Poetry & Resources
from Everyday Radiance

1. 

One

By Heidi Rose Robbins

 

One (intimate) glance can open something long

closed

within us.

One (full) breath can ease

an ancient fear.

One (tender) touch can soothe unspeakable

pain.

One (loving) word can soften

the armored heart.

One (radical) thought can spark unfathomable

daring.

One (courageous) step can change forever the

course of a life.

 

2.

It Is I Who Must Begin

By Václav Havel 

​

It is I who must begin.

Once I begin, once I try —

here and now,

right where I am,

not excusing myself

by saying things

would be easier elsewhere,

without grand speeches and

ostentatious gestures,

but all the more persistently

— to live in harmony

with the “voice of Being,” as I

understand it within myself

— as soon as I begin that,

I suddenly discover,

to my surprise, that

I am neither the only one,

nor the first,

nor the most important one

to have set out

upon that road.

Whether all is really lost

or not depends entirely on

whether or not I am lost.

​
 

3.

Morning Light

By Heidi Rose Robbins

 

The early hour.

The scent of something past.

The growing light in the sky.

The wisp of cloud.

The crispness of morning.

The chisel of mountain top.

The rawness of my heart.

The whisper of the possible.

The ripening of the orange grove.

The stillness that softens.

The bowl of tea.

The new face in the mirror.

 

4.

Slower Still

By Heidi Rose Robbins

 

In this 

Mad rush

World,

 

We are gifted

Two words.

Two

Little

Words.

 

I will whisper them

To you.

 

Slower still.

 

Slower still,

My loves.

 

The sun wants

To linger

On our skin.

 

Our bodies

Want rest.

 

Our breath?

Slower still.

 

Our heart beat?

Slower still.

 

Let us lie down

Upon the earth.

 

The whole 

Of the beautiful world

Has something to say

But certain languages

Are only heard here.

 

Slower still.

 

The trees know

When we have

Fully surrendered.

Only then will they

converse.

 

Slower still,

My loves.

 

The press of time

Holds no sway

here.

 

Let time pass.

It will pass.

It passes.

 

But this

Cradled

Nowness

Lives.

 

5.

Notes from My Father’s Talk

By Heidi Rose Robbins

 

Let everything good increase in me.

Let me be teachable and live a life pledged to the Path of Love.

May I be a steady beacon of light.

At least, let me be useful.

How can I best serve?

There is no time to lose and still I need not rush.

 

6. 

Blessing of Breathing

by Jan Richardson

 

That the first breath will come without fear.

That the second breath will come without pain.

The third breath: that it will come without despair.

And the fourth, without anxiety.

That the fifth breath will come with no bitterness.

That the sixth breath will come for joy.

Breath seven: that it will come for love.

May the eighth breath come for freedom.

And the ninth, for delight.

When the tenth breath comes, may it be for us

to breathe together, and the next, and the next,

until our breathing is as one,

until our breathing is no more.

 

7.

What to Do with Sadness

by Heidi Rose Robbins

 

When sadness lingers,

When loneliness creeps in to sit beside you

And will not leave,

When you can no longer feel a spark of joy

In even a hidden corner,

Find something,

Anything

That is burning--

A star

A porch lamp

A candle on the table.

Then, imagine that light

At the center of your heart

And remember

You are molten love.

The only thing to do

With sadness

Is to introduce it to

Indestructible Beauty--

To the flame

Of love

Present in every

Living thing.

Start with a

Morning glory

Or a sparrow.

Start with the

Spirited eyes

Of the woman

Who serves you

Coffee.

Start with a poem.

 

Say,

Sadness meet cherry blossom.

Despair meet the Ninth Symphony.

Grief meet the eyes of a child.

And then,

Be very, very quiet,

Take a few deep breaths,

And let them converse for a time.

 

8.

You are a Poem

By Heidi Rose Robbins

 

You

Are a poem.

Your birth,

A captured moment

Of the mystery.

Your intricate design,

A gift of planets

Dancing.

 

You 

Are a poem.

Each part of you

Specifically chosen

To be read aloud,

Into the world,

Born to unfurl

Your vibrant freedom.

 

A map of the heavens

Illumined through your song,

Your invitation, 

Ever and always,

To follow that map,

Walk in love,

Live the poetry

You are.

 

9.

