Posts Tagged "Soul Poet"
Year of Love and Light
Seasonal Joy and Reflection
Having embraced and been embraced by innumerable different experiences in recent years, I know I am not alone in describing this as a year of reflection and withdrawal, a time of letting go and welcoming, of opening and accepting.
A year of travelling and finding, and staying home and re-discovering – of diverse and wondrous people, places, and events, and of deep learning and a resultant sense of stillness, readiness and calm, having come through the eyes of various storms, personal, political, philosophical – all magickal.
I am constantly amazed by the way in which people, ideas, and possibilities arrive – perfectly on cue, bestowing gifts of immense beauty and joy; and how the riches of my interior world shine like jewels. I have taken time this year to gather and gaze on my inner resources, realising ever more how vital it is for us to recognise and reflect on our gifts and talents, and release them to the world for greater good.
I sense that the coming year is about to be a year of great actions and emergence, of being and essence. And of Love. Always Love. Enduring, all-encompassing, unconditional Love.
I invite you to join with me, in spirit, around the image and memory of our symbolic Festive tree, and begin to share what I passionately believe is beginning, right now.
A Year of Love and Light
We Welcome You,
In Love,
With Love,
Warmly,
Joyfully.
We welcome you.
Certain,
Fearless,
With Heart,
And with Soul.
We welcome you.
Gentler,
Stronger,
Deeper,
From Within.
We welcome you.
Subtly,
With Faith,
In Hope,
Powerful.
We welcome you.
As Truth,
Shining,
Bright Peace,
For All Souls.
With Love,
Christine
For Your Seasonal Gift of Soul Poetry Click HERE
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And she brought me Snowdrops
And she brought me Snowdrops …
And she brought me Snowdrops…
Sharp strands slicing,
Stinging swallows:
Tiny throat cut,
No mercy.
Crisp cold whiteness
Thin flat sheets
Hard steel
Metal, framed.
Voice silenced;
No sound emits.
No signal –
No response.
The vast space
Echoes briskly
Attendants bustle
No relief.
Trickle of tears,
Lonely tracks
Tracing patterns,
Still, alone.
Plucked from home,
Separated,
Before three springs,
Untimely rift.
Sudden sense,
Familiar tone,
Eternal smile,
Soft arms enfold.
And She, salvation,
Maternal, golden,
Of radiant warmth,
Brought me Snowdrops.
© Christine Miller
This poem arose from seeing a film on the BBC’s ‘The Great British Year’ of a February woodland garden in Gloucestershire, filled with snowdrops in bloom, their delicacy and beauty carpeting the ground with that fabulous first sign of winter’s end approaching.
Tears sprang to my eyes as I recalled with great clarity the time when I was about two and a half years old when I had my tonsils out. I still have strong memories of this. I can see clearly the area pre-theatre where gas cylinders and bottles of blood were stored, I feel the cold crisp linen of the hospital bed and the hard metal bars that kept me imprisoned there. I recall not being able to call out to the nurses for help. I remember the pain of my raw throat, and, acutely, the loneliness.
In those distant days when I was little, parents weren’t allowed into hospital with their children, and visiting hours were very strictly enforced. I was desolate, in pain, and afraid, and when my mother did arrive with a beautiful bunch of snowdrops, and a pretty little silver hair slide, which I treasured for years, I was filled with joy and relief. Thank goodness things have changed now and children are not separated from their parents in this way – we have learned a lot about that need for love, connection and contact.
The image of those snowdrops is still fresh in my mind, all these years later, and as I watched the scene in the film, these words, ‘And she brought me snowdrops’, erupted superbly into my consciousness and demanded to be expanded, expressed and offered as a token of gratitude and Love to my dearly departed mother, whose healing, radiant presence is still with me every day.
I dedicate this to all poets, everyone, everywhere, may your creativity flow with abundance.
© Christine Miller – first published for National Poet’s Day 2013
Read MoreLondon Snow
Inspired by the blanket of snow covering London today (and most of the UK and Europe), the silence was what impressed on me most as I opened the door to my garden early this morning, and enjoyed the cold, crisp air and the whiteness. It is magical, transformed into a slightly eerie, subdued space. This poem is what emerged.
London Snow
Silence is not glistening gold,
Nor even densely black.
Silence is white powder
A softly muffled lack.
No cars, no trucks, no buses,
Disturb the cold quiet air.
The cold crisp crust unpierced,
No telltale track is there.
No birds, nor other creatures
Emerge to feed or play.
Leaves and branches bow down low,
Enrobed in flakes of pristine snow,
In homage to the crystal cloak
Of this whitely blanketed day.
©Christine Miller
Read MoreAmber – Kindling the Spirit of Autumn
‘Amber‘ is a poem written to capture the mellow sensual feel of autumn which I love, as the days grow shorter and the air becomes crisper, the leaves start to burnish and there is that distinct shift from summer’s lush green to orange and gold, deep red, amber and bronze.
I am often inspired by a sense of new spirit, new beginnings in autumn, just as much as in spring. Reminiscences of new school years, with all that brings, starting university, possibilities of newness, learning and loving the freedom of different places and people.
There is the anticipation of autumnal treats, bonfires, spectacular colours, the scents of wood smoke and and sounds of leaves crunching underfoot – and then the excitement as Christmas approaches and winter begins to take hold, branches bare against the sky, nights by the fire, mulled wine and glowing embers.
From: ‘Secret Garden of the Soul’ Christine Miller
Amber
Poetry
Poetry is a means of expressing our inner thoughts and feelings, our inspirations, insights and intimate experiences.
Life is poetry – and poetry occurs all around us, in us and through us all the time.
Poetry can be harsh and demanding, soft, yielding, delicate and dreamlike – and filled with stark realism. It doesn’t have to rhyme, it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone other than the poet, and it can blissfully, wilfully ignore the rules of grammar.
