God Giving

I hear god up there laughing
in her sleeve then weeping
on bent knees then sweetly
giving head to something sublime so
brightly rising shine on
all we refuse to see.

I feel thunder up there down
all swelling ‘round a telling
us all the place of storming
calling rainfall to the ground
our only found of soul
where feltness whispers wisdom

and

kingdoms crumble in the wake
of earth’s crash us shattering into
the soft skin
of fragile, fierce, fertile, flow being
bent straight to the root
digging deep, steeper stilling
down to the center where
nothing fills something strains

births

steeper stilling

ancient tree of fullness within
unfolding without
richly
beyond all loss.

jruthkelly5 Comments

Moonlit Flow

Bathe me in white light
moon-still moment fill every pore.
Under leaves melt me

moon moment

down to this soundless soul song.
Wash across my skin
and in
quiet, hushing feltness.
Liquid moonlit night
but now,
now still stilling, filling flow,
all the day’s glow.

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RUMInating Lovers…

Never, in sooth, does the lover seek without being sought
            by his beloved.
When the lightning of love has shot into this heart, know
            that there is love in that heart.
When love of God waxes in thy heart, beyond any doubt
            God hath love for thee.
No sound of clapping comes from one hand without the
            other hand.
Divine Wisdom is destiny and decree made us lovers of one
            another.
Because of that fore-ordainment every part of the world is
            paired with its mate.
In the view of the wise, Heaven is man and Earth woman:
            Earth fosters what Heaven lets fall.
When Earth lacks heat, Heaven sends it; when she has lost
            her freshness and moisture, Heaven restores it.
Heaven goes on his rounds, like a husband foraging for the
            wife’s sake;
And Earth is busy with housewiferies: she attends to births
           and suckling that which she bears.
Regard Earth and Heaven as endowed with intelligence,
            since they do the work of intelligent beings.
Unless these twain taste pleasure from one another, why
            are they creeping together like sweethearts?
Without the Earth, how would flower and tree blossom?
            what, then, would Heaven’s water and heat produce?
As God put desire in man and woman to the end that the
            world should be preserved by their union,
So hath He implanted in every part of existence the desire
            for another part.
Day and Night are enemies outwardly; yet both serve one
            purpose,
Each in love with the other for the sake of perfecting their
            mutual work,
Without Night, the nature of Man would receive no
            income, so there would be nothing for Day to spend.

Rumi

jruthkelly7 Comments

Vital Visual

my orchids
earthspeaksupreme

maybe earth’s point spill
births best renewal deep beyond
blooming orchid speak

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More From The Sparrow Oblivious

Song lilting out in
to my fields a great feast spills
melodic moment.

These trills beseech me
reach me, lifting up and out
ousting oppression.

jruthkelly16 Comments

A Sparrow Oblivious

The rain pings the window to my left and the house rests. There are so many things to do. The contrast of the stillness, the silence hums a lovely tune to the melody of falling rain streaking jagged rivulets against the backdrop of a reliable, perpetual drumbeat toiling a rhythm on the walls of my home: “do this now! and that! and!” Surreal.  

Schools shut down yesterday and stayed down. The slightest bit of icy rain and all is quiet. I’ve loads of time to do. Or not do. And a weekend coming up on me with my children. And. Go. Go. Go. Soccer season soon. Essays and. Professors who won’t let me end a sentence in and, even if a period lands. It’s. Life.

I sat in the quiet this morning and perused the headlines. It’s unavoidable. I had mail to check and there was the glaring news of the missionary in Haiti. The woman with the scarlett F on her chest. Take your pick. She’s probably Fundie. Or Flawed. Or Failed. Or Foreclosed. And she’s definitely Foolhardy. According to the news, that is. I sat there shaking my head. So much for human. Why is it sticking in my mind? Do I feel the F’s on my chest too heavily this morning? It’s not like I went to Haiti and absconded with children for their own good. Maybe it’s not a good idea to psychoanalyze every damn thing, eh?

Let things rest.

Where does this post go, then? Where do any of us go with the contrasting forces pulling on our lives and asking for equal time or, often, domination? Stay. Go. Rest. Flow. Work. Plan. Balance. It. All. Out. And.

Oh let’s not forget to add: Start over. Learn to trust again. (what? whom? life? them?) Stay serene. Find the simple joys. Grin at lost writings and hope they rise from the grave with a hallelujah on Saturday. (Nevermind the dead bodies in the crypt over there whispering of lost loves.)

Wait. That’s supposed to happen on Sunday.

It’s amazing, isn’t it? How one person can eek by with a squeak and a scheme and come out smelling like roses in spite of the less than stellar history and another can concern herself most of her life with taking care and still land in a pile of um, yes. Note to reader: Don’t be misled, I’m grinning. It makes for an interesting read. It depends on your level of compassion. It begs you to ask what you reveal by what you don’t. And then it has no answer that can truly be relied upon because the story changes as soon as the press groans.

Ever just feel cryptic? Like life is rigged? And the poem refuses to spill because you’ve got too much log-jammed up inside to begin to do anything but spew.

But life. Somewhere between the rigged gigs and the skewed headlines is a pinging on the glass, rhythmic falling down a streak of sound and the resurging gurgling call of singing back there behind the magnolia, a small sparrow covering us all up in an accidental grace, painting timeless refusals of shame and colors alive revealing face no story can hide. Nothing rigged. Nothing faked. Nothing surreal. Just the melody unrestrained and calling out the courage to make a go of it again, whether it looks good in the long run or not, whether it ends happily or not, whether it ascends into heaven or rots. All from a sparrow oblivious.

jruthkelly12 Comments