Bells

by Mary Oliver     Logos
                          
                              Why wonder about the loaves and the fishes?
                               If you say the right words, the wine expands.
                               If you say them with love
                               and the felt ferocity of that love,
                               the fish explode into many.
                               Imagine him speaking,
                               and don't worry about what is reality,
                               or what is plain, or what is mysterious.
                               If you were there, it was all those things.
                               If you can imagine it, it is all those things.
                               Eat, drink, be happy.
                               Accept the miracle.
                               Accept, too, each spoken word
                               spoken with love.



                                                                                       At the end of the day; of the
                                                    week and the month, we 
                                                    can look back with regret
                                                    or we can remember to
                                                    rejoice.  soultalker



       
Bells

When you ring the bells for me
remember the time I wasn't
like this, forget the breaks and
aches

I threw in your lap I wasn't 
punishing you, you or you.
It was me, me, and me that
had thrown fits and clumps
of dirt in the air.  If I hit you
it's because I throw like a girl

I made a stand and then let
myself swing at anything that
moved at the corner of my eye
which no longer had sight.

How could I possibly ever get
it right.  I pushed this pen, the
red one too.  Hit, clicked and
typed as one ought to with
electronically messages from
me to you, you, and you. 


It's all in my head but I wish I
was preoccupied with baking
bread, stirring soup and the
phone rang putting silly ideas
in my head about poems and
even typing them correctly.


When I was disconnected, my

life went on cheerily.






                                

Turning The Page

I have just returned from a quiet journey to the coast of my country, Canada.  The atmosphere was serene, the air was crisp albeit on chilly side.  But my family was warm and giving.  I wondered how empty I was or am, because words didn't come spilling over sheets of paper.  Now that I'm back, I'm not sure what nonsense I'll be spinning.  

I pinned this quotation to the fridge by William Staff

                                                  What can anyone give you greater
                                                  than now, starting here, right in
                                                  this room, when you turn around?




Thinking

There is nothing
to say today.
No words come
bubbling to my 
brain.  More of
this and less of
that.

I need a thinking
hat where
words can spin.
Be true and cast
out tales of all
that has been.

And a passageway
to let memories in. 

Humility

There is no respect for others without humility in one's self.
                                                                                                      Henri-Frédéric Amiel




When I was young,
I thought all these places were at
                             my fingertips.


Greece, Italy, Mesapotamia, France,
                  he pyramids, the ocean
                                  and the gods.  

Flowing white sheer curtains open to 
the air, not a smoky smelly screen
with squished flies.  I got as far as

Grand Forks, didn't find the suitcase 
and did Target.  As for Egypt, I thought
it was a make-believe history class story.

Why did I wind down sitting still as a rock
on a piece of flat cold land where the only
water and wave you get is when the snow
melts and it's nice but hardly majestic.

Nothing glittery here.

Was it the children?  No imagination?
No determination?  No real guts.  What
stopped me in my tracks...I did nothing.

It was done to me.

At least when I smile about it, people
think I'm great to be satisfied as a stone 
staying back to hold down the fort.  STOP.
Saying it so I don't believe in my thoughts 
anymore.  They won't change my world,
my mind, my stomach ache or my pain.

Now we can live with twenty to thirty

years of shame instead of just one or two.                     

SunRise

The sun has risen again today.  Be the best you can be.

 News has come to me recently about an organization:  womenforwomen.org
This group works in helping women survivors of war change their world.  They work by donations, sponsorships and a host of ways to provide support and to let women suffering the after effects of war that they are not alone.  Check out the site and see how you can help.

                                          Bells

                               If the bells toll for me
                               I've hardly been saintly.

                               But if they should;  think of times
                               when I did all I could to hold our
                               heads up


                               when being an ostrich would have
                               been more profound and true.


                               Remember my head in the ground?
                               I still do.


                               Think of times when there was no
                               one but you.  My heart held many
                               things;   memories and desires; but
                               it's with my hands that I created you
                               and me;  it's with my hands that I
                               brushed that beautiful soft brown 
                               hair.  With these hands I rubbed your
                               back, and with these hands I tied your
                               shoelaces back.


                               These hands made lunches, signed
                               permission slips, put your supper in
                               a dish.  With these hands I held your
                               new body amidst new bodies.  These
                               hands forever hold your new soul.


                               Remember this when the bells toll.
                                  

Heaven's Gate

Search the darkness...surge like an ocean
don't scatter yourself like a storm.   by Ghazels
                                                                                  There I was, thinking to shut 
                                                       the gate to Heaven's door.  Instead
another opened in front of me...a new page...a new fury?

Quest for the beloved...retrieving the lost...looking for what I left 
behind; it's a foolish thing to do, you will never find life the way it used to be.  Not to worry, I'll live what I must live now...with gratitude and vengeance.


The flavor of time living in a sea of questions.
I've drowned in a sea of sorrow.
Now I am fuming in flames of fury.

How do I say what needs to be said?
How much living is there left to do?
Each day rings beauty, heavenly is
my day to day breath.

