Posted May 28, 2020 in News Articles
In our continued Mindful Poetry Gatherings, we contemplated and responded to David Whyte's poem "Everything is Waiting for You." Which was our first Mindful Poetry selection when the program started in 2019. Stacy Sims led us in a meditation and Eddie Gonzalez of The On Being Project facilitated the discussion and response. You can find the recorded session above, as well as the chat text here. We will continue to gather the last Wednesday of the Month at 3pm (est). For more information go here.
Community Response Poems
it is always co-conspiracy
by troy bronsink
myself again, this weekends
weating in the back yard, with 22 of 28 fence post holes dug
alone with an orange two-man gas-powered auger
who was asking forgiveness, for not
the echoing enough-ness
took us both by surprise
we winked, the orange rented auger and I,
realizing the moment for what it was
a body of ground
with its roots and stone conspiring to remind us
that it is always co-conspiracy.
upon returning him,
showering, washing my hair, and resting my sore back,
I find myself back inside
the orange washy tape holding eight-and-an-half-by-eleven white sheets to the white office wall
inviting me, like perforated dotted lines in a manila coloring book, to
slowly tear open
this wall enclosing our conditioned air,
helped by the swingline staple remover
with her bared snarl,
shaking off the inner look of
“we could break out any time”
and just doing it.
by Lauren Sharpe
from a wedding
on a lake in Guatemala,
magic carpets in miniature.
Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward
gazing at one another on the wall.
A page torn from an old Rolling Stone
reminding me how to love
using only my eyes.
The tip of the pen is my secret self,
my round kitchen table, a life raft.
To propagate this plant,
wait until you see
a tiny button. Cut it quickly.
Give it to a friend on the street,
the one you know is looking
for ways to brighten the corners.
It’s for you.
Negative space can be as interesting as positive space in a painting
by Deb Daniel
I fill your vacant shape at the kitchen table
With words cut out from magazines and Chinese fortune cookies,
The busyness and sounds of birds,
The smell of Murphy's lemon oil on a scrubbed floor,
The scratchy warmth of your old sweater.
I am home
by Mahip Rathore
When I look at my home seeing the objects I have created and collected in the last few years, I find myself in memory lanes of experiences.
But when I see the last line of this poem- “Everything is waiting for you”,
I find myself back in India 7 years ago.
Listening to songs by Frank Sinatra about New York and Chicago.
Songs that I hadn’t heard before. About places I hadn’t been before.
Something about those times; the times before I was born pulls me back.
Something tells me that I have been here before; heard these songs before; read these books before; lived a whole life before.
And that very thing is waiting for me to come back; to come home.
Please. I forgive you. Thank you. I love you.
by Stacy Sims
Please forgive me Elena Ferrante, Homer and Ta-Nehisi Coates.
I have spurned you for mysteries and the true crime of true crime.
I forgive you broken ankle bracelet, saggy curtains and dead orchid #72
for not holding up your end of the beauty bargain.
Thank you wooden fence, incense and Tibetan bowls
for wrapping and mapping my present moment.
I love you Buddha, origami dollar and ceramic white dove
for assembling as a quiet shrine to the memory of my mother.
For My Social Fabric Weavings
by Geralyn Hoxsey Sparough
Please forgive me for making you wait so long to come into being
Thank you for weaving me into the fabric
of so many different kinds of characters -
Young, old, male, female, non-binary and more,
human and not
I forgive you for not easily fitting into a category or a box or a description
You ended up being too big to condense
I love you for becoming something more
than just my idea lived with
for so many years
I love you for your simplicity that creates
connection within, between, and among the hundreds, thousands,
maybe millions of weavers
the ones who bear the weight of their experience
the ones who bare their souls
in search of
in longing for
in surrender to
the everyday divine
by Sarah Pinho
Thank you, elegant silver bowl, for being there, small but somehow majestic, quiet, dignified. You contain multitudes, you evoke an ancient, carefree, assertive aunt. You tell me my mother, her, she. You speak of times long ago, of Mitchells, of Mexico, of gentility from which I'm so disconnected, of old America. You make me wonder how much atrocity runs in my veins. You bring me connectedness to Unitarians, to ritual, to candle lighting, to candle extinguishing, to the word chalice, the meaning of which I'm still not quite certain. Thank you. But also, what have you contained over the years? Red apples look worthy of you, perhaps green peppers. Round, firm fruits of the land, brightly colored, bananas, mango, grapes, the stuff of still lifes, the art of "Art and Appetite," an incredible exhibition captured in the coffee table book upon which my eyes now rest. You have seen so many years. Here you are, now. Elegant, majestic, small, still.