Kundalini Splendor

(The above images were all taken at the Detroit Zoo, which was decorated for Halloween in its park setting.)

The Witch

I was always a nice girl
with a few bad habits.
I whistled a lot
out gathering eggs.
When my brothers hand-wrestled
I insisted on winning.
The villagers said
I walked like a boy.

My father used to eye me from afar,
and hold private conversations
in the corner with mother.

When the other girls married
I took no notice,
though I threw rice at the churchdoor
along with the rest.
Whatever I was seeking
it wasn't this:
a screaming cradle
and a man with soot for fingers.

Once I went to a gathering
in the heart of the forest.
Where shadows make shadows
I learned my true name.

Since then I have lived here
at the edge of the woods
with my tabby and my charms,
my thatch needing repair.
My potions are famous
all over these parts.
When people come seeking
from near and from far,
they ask what goes in.
I mutter: "Roots and berries.
Berries and roots."
How can I tell them
it is themselves they taste?

Dorothy Walters
(from "Marrow of Flame, Poems of the Spiritual Journey")

Teresa’s Angel

You are not
the great deity
seated above,
looking down on your lost realms
from your
safe and measured distance.

You are not the infinite ground of being,
the ultimate source,
the taproot of all creation.

You are the one
who wakes me
with such tenderness
each morning,
whispers my name,
goes with me
to my special space
there,
in the corner of my room
where I bow
and am with you
once more.

Sometimes
you fill me
with sudden delight
in ways I cannot describe.

Dorothy Walters
October 30, 2007

Yesterday, I returned from one of the most glorious experiences I have had in a very long while. I spent several days in Detroit with my dear friend Patricia Lay-Dorsey, my longtime friend and constant inspiration. Like many people, I had assumed that Detroit was a rather drab place, with little to offer in the way of cultural attractions or natural beauty. Was I ever wrong.

She first took me to an evening performance by the Detroit Symphony that rivaled the best I have heard. It included a brilliant violin performance by Renaud Capucon, who plays on a rare instrument given to him by Isaac Stern. His encore (in especial) carried us into a collective trance state. The audience literally held its breath as the piece came to conclusion.

The orchestra also performed the Seventh Symphony of William Bolcomb, one of the outstanding composers of our time. This work was composed around the time of 9-11 and Bolcomb had revealed that one part was closely associated with that event. As I listened, I detected even more associations. At Patricia's insistence, I spoke to him afterward, and described the narrative I had detected within the music. He was most gracious, and said he felt that my interpretation was perfectly appropriate (though not necessarily literally accurate, I'm sure).

And as an added bonus, I saw fascinating blue-purple light playing around the violinist and the other performers, and even dancing over the heads of the audience as they listened in what appeared to be hypnotic rapture.

Another highlight of the visit was a trip to the Detroit Zoo. The Zoo is located in a beautiful park, made even more glorious by the many trees in full color. The animals are placed in natural settings, where they have room to roam and play or simply bask in the sun. The park was decorated for Halloween, in honor of the many children visiting.

One of our most stunning stops was the Butterfly House, where these creatures flew and fluttered everywhere you turned. (I saw more butterflies here than I have in my entire previous life.) We took many photos of these elusive bits of colored light, but they are very unpredictable, and I at least got many shots of flowers or leaves where a butterfly had just been. I will not try to describe what we saw, but will let the above pictures give you some idea. (And I will put up some other zoo shots on a later post. Kundalini is the driving force of all of nature, and we witnessed a brilliant display here amongst these ethereal creatures as well as others more "down to earth".)

And, to top the visit off, Patricia gave me the gift of a massage from a close friend of hers, who is most gifted in this art.

I think Detroit is much underrated. The stereotype often associated with it doesn't do justice to the many delights it offers, especially when you are in the company of such amazing folk as Patricia and her welcoming husband Eddy.

(above photo from Patricia's website)

Tomorrow morning I will leave to go to Michigan for a visit with my dear friend Patrica Lay-Dorsey. As many of you know, she gave me (set up) this blog for my birthday present a few years ago. She has continued to nourish and encourage me in the time since.

I have often published her work (both written and visual) on this site. She is one of the most talented and remarkable people I have ever known. She is my model and inspiration, and I look forward eagerly to our visit together.

I will not be posting the blog for the next few days, but will return sometime next week. Have a glorious weekend, all.

Drenched

It is not enough
to think about god,
like that famed sculpture
of a naked man in deep
contemplation
of all things profound.