With sunshine in my eyes;
I go to bed and sleep with
the angels who have flown
over me in feathery graces.

I made my living, I loved my God.
Played with my anger, nearly lost 
my mind

and now with what we thought
was true has come to a head
the crossroads to a future that
wouldn't happen for me they
said;  obliges me to conjure up
a life with no energy left to spend.
Maxing out time and again.

But I still like it here God.
No debate, just hanging at
the gate.  It's hard to be 
useful when people forget
one day - this will be their lot
too.

Don't feel bad for anyone.
The circle turns and you get
what's on your plate.  Truly
no more complicated than that
whether you open or close the
gate.

Dedicated to all the 50+HIVers who are living this new era of AIDS.
 

Tears

Water can freeze, embryos grow in the womb of fluids, water melts,
water is in everything and when we are in pain water pours from our eyes and we call them tears.


Tears in the hallway
tears in the bedroom
tears in the kitchen
tears in the common room.

Tears in my throat

great sobbing heaves
of pain and sorrow.

There is no tomorrow.
Who lets this be?
This place of grief;
what does it matter.
Cry, cry till you become
hollow.

Tears come from the Beloved.
She knows your sorrow
crying lets hearts bleed,

letting out the sorrow.

Be Mindful of Death

Who, would make plans which do not reckon with death, when he sees the world so unsubstantial and frail, like a water bubble?    
                                                     from Buddhist scriptures


The Other Shore


At sometime, on a simple day,
the gift of wind will fill you
with fullness of freedom.


Your words will bathe in the
rain, inhale the divine mood,
during the baby eclipse.


Souls will stroll for their last
visit, inhale the gifts stitched
by oil lamps, while you stir
your feet in the mud.  Your
knees will tremble, elbows
will give way.


Fingers super small, can't stop the
sprawl nor ears reach the call.
Turn off the phones.  Life is quieter
that way.  Birds' wings don't make
up all the falls we have been through
since


the box returned;  useless now,
freedom lives within.  Drive those
cars around, burn up the ozone.
It doesn't matter to dying me.  I
jumped off the wrong bed, into
the cold wintry snow.


Rainbows and angels blend in
the sky, flapping their wings,
saying good-bye.  Parchment 
paper unrolls;  speaks to the 
untold of unrest and unease
which unfolds words inside
bosoms to tell new stories,
bring new life, spread pollen.

Rise, walk the river to the other shore.

 

Memoires vs. Memories

My name is Gisèle, the accent tells you that I have a french background.  A french-canadian background, and probably a catholic upbringing.

From that position and atmosphere I earned an ARTS degree in drama, at an English university and a
Teaching Certificate at a French College. I have taught, I've been divorced and widowed and raised three children to adulthood.

With all that living behind me, the life ahead of me, unknown, the life within me at the moment is somewhat obsessed with poetry.  I am called to writing like I am called to teaching.  Teaching requires review of materials taught.  Writing asks that you use all your senses to express the life within and around you.

Memoire is a high-brow word having a french root and alludes to a life of privilege, wearing white gloves and associating with birds of certain feathers only.  On the other hand, memories can be maudlin, painful and sometimes happy.  So, the deal with this SOULTALKER blog is a reviewing of memories.  However, much in the way that memoire and memory take on different personas, I too, have a variety of persona to draw from, whichever the case, the results begin and end within my soul.  I am the soultalker and I communicate best through my soul.  Hence, poetry is my blog. 

I welcome your comments and would love to read the sounds of your soul.  Gisèle

Here's a memory poem:                      MESSAGES

                                                         That phone is a nasty message bringer;
                                                         of full pauses, deep breaths, hesitations,
                                                         you don't have to say anything.

                                                         I can hear it in your breath.

                                                         Perpetual ringing
                                                         bad news comes
                                                         wordless.  Telephone
                                                         rings tighten my
                                                         chest;  irritation in
                                                         my hands crunch the
                                                         phone to my ear.

                                                        Prepared this time
                                                        for this bursting
                                                        sound of intrusion.

                                                        Bad news, bad news.
                                                                                     

On the Wings of the Beloved

MEDITATE                   LIVE PURELY                  BE QUIET
 Do your work with mastery.
                                          Like the moon, come out from
                                                                                  behind the clouds.
                                                              
                                                                  SHINE
                                                                                                Buddha

THE DIVINE MOOD

 The Divine Mood visited me today.
Swimming in the clouds tearing my
heart.  As words fell into parts, my
being, my breath fell apart. EXHALE
Breathe in.  Make room for the Divine Heart.

Warm and toasty
A warm cinnamon bun, like a cat, sleep
in the sun.  There is so little warmth; eyes
have a hard time focusing; the best part
of the day is done.  Five a.m. prayers;
six a.m. e-mails.


Beautiful walk in the sun
coffee and the fish fly gallery.
Tiredness reaches my soul.

There is a hole where there used
to be none.  A space is opening with or
without me.  Thy will be done.  


What to do with this fatigue; we rest
here or there,


but I am in the sun with the Beloved.