Fresh Pressed

Fresh Pressed

the light of hidden flowers
shines in me
like fresh pressed juice.

I see me, as a lover would.

I move in the kitchen
agitated, drinking coffee,
alone.

I see me move out to feed the birds
glad for the job their hunger gave me.

I love me this way
carrying a hidden light
I can see me when I'm still enough.



prompted by lines from Neruda
this poem grew deeper roots in process.
i'm drinking it in, simplified all the way from a marketplace in Peru, through a woman's moonlit heart, a most touching shared prayer to my own fresh pressed light body.

incantations

the sounds of color
the taste of shapes
fitting, touching,
leaving space
to reverberate
the incanted rose, peach, red orange.

hunger teacher
joy opener
i'm in heaven
ticking God's accounts
at Safeway.
pleasure seekers find what they seek
everywhere
everyday.

only open to that first morning breath
and it begins again…

courageous mother
cauldron keeper
eternal weaver
riding the night into the moon
endless pearls falling from the broken mala,
past devotions become present wonder,
pulsing
strong.




prompted by a poem honoring anne sexton by erica jong and the rest of my life.

home fires

not one of a kind
woman is all of one kind
hearts blazing in truth
lighting fires in every home
the daughters pick up on the heat
the sons stand in awe, eyes down
but hearts beating whispering
yes!
stand up speak up
you are right
in defense of life
no boychild would follow a father's footsteps
where feet had not been scorched by the lie
thousands upon thousands upon thousands
women walk forward as one whole
whispering imagination to the leaves
the daughters learning the language by listening
by loving
the trees respond
this song of women together
women together
that is the fruit, the harvest.

how to stop the trafficking
the greed
the wars?

keep singing
connect the threads
the web of light grows stronger
men who were boys know the song
they begin to hear its whisper
at work
in the factory
in the machine
it keeps them up at night
whispering to their imaginations
that they are trees, too.

soon they step out under the moon
alone and safe
knowing what is right
they give themselves permission
to recreate the world into a safe home for all.


#WritingRaw
prompted by Passion (1980)
and by Directed by Desire. The Collected Poems of June Jordan.

burning bright

You’ve a center


that is unshakably sweet -


that has infinite energy


to weave turmoil


into wine.


Guthema Roba

the snow carpet lays me down


the threads arrive


from here and there


i am the center of the see saw


churning into sweet butter


all that comes 

from right and left.

i offer myself


on the altar of truth


easing easy


into ghee


burning bright


less smoke


less and less smoke........

bh

taboo

taboo

i found a taboo
against taking
against taking inspiration and running with it
to see where it would take me.

others' words woven so skillfully
- the official writer's words
sacrosanct -
were given a new life
in a writing raw circle.

they were taken
and taken in.

how silly to fear inspiration,
that it could be likened to plagiarism,
the great writer's offense.

imagine receiving Hafiz' kiss
or sharing his glass of wine
and keeping my mouth shut
and my eyes closed
so no one could know
it lived in me,
blooming,
or in you, too.

paused

paused
the gentle wind of breath
enters my body
and stirs me to recognize
the quiet entry
the easy opening.

there are other winds, in mind
stirring me to a stress filled action
taking me for a ride.

the wind that blew in with the rain today
blew through me
clearing my vision
to feel the oncoming shift
from warm sun
to falling rain.

something is stirred in me
all these changes
day after day
after day
of diving deep and strong
prompted by the gentlest sound
of a woman's sob
of a woman's poetry
of my own words
rising
again and again
from the ever clearing unfolding.


inspired by words of Cecil Collins
"it is the most gentle wind that stirs the deepest feeling."

moon-shined and belly laughing

I feel I can be heard underwater
my wild heart language
rises from under the sea
reverberating like sonar
its powerful song.

this never before heard
powerfilled
lovefilled
no doubt about it
woman's voice
picks up the beat of the forever song
of all women.

what a woman feels must be heard
sooner
rather than later.

now is a good place to begin, singing
singing the soul of woman
divine
dark
raw
awakening
moon-shined and belly laughing.


inspired by words of Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes

reading the leaves

Reading the leaves
(inspired by words of another poet, Cecil Collins)

everything is speaking
to one another
grasses listening
clouds reading the leaves
it's a joy filled tone poem.

I can feel it, too
my words are taking on the form
all this has given and received
for ever and ever.

bones hear the wind
on its way down the hollow
to read the leaves
to dance their message
through our hearts.

my heart bursts to hear the color of this language.
what a song!

time out

ripe with joy
to feel the paradox
the doorway itself
writing about writing
writing about not writing
this is writing
ripping holes in the night of not yet,
of not enough,
of doubt.

my sun
my life
living experience
celebrating the path
writing now of then is no longer a caution sign,
entering through that moment
to reveal this one
to revel in this one
not separate
then or now.

write as it comes
just begin
it's time
it's time to express the gift of time out.



october 23, 2014
new moon in scorpio

inspired by life and some potent words in Rita Mae Brown's poem, Muse.

inside out

with "just" a few sentences
Neruda turned me inside out,

shining from deep within
the heart's fire blazes in the center

cooly reflected on the windows of my moon eyes,
the night's moisture rests on my dewy lips.

retreat

the women retreat so deep within themselves
that their gaze itself is the path you wish to follow,
back to your true self, as man.

through woman again you will arrive in the world anew.
woman's gaze from within her center
is a golden pathway to what is real and true -
beyond the news of the world's play and warfare and latest sale.

take this path, woman, let the papers bleach on the doorstep.
find your way home so they can find theirs.

oh, who could have guessed what your gaze promised,
who could have guessed?














thanks to Sally Croft for the inspiring prompt of 'newspapers bleaching on the doorstep.'

here

yes, it is like that
when stillness arrives
soaking
merging into my trunk
it is like it has found me
it's a joyful reunion
always a surprise!

it can happen stepping into the woods
it can happen sitting on the root above the stream
it can happen in the parking lot or the grocery store
here is where it always happens

here
we all are this "here"
we are this hereing

this hearing being listening rejoicing
it's a ripple response a ripple effect
tickling the heart awake to each tree each branch
each other.

it is how we know we're here.
where ever we are
where ever here is
freed in the stillness, to fly,
one heart to another.



inspired by a poem by David Whyte

a call to temple

yes, i carry it with me
this temple I Am
like a pup tent I carry in my pocket
the call to temple
can be received at any time!

the earth - the wooded forest - the mountain alm
always ready for the temple bell,
for the tent to be set.

it is the nature of women to understand this,
and men,
like John Muir.




inspired by the pup tent temple in a poem by amy ozarow oscar

Peony Practice 101

 

womb feels drenched
filling with blood
(and I am way beyond my bleeding years.....)
softening.

The practice
is to bring attention to the inside
as the breath.

may I be one with the breath
without expectation
may I feel what is there
where breath touches.

 I feel ready 
to find my way
 in.

I follow the sound of hreem
through the dark
seeing women's faces 
saturated in a hunger that has turned to ugliness
feeling ages of wombs 
being used from the outside.


Breath touches the womb 
of a 6 year old, 
of a mother of three 
of a sensual woman.

Longing for more of Her Touch.

Patient Peony Practice.....
patiently practicing being peony



all the kitchen drawers and cabinet doors are hanging open, 
a sure sign I am softening 
keeping constant order seems not to matter any longer. 


Peony Practice is a practice re-created and shared by Chameli Ardagh, www.awakeningwomen.com