Category Archives: Poetry

When Wrens Grieve…

artwork by Wendy Slee

A little blue bird

Opens his heart and sings

Until the sky shatters

And pieces of blue fall to the earth.

 

 

He sings right up to the last moment.   Because for him, the moment is all there is.   It is immediate, it is present, it is now.  It is the breath upon your lips, the very life blood in your veins and the beat of your heart.

He opens his heart and channels his very soul out into the world.

That’s what blue birds do.   They give of their joy, without limitation, without fear, without expectation.   They just open up their hearts and immerse everything around them in pure celebration of the moment.

A little bird sings

A song that pierces my heart

And lets the blue within me fly free.

photo by wendy slee

When you stand close to a blue bird who is performing such a ritual, you can feel it – the vibrations of the song, and the energy that gives it such power, reverberates through you, and you cannot fail to be moved in some way, great or small.  You feel that song, that melody, that joy, push through you and light up your cells.   It is a celebration.  You resonate! That is the magic of the blue birds.   They lift vibrations, they sing frequencies that touch and heal and weave magic.

photo by Wendy Slee

It is a public display of life, of the pure, sweet being in the moment.

It is a reminder to each of us.

It is sweet, and sacred, and loud and undeniable.   Listen!   Feel!  Be!

A little blue bird

Gives my creativity wings

And my imagination explodes

With new colours to paint the world.

Yet there is more, so much more.   There is the moment tiny claws connect and wrap around your fingers, and something passes between you, something deeper than trust, something that you share with all life, but have long since forgotten.

So you awaken just a little more.

photo by Wendy Slee

Then you have the moment when across and open field a wild bird flies straight at you, with the sole intent of connecting, and landing on or near your person, then hops merrily up your arm to your shoulder, just to get a little closer.   There is humour, there is mischief, there is life.   You look in that bright eye, that misses nothing, the head cocked first one way, then another, and even more passes between you – a connection as ancient as life itself…. A recognition of shared existence and mutual honour for the Earth Mother who gave birth to us all.

Photo by Wendy slee

I always believed the winged ones were messengers, and this little blue bird, he came looking for me.  He had a message for me, a message he asked me to share with the world.  It just took me a while to “get it”.   I thought he was a gift, too amazing to be real, and at times, my fear of loss kept me stumbling around, even as I learned the only way to receive the gifts of the universe, is with an open hand, so they can fly freely.   And when I let go of any need to own or hold onto, he truly blessed me with wings of my own, so I could share the flight.  He showed me how to deal with loss a few weeks ago, and to let go of my fear.   In  bundle of little blue feathers, that had my heart scrabbling with pain, at first for him, and then, when he flew up to show me he was still there, for sadness at the anonymous little blue person who had died, he taught me that endings were always a part of the song, but only so a new melody could begin.  He delivered to me the lesson of cycles, of beginnings and endings, and the pure free flight between.   He gifted me an ongoing joy into my garden, both the literal one, and the true one within my soul.

He also came to say goodbye.

At first I laughed at my strange dream on Tuesday morning.   And wanted to forget and not share it.   But it was one of the prophetic dreams I have and recognize from time to time.  It unsettled me, and it’s message stayed, gaining depth and power instead of ebbing away.   It was a message of love.  This little blue bird, he sat with me and the message passed between us.   “I see you” he said wordlessly.   “I see you” my heart shared back to him.   Then he rubbed the top of his head back and forth on my lips, like a beloved pet would rub your hand or leg,  the most unusual kiss of a soulmate.

And was gone.

Artwork by Wendy Slee

I awoke thinking “how bizarre”.  But could not escape the surge of unconditional love that was all around me from that moment, and the awareness of which has remained firmly with me every since.
And I went out to face the day – a day where he was absent.
And then the next day – he was still missing.

And then the profound realization, that the dream had been a goodbye from my little friend, because this little blue bird has disappeared and now exists only in my heart, my dreams and my images.