You must let go of
everything you
have supposed before,
all your assumptions
and presuppositions,
your notions
of what is real.

You must relinquish
your safe haven,
fall into the abyss
of no-space,
the deep chasm
of endless darkness
mingled with light.

You must become drenched
in the cataract of love,
which tears your limbs
one from another,
rips off your hair,
turns your heart
into an instrument
tuned to the fine
music of heaven's
notes.

Dorothy Walters
October 23, 2007

(image from source)

My Trident and Bell

I am willing
to go down.
I am willing to be
the mad saint
with matted hair,
the raving mystic
babbling of god.

I am ready to invite
Shiva
into my bed.

Soon I shall cover
my body with ashes,
put a mark on my forehead,
go into the streets
with my trident
and bell.

You will not
know me then.
You will wonder
who I am,
what I am saying,
what became of the person
who used to live
at my former address.

Dorothy Walters
October 23, 2007

Some Poets of our Time

They are craftsmen of a high order.
They use their instruments to carve
images of precision and exactitude
onto surfaces of fine glass and steel.

They delineate the inner stuff
of the stone, with its
immaculate durability,
the yielding softness
of the blossom opening
on the tender bough--
all with such skill,
such unassailable deftness,
that we ourselves become the stone,
the flower,
the flowing stream
rushing over the
luminous blue-glazed
bed.

They lead us into
all things tangible and named,
delight of discovery in
a defined universe.

They never talk of god.
The are afraid to mention
her name.
They fear that their
skulls might crack open,
thunder and lightning
rush in,
everything in tumult,
all order lost.

They wear tight helmets.
They do not violate the code.

Dorothy Walters
October 22, 2007

Fictions

The Buddhists tell us
how everything passes,
nothing is as it seems.

And so
we consider those
we have loved
and wonder where they
have gone,
swallowed into
that inky sea which surrounds
that island where we live.

What became of Miss Bottoms
the English teacher,
who was married to Wordsworth,
and explained with starlit eyes
that "the world is too much
with us. . . .getting and spending
we lay waste our powers."

And that daredevil boy
on his furious motorbike
his engine roaring
as if making an escape
or rushing to meet his lover,
hair waving in the wind,
scarf flowing behind.
Did he arrived at his destination,
the place he was so desperate to go?

Who was it drank
the last glass of wine
at the midnight gathering?
Who talked all through
the white night,
arguing the fine points
of politics and love?
Where are the hands
that awakened your heart,
held your hand
when you were afraid?

Dorothy Walters
October 16, 2007

Here are two poems from my friend Beth Reninger. Beth lives in Boulder where she writes poetry, teaches chi gong, performs acupuncture, and continues to sharpen her vast knowledge of ancient wisdom texts, particularly those in the Buddhist and yogic traditions. She has published one book of poems.

Deer

their steps are liquid
through air, delicate
as spring's first flower

their shy gaze darts
here and there, a quick
knowing deeper
than sight

in a loose
weave they travel, giving space
to trees and sky

like you the valley
grows gentle around them


Tryst

just as
the full moon slipped

into the arms of
that maple dressed in
Autumn's

best You
slipped into
me: a silver-white

softly spherical
brightness
clear and

sweet as
dawn yet
even more

mysterious -
yes

Copyright, Elizabeth Reninger

Sometimes, when we reflect on information about disturbing events going on around us in the "real world" and then feel powerless to stop them, we can easily fall into depression, and through our deep sadness, we may simply become part of the problem. Our great challenge at this crucial point is, I believe, to find ways to keep our spirits alive, to maintain connection with joy, even in the midst of suffering, and not turn away from the truth of either realm, light and shadow.

As the Silence Gathers

Be kind to yourself.
Sometimes the heart
does not want to sing,
but watch as the silence gathers
around the flower's head
like an aura seen by a mystic,
a rainbow floating up silently
on the horizon,
a drop of water holding its breath
as it waits to fall.

Dorothy Walters
October 17, 2007

Dance, when you're broken open.
Dance, if you've torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of the fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance, when you're perfectly free.

Rumi (tr. Coleman Barks)

Although we usually focus in this space on spiritual topics per se, today I am making a slight departure, first, to offer these moving words by Jan Coleman, who for years has been a friend to many and an invaluable source of significant information on what is going on in the world around us, particularly in the struggle to preserve democracy in our country.

