CA. I served in the US Army, met my first wife and had our first son in France. I started writing poetry in my first college English class in 1961. I’ve published a book called The Path to The Beloved and I have several books ready to publish. I lived in the Sierras in Grass Valley for 30 years before moving to Albuquerque, NM, last year. My book about fathers and sons called This Child and His Tree will be going to the publishers shortly.

Fathers and Sons: a Poem

June 14, 2012 · Category: Fatherhood, Poetry 

by Don Waxman

every son who
struggles
for acceptance
from his father

will become the father
who struggles to accept
his son

when men gather,
each becomes this son,
and each becomes
the father

to this son,
and for those who
never had a father,
or who had several,

the path is the same,

father and son
are two faces
of the same
coin,

the price you pay
in suffering and love
to become the man
you are

August 29, 2007

Don Waxman, Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist, works with individuals, couples, families, and groups in Petaluma, California. Don has over twenty-five years experience starting-up and managing private sector and non-profit businesses. He has worked for Hospice as a bereavement and end-of-life counselor, and in school settings with emotionally and behaviorally challenged teens and their families. Don chose to enter the field of counseling psychology after being involved in other careers, because as he says, “When I am working with clients I am challenged to be the best human being I can possibly be.”

“Poetry for Men” and Other Problematic Labels

June 7, 2012 · Category: Men and Relationship, Poetry 

Rick Belden finds that labeling his poetry only limits the reader’s expectations.

by Rick Belden

I’m not crazy about labels, but I understand that they can be useful and necessary in helping us sort through the mass of information to which we’re all constantly exposed. For some time now, I’ve been struggling with the problem of how best to characterize my writing, as a way of introduction for those who haven’t seen it. Is it poetry for men, men’s poetry, male poetry? Is it survivor poetry? Healing poetry? Recovery poetry? Transformational poetry? Body-centered poetry? Psychospiritual poetry? Poetry therapy? What do these terms actually mean, what do they convey to others about my work, and are they even accurate?

Initially, I was reluctant to call what I was writing “poetry” at all. The use of that word struck me as a bit … I dunno … conceited? Self-important? Pretentious? Preposterous? I wasn’t even sure I knew what poetry was. It seemed to be a lot of things, according to who was writing it and who was reading it, and it struck me as one of those words that’s somehow developed so many different meanings and connotations that it barely means anything at all anymore, like “love” or “god.”

I was also concerned that, for a lot of folks, the word “poetry” can be roughly translated into “something I’m not gonna want to read.” Ultimately, I set all of those concerns aside because I knew that what I was writing certainly wasn’t prose, and I needed to use some sort of recognizable terminology to describe it. So it’s poetry. Okay. What kind of poetry?

Every one of the labels I listed above (poetry for men, survivor poetry, etc.) expresses one very specific aspect of my writing while excluding many others. It reduces the work, in some substantial way, to something far less than what it actually is. There are also connotations and assumptions associated with each of these labels that may or may not be accurate and appropriate in the case of my writing. And that’s something I’d prefer to avoid if I can.

If, for example, I describe my first book, Iron Man Family Outing , as “poetry for men” then I feel like I’m basically telling women, “This book is not for you.” But that’s not the message I want to send, and it’s not true. About half of my readers are women, and they relate to the material just as strongly as the men do. If I characterize my second book, Scapegoat’s Cross, as “poetry for adult survivors of childhood abuse” then those who would not describe themselves in that way might think, “There’s nothing in this book that will speak to me.” But that’s not true either, and it’s not the impression I want anyone to have. While the adult survivor theme is central and very critical to the structure of Scapegoat’s Cross, the scope of the book is much broader, and much more universal, than that.

How do I accurately communicate, with a non-ambiguous label consisting of two or three words, the depth and the breadth, the variety and the richness, the individuality and the universality of the transformational processes I’m attempting to illuminate and share in my writing? I still don’t have an answer. To borrow from Zen, words are “but a finger pointing to the moon.” I guess I’ll just keep trying out all of my fingers until I find the ones that point the best.

Rick Belden

Rick Belden is the author of “> Iron Man Family Outing: Poems about Transition into a More Conscious Manhood . His book is widely used in the United States and internationally by therapists, counselors, and men’s groups as an aid in the exploration of masculine psychology and men’s issues, and as a resource for men who grew up in dysfunctional, abusive, or neglectful family systems. His website is Rick Belden He lives in Austin, Texas.

