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.