Jan knows that the first step in becoming a "mystical activist," is to become aware of the reality of events which do indeed threaten our way of life in a most literal sense. Her message below is followed by an article by Naomi Wolf, who presents some chilling facts on how our society is shifting rapidly into something quite the contrary of what we imagine ourselves to be and what we would desire.

I think that the great challenge today is to allow ourselves to be aware, even when the knowledge we encounter is disturbing--and at the same time to maintain our sense of divine connection and joy, even as we confront the dark shadow which threatens. It is difficult to hold the two states of consciousness at the same time, but this capacity to entertain the opposites is essential if we are to survive, to know truth and to keep our spirits alive.

Here is Jan's letter;

Dear Friends,

Today is my birthday and each year I spend part of the day in reflection about the year past and the year to come. Today’s reflection brought me both yelps of joy and tears of deep sadness. At a deep level they are intertwined. The joy emanates from a decision I made this past week to give up my beautiful living space in Sausalito the end of November and venture out for a year—with little baggage and my portable computer/cell phone “office”—and follow my “listening” on whatever paths that beckon from that “hearing”. There is no doubt that I have been deeply inspired by the four young men of The Buried Life team www.theburiedlife.com with whom I am working who ask everyone they meet, “What do YOU want to do before you die?”

I have also been deeply affected by what I see happening in our country and the greater world. I have accepted the invitation to “down-size”—the invitation presented each time I ask myself such questions as “Do I need this? Could someone else be using this who really needs it? What is my “footprint” on the planet? What am I doing to foster positive change? What legacy am I leaving for my grandchildren? What actions am I taking that I might not want them to emulate?” With the questions comes the awareness of how much I wish to learn, how much there is for me to discover, how much I could be doing to be making a difference in others’ lives as well as my own.

The tears of sadness have come from the realization of the state of our nation and its position in the world. Yes, I know that Buddha would probably sit on the sidelines and know that there will be Enlightenment…but my heart and stomach are wrenching in sorrow and admitted frustration at what I see. Having worked closely with Holocaust victims in a previous chapter in my life, I am well aware of the likeness of what is happening in our country and their experiences in Germany—and I can’t seem to wipe out the ominous feeling that awareness produces within me.

So, today I wish to share the dynamic writing of Naomi Wolf in the following article I just received (thanks, Fred). With it I send my warmest wishes—

Jan

And here is Naomi Wolf's important article:

American Tears
by Naomi Wolf

http://www.commondreams.org/archive/2007/10/12/4502/


Published on Friday, October 12, 2007 by The Huffington Post



I wish people would stop breaking into tears when they talk to me these days.

I am traveling across the country at the moment — Colorado to California — speaking to groups of Americans from all walks of life about the assault on liberty and the 10 steps now underway in America to a violently closed society.

The good news is that Americans are already awake: I thought there would be resistance to or disbelief at this message of gathering darkness — but I am finding crowds of people who don’t need me to tell them to worry; they are already scared, already alert to the danger and entirely prepared to hear what the big picture might look like. To my great relief, Americans are smart and brave and they are unflinching in their readiness to hear the worst and take action. And they love their country.

But I can’t stand the stories I am hearing. I can’t stand to open my email these days. And wherever I go, it seems, at least once a day, someone very strong starts to cry while they are speaking.

In Boulder, two days ago, a rosy-cheeked thirtysomething mother of two small children, in soft yoga velours, started to tear up when she said to me: “I want to take action but I am so scared. I look at my kids and I am scared. How do you deal with fear? Is it safer for them if I act or stay quiet? I don’t want to get on a list.” In D.C., before that, a beefy, handsome civil servant, a government department head — probably a Republican — confides in a lowered voice that he is scared to sign the new ID requirement for all government employees, that exposes all his most personal information to the State — but he is scared not to sign it: “If I don’t, I lose my job, my house. It’s like the German National ID card,” he said quietly. This morning in Denver I talked for almost an hour to a brave, much-decorated high-level military man who is not only on the watch list for his criticism of the administration — his family is now on the list. His elderly mother is on the list. His teenage son is on the list. He has flown many dangerous combat missions over the course of his military career, but his voice cracks when he talks about the possibility that he is exposing his children to harassment.