Photo by Wendy Slee

Today they go on as if nothing has changed.  The landscape is full of life, and yet it has a hole in it.  My heart feels heavy because I know that something is missing.  There are other wrens alive and well singing in the trees around my home.   There is a family still there and a little blue son to keep the songline unbroken.

photo by Wendy Slee

How do blue wrens grieve?   No matter what happens, what loss they suffer, they just pick up the pieces of their life and rebuild their broken nest, go on with their day to day duties, and all the while, they sing.   Most of all – they SING!   They sing like there is no tomorrow and this very moment is the most joyful gift to be shared with the world.  They do not weep but declare their joy at being alive.    They pick up the pieces of a melody and stitch them together in a new way…. And … They sing.  If we could only sing like that when our hearts were broken!

photo by Wendy Slee

AS the days pass, I watch little Henny frantically rebuild her nest and her life, while nurturing her juvenile son on her own.   I wished there was more I could do to protect and assist her, but alas, within days, she too, tragically disappeared, with only a few feathers and a small broken blue egg left on the ground.   My heart was filled with sadness for the little bluey left behind, hiding in the branches, afraid, his life totally torn apart.   Yet even though he was very nervous and afraid, he would still hold onto the one constant thing he knew, and that was to fly to my hand and sit for a moment.  Perhaps he was oblivious, but I felt he sensed my grief and it matched his own bewilderment and uncertainty.

But within a day, I awoke to hear him singing his heart out as the sun arose.   When I went outside he was merrily dancing in the trees, entertaining a new girlfriend, both of them singing their song of life unfolding, of the mystery of goodbyes spelling new beginnings….
Life goes on….. and all that matters is the moment and how much love and song you can fill it with.

I can cry because it’s over, or I can laugh because it happened, or, I could do both.   Because you can’t have one without the other, you cannot know such joy unless sorrow carves a cavern in the darkness that will be backdrop to enhance the light, an amphitheatre to contain and measure the exquisite wonder of life’s grandest performances.

How can I truly appreciate and honour the presence and awareness of one’s gift to me, unless I experience the absence and subsequent emptiness without it also.

artwork by wendy slee

So I give thanks in these words, for the gift brought to me by a little blue bird.

A little blue bird

Cracks open a sad day

With a song that weaves

It back together anew.

   

For those who are interested….Blue Boy has his own facebook fan page at
https://www.facebook.com/BLUE.wrens

(my apologies for and please disregard any tacky advertising which appears on my blog pages)


Civilization

Civilization?

The big wheels keep on turning
And dollars rise and fall
The chain of events is tightening
And the future’s on the wall
The growling monster rumbles
Sweeping all within its path
And crushing under bricks and steel
The present and the past
Endless throngs of bodies
Commuting on and ever on
Hands on mobiles, hands on wheels
The reasoning has gone.
The clock clicks over quietly
And nothing halts its call,
The sheep follow its hypnotic tick
Until the curtains fall.
The rumbling’s growing louder,
The machinery turns and turns
Fuelled by the fire of media
Whose hunger always burns;
And the glossy tabloid visions
Descend and hide the real
As audio, video, printed words
Tell a world how it should feel.
Fiery flames creep round the globe
Like a substance through a vein –
The media drug feels good and so
It dulls the earthly pain.
The wheels keep turning round and round
This thing called life goes on
With lives and fortunes in the wake
Of the monster when it’s gone.
And the little people disappear
A lonely tree will die,
But man-made wisdom rises up
Where the eagle used to fly.
The winds of change blow wildly,
The roar of engines drowns the cries
As a lonely planet turns in the dust
And a forgotten spirit dies.

"Creation" by Wendy Slee


Forgiveness

“FORGIVENESS”

 

Open the Door and Let Her In……

 

The woman watches

As the broken man begins to dance,

Could it be that in her presence

He is falling apart,

Or that the warmth of her gaze,

Finds him gradually becoming whole again.