Altars

By Heidi Rose Robbins

 

Make of your day an altar

And with great care

Place what you wish to honor

At its center.

 

Make of your day an altar 

and give it 

the flower of your attention

The fullness of your presence.

 

Make this day an altar

Offer you love

To its hurried minutes

And pressing hours.

 

Make of this day

A living altar.

Feel the blessing 

It bestows upon you.

Stand before it 

Ready to begin.

 

10.

Blessing the Body

By Jan Richardson

 

This blessing takes

one look at you

and all it can say is

holy.

Holy hands.

Holy face.

Holy feet.

Holy everything

in between.

Holy even in pain.

Holy even when weary.

In brokenness, holy.

In shame, holy still.

Holy in delight.

Holy in distress.

Holy when being born.

Holy when we lay it down

at the hour of our death.

So, friend,

open your eyes

(holy eyes).

For one moment

see what this blessing sees,

this blessing that knows

how you have been formed

and knit together

in wonder and

in love.

Welcome this blessing

that folds its hands

in prayer

when it meets you;

receive this blessing

that wants to kneel

in reverence

before you:

you who are

temple,

sanctuary,

home for God

in this world.

 

11.

Out of a Great Need

By Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky

 

Out

Of a great need

We are all holding hands And climbing.

Not loving is a letting go. Listen,

The terrain around here Is

Far too Dangerous

For

That.

 

12.

The Swan 

By Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Robert Bly

 

This clumsy living that moves lumbering

as if in ropes through what is not done,

reminds us of the awkward way the swan walks.

And to die, which is the letting go

of the ground we stand on and cling to every day,

is like the swan, when he nervously lets himself down into the water, which receives him gaily

and which flows joyfully under

and after him, wave after wave,

while the swan, unmoving and marvelously calm,

is pleased to be carried, each moment more fully grown, more like a king, further and further on.

 

13.

I Want to Tell You

By Heidi Rose Robbins

 

I want to tell you that I speak of light

because my body often

feels like a hard, knotted thing,

I sing of love

because caution caught in my throat

thirty years ago and I’m still trying to

spit it out.

I want to tell you

I feel raw

when I speak what is

closest to my heart,

that I look for a jaded disguise,

that who I love, what I love and how I love

make me tremble.

I want to tell you

that some days

I wear darkness like a cool leather jacket,

feel its weight, its protection, its belonging.

But more days, I want to strip,

letting illusion fall around my feet

and stand witnessed as a body.

I want to tell you that I am tired.

But I am willing.

I want to tell you that sometimes

the right words

scrawled on a page

save my life.

 

14.

Love Sorrow

By Mary Oliver

 

Love sorrow. She is yours now, and you must

take care of what has been

given. Brush her hair, help her

into her little coat, hold her hand,

especially when crossing a street. For, think,

 

what if you should lose her? Then you would be

sorrow yourself; her drawn face, her sleeplessness

would be yours. Take care, touch

her forehead that she feel herself not so

 

utterly alone. And smile, that she does not

altogether forget the world before the lesson.

Have patience in abundance. And do not

ever lie or ever leave her even for a moment

 

by herself, which is to say, possibly, again,

abandoned. She is strange, mute, difficult,

sometimes unmanageable but, remember, she is a child.

And amazing things can happen. And you may see,

 

as the two of you go

walking together in the morning light, how

little by little she relaxes; she looks about her;

she begins to grow.

 

15.

Freedom Yet To Find

by Heidi Rose Robbins

 

If there’s a shred, ounce

scrap, swath, field

of freedom yet to find --

 

set me on that course,

put me on that plane

 

(though fear of flight 

reduces me 

to quivering flesh).

 

I will board

lunge from boredom

assume make shift wings

say farewell to what’s known--

invite 

the impossible,

the implausible

the improbable.

 

If there’s a pool, galaxy,

snippet, cup

of freedom yet to find

 

Bring it to my lips

let me drink

though I may shrink,

stumble 

or disappear,

 

I will consume

what scares me

and know

 

the magic of peacock

who gobbles 

red ant poison

but walks unscathed

as beauty.

 

What is known is always knocking.

You do not have to answer.

Fling open the back door 

to the YES

of unspeakable light

and boundless time.

 

The invitation ever exists--

if there is a hint,

whiff, touch,

whisper of freedom

left to find

 

Ready your ship

Let the winds blow

Refuse the map of

discovered worlds.