Jim Spencer, a former columnist for the Denver Post who has been critical of the Bush administration, told me today that I could use his name: he is on the watch list. An attorney contacts me to say that she told her colleagues at the Justice Department not to torture a detainee; she says she then faced a criminal investigation, a professional referral, saw her emails deleted — and now she is on the watch list. I was told last night that a leader of Code Pink, the anti-war women’s action group, was refused entry to Canada. I hear from a tech guy who works for the airlines — again, probably a Republican — that once you are on the list you never get off. Someone else says that his friend opened his luggage to find a letter from the TSA saying that they did not appreciate his reading material. Before I go into the security lines, I find myself editing my possessions. In New York’s LaGuardia, I reluctantly foudd myself putting a hardcover copy of Tara McKelvey’s excellent Monstering, an expose of CIA interrogation practices, in a garbage can before I get in the security line; it is based on classified information. This morning at my hotel, before going to the sirport, I threw away a very nice black T-shirt that said “We Will Not be Silenced” — with an Arabic translation — that someone had given me, along with a copy of poems written by detainees at Guantanamo.

In my America we are not scared to get in line at the airport. In my America, we will not be silenced.

More times than I can count, courageous and confident men who are telling me about speaking up, but who are risking what they see as the possible loss of job, home or the ability to pay for grown kids’ schooling, start to choke up. Yesterday a woman in one gathering started to cry simply while talking about the degradation of her beloved country.

And always the questions: what do we do?

It is clear from this inundation of personal stories of abuse and retribution against ordinary Americans that a network of criminal behavior and intention is catching up more and more mainstream citizens in its grasp. It is clear that this is not democracy as usual — or even the corruption of democracy as usual. It is clear that we will need more drastic action than emails to Congress.

The people I am hearing from are conservatives and independents as well as progressives. The cardinal rule of a closing or closed society is that your alignment with the regime offers no protection; in a true police state no one is safe.

I read the news in a state of something like walking shock: seven soldiers wrote op-eds critical of the war — in The New York Times; three are dead, one shot in the head. A female soldier who was about to become a whistleblower, possibly about abuses involving taxpayers’ money: shot in the head. Pat Tillman, who was contemplating coming forward in a critique of the war: shot in the head. Donald Vance, a contractor himself, who blew the whistle on irregularities involving arms sales in Iraq — taken hostage FROM the U.S. Embassy BY U.S. soldiers and kept without recourse to a lawyer in a U.S. held-prison, abused and terrified for weeks — and scared to talk once he got home. Another whistleblower in Iraq, as reported in Vanity Fair: held in a trailer all night by armed contractors before being ejected from the country.

Last week contractors, immune from the rule of law, butchered 17 Iraqi civilians in cold blood. Congress mildly objected — and contractors today butcher two more innocent civilian Iraqi ladies — in cold blood.

It is clear yet that violent retribution, torture or maybe worse, seems to go right up this chain of command? Is it clear yet that these people are capable of anything? Is it obvious yet that criminals are at the helm of the nation and need to be not only ousted but held accountable for their crimes?

Is it treason yet?

This is an open invitation to honorable patriots on the Right and in the center to join this movement to restore the rule of law and confront this horror: this is not conservatism, it is a series of crimes against the nation and against the very essence of America. Join us, we need you.

This movement must transcend partisan lines. The power of individual conscience is profound when people start to wake up.

Former Deputy Attorney General James Comey said No: he told colleague that they would be ashamed when the world learned about the Administration’s warrantless wiretapping. Comey said No: history will look at this torture and disgrace the torturers. A judge today ruled that the U.S. can’t just ship prisoners out of Guantanamo to be tortured at will — she said No. The Center for Constitutional Rights is about to file a civil lawsuit — against Blackwater: they are saying No.

In Germany, according to historian Richard Evans, in 1931-1932, if enough Germans of conscience had begun to say No — history would have had an entirely diferent outcome.

If we go any further down this road the tears will be those of conservatives as well as progressives. They will be American tears.

The time for weeping has to stop; the time for confronting must begin.

Naomi Wolf’s books include The Beauty Myth and Fire With Fire: The New Female Power and How It Will Change The 21st Century.

Copyright © 2007 HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.

The Underside of Flowers

I declared my softness
and all soft things
saluted me:
the underside
of the asters
waiting to bloom,
the furry creature
scurrying across
the velvet floor
of the garden at midnight,
the bird circling above
calling,
join us, you will
like it here,
we swoop through air,
capering as we go,
cutting the sky
into soft wedges
of silence,
bits of quiet which fall
and enfold you into
stillness.

Dorothy Walters
October 12, 2007

The Stone Lion

Then I said,
I am hard,
impenetrable
as steel,
inflexible
as an old iron sword
soaked in water
and run
through fire,
something a spell
was cast on,
an ancient boat
hollowed from wood,
the stone lion
guarding the gate,
the look in an eye
that says, I won't,
not ever.