The WAKE UP Call!

May 8, 2012 · Category: Fatherhood, Poetry, Videos 

Spoken Word Poetry on true fatherhood from Rob Atchison.

This powerful piece comes to us from the author’s You tube link Spoken Word.
Rob writes of his work: “My Poems range from Love, Break-ups, Depression, real life issues and so on. I write from my Life, friends or families life or just by imagining how I would feel in a particular situation and writing about it. I feel I have my own unique style and I’m hard to put in a box.”

Poetry: The 16th Quartet: Yes! Yes! Yes!

March 13, 2012 · Category: Poetry 

Rob Grotke says: So simple and effortless, the way it is said,
from Papaji: “Being is always shining; I am is the light of being.
This Diamond cannot hide, and can never be hidden.
When there is no mind the face shines with
beauty and innocence.
Just simply be quiet. Just be who you are.”

Rob Grotke says: In keeping with the theme of your poems.
from Adyashanti: “Isn’t it time to stop loving and hating the mirages
of your virtual reality mind?
Time to slip like space
into the radiance of your bright and
Imageless face.
Let it kiss itself in recognition
of its own beauty
and you will spend the rest of your life
loving all the various ways you shine.”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

It is time to live the themes that stream
through the poetry that I have written.
But then, I am called again to bare my Soul…
by my brothers who are also baring souls
looking for Grace’s surcease to troubled minds…
And again to open our Hearts and be at Peace
in our Brains…

It is in there, in my Brain that my ego resides…
Like these three ‘…’ with which I intend to lengthen the
moment of contemplation that i believe (ego)
a thought needs for complete absorption…
So…for me…I am caught again by ego’s image
in my mirror rather than the radiance of an
empty mind…Rob and I wish to see in my eyes…

At this moment…my world sings to me, calls to
me in various harmonies, much cacophony and
much pain… My response is much in the moment.
And I am not in control of either its calling or my
responding…for this is my calling…and I can not deny it…

Qutbuddin Loren Ruh Smith
01-06-12

Qutbuddin Loren Ruh Smith: I’m 74 years old, born in Tacoma, WA and went to high school in Arcata, CA. I served in the US Army, met my first wife and had our first son in France. I started writing poetry in my first college English class in 1961. I’ve published a book called The Path to The Beloved and I have several books ready to publish. I lived in the Sierras in Grass Valley for 30 years before moving to Albuquerque, NM, last year. My book about fathers and sons called This Child and His Tree will be going to the publishers shortly.

I Never Knew Tears Could Feel So Good by Nirmala

March 11, 2012 · Category: Poetry, Syndicated, This Energetic Man 

I never knew tears could feel so good
until I opened my heart and found they come
from the same source
as boundless laughter

instead of blurring my vision
they bring beauty into focus

instead of burning my cheeks
they wash away dusty dryness I used to hide behind

let sorrow have me now
for surrender has freed me to savor the bittersweet nectar
that flows in measureless abundance from within

#18 from Gifts with No Giver: A Love Affair with Truth by Nirmala
(free for Kindle)

Scott Youmans is an experienced facilitator with an MA in Transformative Language Arts from Goddard College. He’s a computer programmer, a dedicated partner, and a New Warrior. He lives in Philadelphia. Follow Scott Youmans at his ‘This Energetic Man’ blog.

Lay Priest: Perspectives; a poem

February 13, 2012 · Category: Poetry 

For: Michael Rice

Perspectives; yours…mine…
out of shadowland we grasp at
pin pricks of light, claim
a dogma; disclaim another’s…judging…
Within our perspective we judge.

With other brothers, we sought our limits
illumined by the midnight
sun, we probed
community to its
nexus…in an individual’s
dance within his shadows…

Fears and tears, hysteria and laughter
the pulse particularly
deep, communal light particularly
bright, contracts, written on the blackboard sky
with our expanding
light…

Perspectives
commitments to advance
out of a dismal ego swamp, where
light wavers over unsteady images
in the swill of the murky matter?

It is love’s lack…
love’s aftermath, children
drilled, drugged, deadmeat
in the bitterness of perspectives

clotted
in old parental clots, earth rent…
no reverence, ego wreaking ruin of ages
ages old, ages in the learning, burning ages.

