i don’t believe in things-
or people,
but mostly people-
until it happens to me,
or they upon me-
and i fall prey to
what i pray for
and it finds me
long after i’ve stopped looking for it
to do so.
long after the prayer ended
and the faith vacated
my dreams
where i last heard the voice whisper
into me
under my skin
within places
that even i forget exist…
like echos in the halls
like whispers in the night
like the tap on the glass
of the branches in the breeze…
and then morning comes.
the birds sing at my impatience.
spring, like all things new,
wonders why I couldn’t wait through winter,
why I couldn’t surrender to the cold death of things-
things that have to die old
so that they can be born new.
the sun shines through the window
and illuminates where i am
because i couldn’t wait to get
where i wanted to go-
it’s so quiet in the space
of without
that you can hear
faintly in the distance
the whisper of
where I Am within,
and perhaps linger there in the hush.


  1. #1 by SalvaVenia on May 18, 2014 - 2:13 am

    This is astounding, really. Sometimes your writing reflects a glimpse of knowledge, nay, awareness of knowledge might be the better term, that is rather hidden and inapproachable. Did you ever had a stint with mystic, if I may ask?

  2. #2 by foundedna on May 18, 2014 - 5:29 am

    With a mystic, or as a mystic? Either way, no. you are correct in the awareness part- i am aware of the knowledge, i possess the knowledge- we all do- but, you are also correct that it remains as glimpses. A glimpse. and what i want my dear friend, is sight. clarity. show it to me…a voice whispers in my head just now at the end of that thought, “and it does”. THAT is the mystic, i suppose. So maybe the mystic is with me, or is me. the voice just whispers, “yes.”

    we are always in our own way i think and writing is where i move out of the way and take my place. i think sometimes in my blogs and not my poetry, you can see that struggle clearly. how i start lost and then eventually let that glimpse, glimpse me instead. how it pushes me out of the way. but poetry, when prose takes me and the rhythm starts to march in my head…i just surrender and the moving over, moving out of the way, becomes THE way and we do a little dance…then she leaves me spinning on the floor…as if i had closed my eyes and when i opened them again, it was just me, twirling aimlessly and lovingly on the ballroom of my soul.

    and yet…
    hidden and unapproachable.

    when i first started to reply to this i thought, YES! unapproachable! but i don’t know if that fits. finicky perhaps, but upon sitting down to write to you and process the thoughts that you evoke in me, which i am eternally grateful for, i realize that it is often i who remain unapproachable and knowledge patiently taps on my door. is it hidden…yes, but it is not hiding. do you believe in the ego Salva? that part of us that is conditioned to protect the imagined weaker parts of us and project the made up and expected parts of us? the part of us that exists nowhere but in our mind and yet, is everywhere in our lives….like a little magnet, attracting the made up story life of us? the ego hides that knowledge.
    humility is perfection.
    how i want to stop at that thought…
    you my friend are a mystic in your own right…and this moment, that statement, IS mystical. a silent epiphany brought on by a stranger, whose soul knows mine.
    thank you.

  3. #3 by John Thursday on June 16, 2014 - 6:29 pm

    “And I fall prey to
    What I pray for”

    I love this play of words. great piece.


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