 

Let love be your compass.

Set sail.

 

16.

The Quivering

By Heidi Rose Robbins

 

If we but make friends

with the quivering,

the subtle and not so subtle shaking of the body

and all its parts,

letting go

of what we’ve held onto long enough,

If we but soften our grasp

on who we have always been,

to make room for

what can be

knowing not

what may appear,

knowing only

the quivering,

(And I ask,

Is not some part of us always dying?)

(And I ask,

Are we not everyday in some small way reborn?)

Then, just as the

wild animal shakes off the fear of attack, we too can

shake

off the fears that want to eat us whole.

 

We can walk

barefoot in the woods with a quiver of arrows,

cautious of what

still wants to ensnare us, but alive with the

light emanating

from our newly

trodden path.

Are we not path makers? So we are.

Are we not path finders? So we are.

Do arrows not quiver

before they are loosed into the world? Then so must

we.

Finally,

we are archer and arrow at once

sprung into the wind carried swiftly,

silently,

precisely

to our

very

heart,

pierced and present.

 

17.

I Can No Longer Be Contained

By Heidi Rose Robbins

 

I can no longer be contained.

I’m busting out like a storm.

I’m the weather baby

and it’s okay 

to rearrange

shake it up

rain it down

like a torrent

like a lightning strike,

sweet spring rain.

 

I can no longer be contained,

because I am breathing now

all the way down to the belly 

of who I am

and I am tired of constraint

of holding myself back

tied up

tied down

wrapped in doubt,

 

Retraction

Contraction

Subtraction.

 

I am pacing like a pregnant rhino

and I’ve been pregnant for a long time.

 

It’s birth time baby.

It’s the season of birth.

 

I am a woman in my prime,

like a number that cannot be divided.

 

It’s time to own it,

Full out time to

 

unfurl,

uncurl,

dance it out

dance it in

love.

 

I can’t stand still.

Don’t want to.

It’s not about composure.

It’s about composing.

 

I am breathing now 

and speaking now

and my throat has become a 

tunnel of love,

 

Can’t stop the truth,

it’s pouring out

And the truth is beauty

but sometimes hard to hear

because we are used to our complaint.

We are married to our fear.

 

We are enmeshed in our anger.

 

And that’s life, right?

It’s all good until we are tired of

what defines us,

what confines us.

 

It’s all good until we want something more that

doesn’t contain us, 

that doesn’t constrain us.

 

I am pacing like a wild thing

who is hungry for her natural habitat.

It’s where it’s at.

It’s calling me now.

lush and green

and howling and free.

 

Free to be. you got it,

Free to be me.

 

18.

Sometimes a Wild God

By Tom Hirons

 

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.

He is awkward and does not know the ways

Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.

His voice makes vinegar from wine.

 

When the wild god arrives at the door,

You will probably fear him.

He reminds you of something dark

That you might have dreamt,

Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.

 

He will not ring the doorbell;

Instead he scrapes with his fingers

Leaving blood on the paintwork,

Though primroses grow

In circles round his feet.

 

You do not want to let him in.

You are very busy.

It is late, or early, and besides…

You cannot look at him straight

Because he makes you want to cry.

 

Your dog barks;

The wild god smiles.

He holds out his hand and

The dog licks his wounds,

Then leads him inside.

 

The wild god stands in your kitchen.

Ivy is taking over your sideboard;

Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades

And wrens have begun to sing

An old song in the mouth of your kettle.

 

‘I haven’t much,’ you say

And give him the worst of your food.

He sits at the table, bleeding.

He coughs up foxes.

There are otters in his eyes.

 

When your wife calls down,

You close the door and

Tell her it’s fine.

You will not let her see

The strange guest at your table.

The wild god asks for whiskey

And you pour a glass for him,

Then a glass for yourself.

Three snakes are beginning to nest

In your voicebox. You cough.

 

Oh, limitless space.

Oh, eternal mystery.

Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.

Oh, miracle of life.

Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.

 

You cough again,

Expectorate the snakes and

Water down the whiskey,

Wondering how you got so old

And where your passion went.

The wild god reaches into a bag

Made of moles and nightingale-skin.

He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,

Raises an eyebrow

And all the birds begin to sing.

 

The fox leaps into your eyes.

Otters rush from the darkness.