Ohhh… Dads! Mothers! Were that you
were here…now – at our fireside even here at our hip…
getting down into these swirling waters.

I’m giving no lip, Dad! Mom! Oh, you two…
please sit and sip with me the peace
that Luna sheds upon our shadows…

There is nothing hidden, hiding here
lost here, here is too much light
within shadows, we can always find
our way out if a mind drops
ego’s needs, if a heart drops
open, if a being lets go of fear…

Beings meet, knowing the old hymns
old rituals, old celebrations innate
picking up all that was forgotten
opening again. Yes, again
opening horizons in the blood
enlivening the pulse…we’re
becoming the
GODS
we are…
That we were destined to be…!
Again… As we were at birth!

Qutbuddin Loren Ruh Smith
10-12-95

Qutbuddin Loren Ruh Smith: I’m 74 years old, born in Tacoma, WA and went to high school in Arcata, CA. I served in the US Army, met my first wife and had our first son in France. I started writing poetry in my first college English class in 1961. I’ve published a book called The Path to The Beloved and I have several books ready to publish. I lived in the Sierras in Grass Valley for 30 years before moving to Albuquerque, NM, last year. My book about fathers and sons called This Child and His Tree will be going to the publishers shortly.

The Search; a poem

January 13, 2012 · Category: Poetry 

Agape 1

THE SEARCH 

I’ve seen death daily in expected and wonder-full ways

and tasted its sweet coolness on fevered tongue

dipped of earthen flow streaming through granite cups

my image caught there returned to me

slaking heart more than thirst.

Oh! Yes! Father Sky!

I have fed at our Mother’s bosom

fed of her thrill of thrills

LIFE GIFTED BY DEATH

make of me such fodder.

AND STILL THE SEARCH, THE ONGOING SEARCH!

I’ve reached out for you, have sought you

have felt your bloods rise toward one truth

in Spring’s budding mind fauna

rage watered in winter’s stillness

rainbow petals, hued of incredible color

your slow rising power, reclaiming self

feeding self in righteous reincarnation

as one truth and direct centered in your seed.

AND STILL THE SEARCH, THE INCESSANT SEARCH!

I’ve lived by your most powerful light, still awed

by your dimmest, easing through cranial heavens

dark with depth beyond all knowing

having watched your flashing power

as flung by birth of a distant youth

score an image of savage fire

across my mind’s eye.

AND STILL THE SEARCH, TO STILL THE SEARCH!

YES! I’ve known your rhythm in all things

keening so softly then! lest I forget hardness

your thunderous peals of catastrophied concerts

set magnificent pulses toward fatal marriages

stiffen this spine grown sedentary

and leave limp the thrust of mere ego.

AND STILL THE SEARCH, CAN’T STILL THE SEARCH!

My mind, my heart, my body sustained, Yes! sated.

but, What of my Soul? even with definition provided

a sense of continuance a sense of an ethereal self

and runes, known indelibly

drawn from motion danced before the dawn of intellect

knowing songs that trees and grasses sing

knowing great rocks that are reed bells for wind song

knowing the pure music of young waters, pinning

but homeward bound to her womb, the Sea.

Oh! Yes! Father Sky, Thank Thee!

but yet I am bereft and need ask of Thee:

Pray Thee! Take Thee my Soul! OPEN me!

and STILL THE SEARCH!

 

Qutbuddin Loren Ruh Smith, Spring 1975

Qutbuddin Loren Ruh Smith: I’m 74 years old, born in Tacoma, WA and went to high school in Arcata, CA. I served in the US Army, met my first wife and had our first son in France. I started writing poetry in my first college English class in 1961. I’ve published a book called The Path to The Beloved and I have several books ready to publish. I lived in the Sierras in Grass Valley for 30 years before moving to Albuquerque, NM, last year. My book about fathers and sons called This Child and His Tree will be going to the publishers shortly.

CLOAKED IN THE MANTLE OF INITIATION

December 10, 2011 · Category: **THE DOOR**, Men and Initiation, Poetry 

CLOAKED IN THE MANTLE OF INITIATION
Read more

Babies and children

December 6, 2011 · Category: Men and Parenting, Men as Elders, Poetry 

Little babies and young children make the best mentors!

