Monthly Archives: July 2012

Regarding Letting Go of Outcome…..

If you are truly in the present – you’re already in the outcome. 

– Raiana

courtesy of flickr.com

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Random Thought Regarding Patience…

If you are truly living in the present moment – and I mean truly in the present moment – is there even such a thing as patience? 

Raiana

courtesy of omtimes.com

The Panther…..

thebeckoning.com

His glance, worn by the passing of the bars

has grown so weary it has lost its hold

It seems to him there are a thousand bars

and then behind a thousand bars  no world.

The soft gait of the supple, forceful paces

revolving on a circle almost nil

is like a dance of power that embraces

a core containing, dazed, a mighty will.

Rarely the pupil’s curtain, soundlessly, is raised

and then an image enters him

goes through the silent tension of the limbs

and in his heart ceases to be.

(Author Unknown – )

I love this poem.  I feel the potential in the images.  What might be beyond the cages I’ve constructed in my mind and the latent or dormant power I have to open the door…….

Holding Our Soul’s Breath…..

courtesy of whalewriter.wordpress.com

I think when we sigh we are like whales….

Expelling a tightly held breath

under the weight of the sea,

of captured dreams

locked in our vaults at the bottom of an ocean of conformity….

And you see – we can’t hold our soul’s breath that long

The length of a lifetime repressed…

We need to come up for air

Or we die –

(Raiana Golden, 2007, all rights reserved)

Get Your Bliss On!……..

What if we could all greet the day with this much exuberance?

courtesy of John Boyd

What I Dreamed Without Eyes…

………..are images

 of deserted night time beaches, crested waves………illuminated

               from within –

 Echoed breaking

 Tangled wet bodies

 Traces of net

 Dive

         Deeply

 Unfathomable, violet oceans

 Lightness of being

 Waves sinking into the sand

 No barriers between them

               While receding

                                              Again –

(Raiana Golden 2012 – all rights reserved)

The Dream of a Common Language….

This is one of my most favorite poem…….

ORIGINS AND HISTORY OF CONSIOUSNESS by   Adrienne Rich

 Night life.  letters, journals, bourbon

sloshed in the glass.  Poems crucified on the wall,

dissected, their bird wings severed

like trophies.  No one lives in this room

without living through some kind of crisis.

 No one lives in this room

without confronting the whiteness of the wall

behind the poems, planks of books,

photographs of dead heroines.

Without contemplating last and late

the true nature of poetry.  The drive

to connect.  The dream of a common language.

 

Thinking of lovers, their blind faith, their

experienced crucifixions,

my envy is not simple.  I have dreamed of going to bed

as walking into clear water ringed by a snowy wood

white as cold sheets, thinking, I’ll freeze in there.

My bare feet are numbed already by the snow

but the water

is mild, I sink and float

like a warm amphibious animal

that has broken the net, has run

through fields of snow leaving no print;

this water washes off the scent-

You are clear now

of the hunter, the trapper

the wardens of the mind-

 yet the warm animal dreams on

of another animal

swimming under the snow flecked surface of the pool,

and wakes, and sleeps again.

 No one sleeps in this room without

the dream of a common language.

It was simple to meet you, simple to take your eyes

into mine, saying:  these are eyes I have known

from the first….It was simple to touch you

against the hacked background, the grain of what we

had been, the choices, years….It was even simple

to take each other’s lives in our hands, as bodies.

 What is not simple:  to wake from drowning

from where the ocean beat inside us like an afterbirth

into this common, acute particularity-

these two selves who walked half a lifetime untouching-

to wake to something deceptively simple:  a glass

sweated with dew, a ring of the telephone, a scream

of someone beaten up far down in the street

causing each of us to listen to our own inward scream.

 Knowing the mind of the mugger and the mugged

as any person must who stands to survive this city,

this century, this life…

each of us having loved the flesh in its clenched or loosened beauty

better than trees or music (yet loving those too

as if they were flesh – and they are – but the flesh

of beings unfathomed as yet in our roughly literal life.)

 it’s simple to wake from sleep with a stranger,

dress, go out, drink coffee,

enter a life again.  It isn’t simple

to wake from sleep into the neighborhood

of one neither strange nor familiar

whom we have chosen to trust.  Trusting, untrusting,

we lower ourselves into this, let ourselves

downward hand over hand as on a rope that quivered

over the unsearched…..We did this.  Conceived

of each other, conceived each other in a darkness

which I remember as drenched in light

                         I want to call this, life.

 But I can’t call it life until we start to move

beyond this secret circle of fire

where our bodies are giant shadows flung on a wall

where the night becomes our inner darkness, and sleeps

like a dumb beast, head on her paws, in the corner