“Connections”
A bomb drops
On the northern rim of Iraq
Its devastation reverberating
Near and far
Around and beyond.
A two-year old child of Isis
In the wrong place at the wrong time
Lies cradled in the arms
Of his wailing mother
While I sit weeping in my chair
On another rim of the circle
Wondering what to do.
Get out of the chair.
© rita h kowats 9-29-14
© rita h kowats 2014
Phot Credit: Linda Roddis used with permission
The Invitation
I see you across the river.
Your massive wings catching the wind’s draft
Beckon me into the fray- I thought.
Your invitation is lost in the miasma
of my pugnacious fear.
The river pulls me toward my destiny
every step across the ford fraught
with illusions of empire.
The Fray
You stand stalwart in shinning sheen
that sets off sparks of fused energy
wherever it touches me.
Thrust and lunge pass and punt
around and under over and through
I wrestle in dusk then dark
demanding the blessing of blissful sovereignty
until I break with the dawning of new day.
Surrender
I wake from the stupor of exhaustion
Supine and cradled in your protective wings.
Blessed with the chrism of your love
I rest in embryonic innocence
Face to Face
Free of fear.
© rita h kowats 2014
Photo Credit:
A “SoulCard” by Deborah Koff-Chapin. The technique Deborah has created is called “touch drawing.” The cards come in two decks of 60 images and can be used alone or with others as reflection tools. They have enriched my meditation for years and have helped those I companion with. You can learn more at Deborah’s webpage www.soulcards.com
Used with permission from the artist.
I heard the sabers rattling
In digital space last night,
The same sabers I heard in ’90 and ’03.
The bladesmiths deftly forged their words
Hard as metal and plunged
Them into the furnace of fear
To be shaped and tempered into the fine point
That is called war.
Today I listen for the words
Of prophets rising above the din of sabers,
Their words clear and clean and true
Forged in the furnace of their souls
Shaped and honed by a justice
Crafted with eyes wide open.
I summon the prophet
Who lives in the furnace of my own soul:
WAKE UP.
Walking along the Interurban Trail near Seattle I was lured into the center of this copse as if pulled by a powerful invitation to be at home. In that moment I felt an affinity with nature on a level not often felt before. The copse became a safe hearth and for the moment cares melted in its fire.
Spirituality Without Borders: Reflections on Spiritual Practice 