Seasons change. Sons mentor fathers, grandfathers learn amazing things from
Their grandsons! Uncles learn from their nephews and nieces
The whole world of living is turned upside down

Babies and young children — these are the heart changers. They wash the hearts
Of their parents and grandparents. Babies and children make the best mentors
They cleanse our hearts with the purity of their Love

The little ones teach purity of heart willing one thing only –lovingness!

A light is burning at both ends of a long tunnel “Intimations of Immortality”
We come to this world from afar Streaming clouds of glory.

We are made of stardust from far beyond.

The grandson has just come from the realms of light
His little heart is burning with a sacred fire! And his grandfather stands close to the light
Soon to depart at the other end of the long tunnel. Grandfathers and grandsons
Share a sacred secret with their eyes and with their Embrace of each other
They whisper the secret “The tunnel with light at both ends is really a sacred circle.”

Grandfather and grandson join hands with grandfathers and grandsons across the world.
They whisper in each other’s ear “We are a sacred circle of light”
Darkness is burned off by their fiery hearts of love
Old weather-worn hands join with tender little hands and
Through their interlocked fingers heart energy pours through.

Life is a Blessing Way! Paradise is here and now
The Now is everything! The old man and the baby
Shed light in the darkness. By turning our world upside down
We come round right at last. The little ones made of Stardust
Take our hands in theirs Leading us home

The meal they serve us is constant lovingness
Our cup of blessing overflows!

Babies and little children
Make the best mentors!

by Grandpa Two Crows Calling

ROBED IN SILENCE

December 5, 2011 · Category: Men and Faith, Poetry 

ROBED IN SILENCE, STAND IN STILLNESS
REST WITHIN YOUR QUEST
GROW IN THE RICH SOIL OF SACRED EMPTINESS

BE HOLLOW BONE FOR SOUL TO FLOW
EMPTIED OF SELF – SURRENDER TO GRACE
A LIVING ALTAR OF THE HOLY ONE

ALLOW CREATOR TO REST ON YOUR SOUL FLESH
YOUR HEART ABLAZE – FIRED BY YOUR HARD WON CERTAINTY
REST – KNOWING YOU ARE BLESSED!

STEP NOW THROUGH THAT OPEN THRESHOLD DOOR
CROSS OVER, FIND UNION EVER MORE

DELIGHT ABOUNDS IN YOUR SOUL GARDEN
AS THE BELOVED PLANTS FERTILE SEEDS IN THE
FERTILE SOIL OF YOUR CALL

BECOME BUD, FLOWER AND FRUIT OF WHAT YOU WANT
FOR ALL CREATION, CHOOSE NOW YOUR SACRED INTENTION
WITH EVERY BREATH

CREATION YEARNS FOR YOU TO RELEASE YOUR GIFT
BE SACRED PRAYER, UNSPEAKABLE JOY, PERPETUAL MIRACLE
UNFORGETTABLE LOVE SONG

GO FORTH BELOVED
ROBED IN SILENCE, STAND IN STILLNESS

REST WITHIN YOUR QUEST, ROOTED IN SOIL OF
SACRED EMPTINESS.

– TWO CROWS CALLING

Pray Tell Me – a poem of remembrance

November 25, 2011 · Category: Poetry 

Where have all the children gone? And The Great Oaks and Mighty Sycamores too?

The Seven Nation Iroquois told our early settler, white ancestors that before the whites
Came to their land with their honed axes and four man chain saws
That a squirrel could jump from tree to tree from the coast of the great Atlantic Ocean
To the majestic Mississippi
Without touching down on the ground!

And the white-tailed deer gave their “sacred giveaway”,
Positioning themselves for their own death to provide meat
for the starving newcomers and the mountain men.

Pray tell me! We white heirs of John Wesley and the fine English Quakers,
And brilliant Jesuit priests, We seem to hold this “blood lust” to murder
and devour all the sacred beauty before our eyes.

Behold the great Buffalo herds, black upon the Great Plains
As far as the human eye could see — out to the horizon.

Herds of the beautiful and mighty, black four legged ones,
Their milky breath raising clouds on the starry plains in the
Moonlit night, gone in the wink of an eye!

Pray tell me! Where have all the Great Oaks gone?
And the Mighty Sycamores too!

Two Crows Calling

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