Dorothy Walters
October 12, 2007

Doris Lessing has just been awarded the Nobel Prize for literature. This 87-year old writer has been one of the major literary figures of the past and present centuries. An avid artist, she has been indefatigable in her endeavors, publishing countless novels to both acclaim and criticism (like most writers!)

I have followed Lessings's work and her life with great interest for many years. Lessing's early novel The Golden Notebook is acknowledged as a classic in what was then called "the women's liberation movement." Many readers found in it an inspiring example of women who chose to direct their own lives, make their own choices, even when these went against the social conventions of the time. (Today, these lives seem less than radical, and indeed, their life paths of independence and self direction are commonplace in today's world, at least in the West.) Lessing did not like to be identified as a "feminist" writer, protesting that she liked men and had known several quite well. (Many female writers of that period felt that it was a diminution of their status to be associated with the women's movement or seen primarily as a "woman writer").

Many male critics derided her efforts, apparently convinced that no work of fiction could be taken seriously which dealt with what later came to be called "women's issues" (the struggle for independent lives outside the confines of the set roles of wife and mother.)

Nonetheless, the feminists embraced her and made her one of their icons.

To me, her great work is the novel entitled "The Four-Gated City." Set in London in the era after WWII, it traces the life of the central character and the family she is associated with through a time of great social upheaval, complete with serious political protest and constant transformation. The novel depicts this time of unrest and change in impressive detail--anyone wishing to know what life was like on the larger scene at that time would do well to read it.

It is also a generational novel. The main character witnesses not only massive social change, but the innovations of thought and behavior of the coming generations. The personal in thus intimately bound with the political.

To me, one of the most interesting features of Doris Lessing is her interest in Sufism, an interest reflected in this book and elsewhere. At the beginning of Part Four of "City," she quotes a passage from Rumi pertaining to the evolution of the human mind/spirit, and then follows with this excerpt from the great Sufi master, Indries Shaw:

Sufis believe that. . .humanity is evolving toward a certain destiny. We are all taking part in that evolution. . . .The new human being's organism is producing a new complex of organs in response. . . .concerned with the transcending of time and space. What ordinary people regard as sporadic and occasional bursts of telepathic and prophetic power are seen by the Sufi as nothing less than the first stirrings of these same organs. So essential is this more rarefied evolution that our future depends on it.

In "City," Linda, a key character. already displays such powers. From childhood she had "heard other people's thoughts" inside her head, and also seen their auras. She long assumed that all people possessed the same capacity. When she grew up and began to speak of her experiences, she was sent to a psychiatrist who gave her drugs and even institutionalized her for awhile. Clearly, she was outside the bounds of what society at that time accepted as "normal." Ultimately, she returns home, much traumatized by her experience with the mental health profession. She chooses to live in the basement of the vast house and maintain her privacy against the world and its judgmental inhabitants.

At the end of the novel, a great holocaust has devastated the world, leaving only a few remnants of humanity scattered her and there. In one such colony, the "new children" display the kind of extrasensory talents that Linda had had so long ago. These young ones communicate with one another though telepathic means, and even have invented their own vocabulary for speaking aloud to one another.

Lessing is clearly pointing to a new age, a time when the unusual and abnormal would be accepted as the expected norm for all society.

Lessing was born in Persia (now Iran) and this may account for some of her interest in Sufism, which was, of course, prevalent in that part of the world. In any event, she is a writer ahead of her time in many ways, foreseeing changes that would occur as humanity labored toward its new identity.

She has even written about Sufism as such, but, when she spoke in San Francisco, she declined to answer questions about her personal belief system.

When I was teaching in a state university in Kansas, a group of devoted readers formed in an outlying community which called themselves "The Hutchinson (Kansas) Doris Lessing Fan Club." I think they would be pleased to know that she has received--finally--this highest accolade.

I once had the pleasure of seeing her being interviewed onstage. She is extremely witty--answering with pungent humor the various queries put to her. The English intellectuals are noted for their "dry wit" and she lived up to expectations.

I have watched her face age (in her portraits) through the years, from the black haired vibrant young writer to the age-marked wise woman she now is. She has been a great credit to her craft and well deserves this final honor, for she has been one of the most perceptive and far seeing witnesses to our time.

A Deeper Intensity

We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion.