The snakes pour through your body.

Your dog howls and upstairs

Your wife both exults and weeps at once.

 

The wild god dances with your dog.

You dance with the sparrows.

A white stag pulls up a stool

And bellows hymns to enchantments.

A pelican leaps from chair to chair.

 

In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.

Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.

Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.

The hills echo and the grey stones ring

With laughter and madness and pain.

 

In the middle of the dance,

The house takes off from the ground.

Clouds climb through the windows;

Lightning pounds its fists on the table

And the moon leans in.

 

The wild god points to your side.

You are bleeding heavily.

You have been bleeding for a long time,

Possibly since you were born.

There is a bear in the wound.

 

‘Why did you leave me to die?’

Asks the wild god and you say:

‘I was busy surviving.

The shops were all closed;

I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’

 

Listen to them:

 

The fox in your neck and

The snakes in your arms and

The wren and the sparrow and the deer…

The great un-nameable beasts

In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…

 

There is a symphony of howling.

A cacophony of dissent.

The wild god nods his head and

You wake on the floor holding a knife,

A bottle and a handful of black fur.

 

Your dog is asleep on the table.

Your wife is stirring, far above.

Your cheeks are wet with tears;

Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.

A black bear is sitting by the fire.

 

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.

He is awkward and does not know the ways

Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.

His voice makes vinegar from wine

And brings the dead to life.

 

19.

Wild Compassion

By Heidi Rose Robbins

 

You know the days

when you’re better left alone and if you happen to be in

a dark corner

in a dark room

all the better for you

and everyone else

the days when not even sugar or

a stiff

drink

or your drug

of choice makes a shred of difference in the landscape of sorrow.

Or is it rage? Or fear?

Whatever your flavor of closing down curling up

slamming shut however you

refuse to shift,

deny the light

that just wants to

cast a splash

of hope across your cheek.

You know the days. When all you do

is sit

and stare,

can’t move your face to anything

but slack.

Lack everywhere. Lack of hope money motivation mojo

 

Doesn’t matter

how far I’ve traveled down any spiritual path equanimity

poise

objectivity

flung out the

window at dawn.

This life is a ride, people.

Anyone who preaches from a pulpit

and refuses to

acknowledge the unstoppable raging current

is not to be trusted.

The ones to listen to have a wild compassion in their eyes

that comes

from riding that current on a make shift raft crafted from

loss and resurrection.

Best thing to do

with a day like this

as far as I can tell

is muster up a nod to it

a generous nod

to the stranger walking through from parts unknown.

If you can find the words or even just lift your head Invite him in

for

coffee black.

Ask him why he’s come what he hopes

to find here in this

wild wild

wilderness.

 

Listen up.

He’ll mumble,

shed a tear.

He won’t make sense. Listen closely.

Say your farewells and

watch him walk into a fiery sunset. Watch him burn at the center

swallowed by the flames.

Lay your head on your pillow, and exhale.

Give it away, the stranger, your day,

all of it.

Die into the darkness

that will swallow your pain with its fierce love.

Set down your honorable load.

Then trust

this:

Morning light

will touch your cheek.

Your need only to turn

every so slightly toward it.

 

20.

Nameless

By Heidi Rose Robbins

 

We are not who we say we are.

There are no words for that name, none full enough.

Our name is a symphony,

a sunrise.

It is a name that holds all the sounds of silence.

We are not who we say we are Though we insist it is so.

Maybe we should listen for the name the sky has to offer,

the Redwood.

It would be loving and infinitely simple.

Let’s lay each name we’ve spoken

into a greater flame.

Let’s soften the grasp on what is only ours and breathe the terror,

the flush of freedom.

Let’s be nameless for a time

and listen.

 

21.

Instructions For the Journey

Pat Schneider

 

The self you leave behind

is only a skin you have outgrown.

Don’t grieve for it.

Look to the wet, raw, unfinished

self, the one you are becoming.

The world, too, sheds its skin:

politicians, cataclysms, ordinary days.

It’s easy to lose this tenderly

unfolding moment. Look for it

as if it were the first green blade

after a long winter. Listen for it

as if it were the first clear tone

in a place where dawn is heralded by bells.

 

And if all that fails,

wash your own dishes.

Rinse them.

Stand in your kitchen at your sink.

Let cold water run between your fingers.

Feel it.