T. S. Eliot

Yes, that's it . . .
a deeper intensity,
a going into
and beyond,
a discovery against which
the others pale,
the moment which carries us
into a realm
prefigured only
in our dreams.

And each return
brings new wonder,
unexpected delight,
exhilaration carried
to its furthest limit,
the life turning
on its own axis,
molecule linked to eternity.

Dorothy Walters
October 9, 2007

Travel in my palm

All the soothsayers
and astrologers
say I have travel
in my palm.

Yet I never
go anywhere
but here.

But this is where
it all takes place,
this going back and forth
between the realms.
Is this what they mean?

Dorothy Walters
September 19, 2007
Boulder, Colorado


Night after night

Make love your business.
Rumi

I have made love
my business
and where has it
gotten me?

Nothing I would
care to share
with listeners.

Only this being
alone
night after night
with the Beloved,
faint with kisses.
It never ends.

Dorothy Walters
September 19, 2007
Boulder, Colorado

Another Turning

On days like today
we wake and wonder
how we will manage
to enter this arriving hour,
another turning
of the familiar wheel.

Remembering Rilke,
we ask,
who among the heavenly choir
would hear us if we cry?

We rise and turn the furnace up
to take away the morning chill.

In the kitchen
we stir about a bit,
set the teakettle on the stove
and wait for its cheering note,
reminder that this, like any day,
will come but once,
its gifts subtle and clear,
locked in time,
our time,
here in this unlikely
sequence,
where we are
witness and field,
ourselves the momentary opening
between the worlds
of sun and mist.


Dorothy Walters
October 7, 2007

A Sheen of Silver

I do not know
whether to call you
my old dancer, or
my secret lover,
or maybe simply the One.

Like that bird who sang
outside my window
this morning,
was it an oriole or a robin
or some other,
more exotic strain. . . .
In the pale dawn
I couldn't tell for sure
as its song came
floating down
like a sheen of silver,
a proclamation of private joy,
as if it didn't care
what the rest of the world
thought of such insobriety,
whether or not we approved
of such unabashed display
in the midst of all
our concerns and worries.

And I listened content
though I still haven't
learned the names
of the many birds
or even the trees,
but then you don't have
to name things
in order to love them.

Dorothy Walters
October 6, 2007

Strawberries Ripe

Whatever you have done
in this world,
whether you carried
each day heavily,
like a plate of fish
on which
only the skeleton
and scales
remain,
bound for the discard
already
almost
before the meal has begun,
or whether
you awoke joyously,
crying,
yes, this is the day
the orchard is ready,
the strawberries
ripe for plucking--
whichever way
you greeted your life,
put on it your special stamp,
that day will remain forever,
part of the great mind,
the memory of
how it is
to live on this earth,
with its many
hollows and hills,
its constant rippling
up and down
across the changing surfaces,
carrying us always
to the next
destination,
another arrival.

Dorothy Walters
October 5, 2007

Dolphins Spinning

It's been a very long while,
but, yes, I did see them once,
the dolphins
spinning across our bow
off the coast of Florida
that day, so long ago.

And, for all I know,
they are still there,
welcoming the visitors,
circling the swimmers
in the water
like guides nudging
the water spirits home,
bringing their children
near the boat to show
that they too
are part of this world
of giving and breathing
and playing with seaweed
all day long,
its strands wreathing
their round faces
like necklaces
of the finest pearl,
like tokens of the grace
that comes to all of us
when we are there,
in that particular moment.

Dorothy Walters
October 5, 2007

The Visitors

Some let the angels
come into their houses
like guests dropping by
for a visit,
some keep the door
locked against unwelcome intruders,
all windows tightly closed.

I say, let them come
in through every opening
and aperture,
with wings spread wide
in billowing light,
faces radiant with love,
chanting their hymns
of transcendence and joy.

Let us listen
in full attention,
lifting our eyes
now and again
to behold, briefly,
such bewildering beauty,
dazzled by revelation.

And, when they leave,
let us savor
that scent which lingers,
the single feather
we clasp in our hand.

Dorothy Walters
October 3, 2007

When the light

I do not know
what to think
when the light
goes into the dark,
and the angels
withdraw
into their clouds of veil.

Alone, we wake
and wonder
what we have done
to deserve such
penalty,
what sins
of omission
or act
we have committed
in our stumbling lives.

Outside,
the wind
is picking up.
Down on the shore,
the waves are restless,
spray fretting against the rocks.
Something is stirring
all around.
Change is in the air.

Dorothy Walters
October 3, 2007
.