His freedom, her absolution.

 

The words fall useless on the ground,

Letters spilling into the dirt

Meaning discarded,

A blank page lays crumpled before her

Staring without judgment

At her trembling hand.

Reason is beyond reproach.

 

Time tiptoes past unnoticed

On its way to someone else’s story

Hope follows regardless

And the sun rises and sets

On useless thoughts unguarded.

Who dares to walk this path?

Yet who dares to not.

 

The woman listens

As the silent man begins to sing

The words dust themselves off

And join the fragile notes

In a private dance of healing

Truth’s melody cuts through time

And lays memory bare,

 

“Forgive me,” it sings

“I am only human.”


Lines

 

LINES

 

 

Lines on a piece of paper,

Lines upon the earth;

The mark of human hands –

Or aliens at work?

Mortal information,

Or a message from beyond?

A cryptic code without a key

Or a simple human bond?

Search for honest answers,

Leave no stone unturned,

Pen to paper, leave your mark,

The witches can’t be burned.

Who wields the staff ofIsis?

When Excalibur is lost?

It’s a long time between rainbows –

The pot of gold has turned to dust.

See dull and programmed adults

Follow the well-worn track,

They cannot look for miracles

While a key turns in their back.

Chalk drawings in a cave,

Scribbles on a bedroom wall,

Hieroglyphics in a tomb,

Their meaning eludes us all.

Somehow a page is missing,

In the instruction book of life,

Read between the lines –

Get information at any price.

Crayons in baby fingers

Don’t step upon the cracks.

Boundaries are made for crossing,

To bring the magic back.

Outside lines the children colour,

Expressing freedom of their youth,

Lines might be for guidance,

But erase them to find your truth.

(wendy slee)

 

Message Stick

 


Hindsight

 

HINDSIGHT

 Little bits and pieces of humanity on show;

A museum to the memory of all we did not know;

A tribute to our blindness and simple lack of trust;

Behind a two way mirror, past visions turn to dust.

Did we not reach out far enough?  Did we all fail to try?

Or simply turn our heads when spirit tried to catch our eye.

Messages remain unanswered.   The lines have all gone down.

The past has broken free to haunt the cities and the towns.

On pedestals the arrogant are tarnished like their pride;

Showcases full of guilt and shame just cannot be denied.

Cobwebs of fear weave patterns, across decaying pasts,

And ‘dust to dust’ becomes the chant of those whose memory lasts.

The signposts that we did not see, now take pride of place,

A warning to the future of another human race.

The wrong direction taken, or eyes that could not see?

An attitude that went astray, or warped philosophy?

Too many faces turned away from truth beneath our feet,

As the gold gets swept out with the dirt into an empty street.

Why does the past catch up with us, and haunt us here and now?

And the wisdom of the hindsight gods forces us to bow.

Somewhere between the questions and the answers is the space

Where the view both ways is clear with understanding’s grace.

Be still and walk the quiet aisles and pay your humble dues,

And listen to the patient guide whose wisdom speaks to you.

The effigies and epitaphs have lessons in the gloom

As beams of light dance through the dust of the teaching room.

Ghosts might talk, the dead might rise, the stories will unfold,

Who can tell where we went wrong, if the secrets are not told.

Beware the plague of ignorance that lingers from the past

And haunts the ruins of today, from behind the looking glass.

Like in a nightmare, those of us, who care to, wander through,

And shiver with the knowledge, the sense of deja’ vu.

History repeats, and herein the lesson lies,

The mistakes aren’t there for nothing, they make us realize

Where we’ve come from, where we’re going, and what has always been –

Respect the past for leading us, to where the future must begin.

(wendy slee)


Folding Truth

 

Folding Truth

I read between the lines
And glimpse the many colours that are shadowed within,
So hard to fold one’s truth
Into such tiny places.
But that is the way life’s laundry gets placed,
The sunshine folded into sheets
And stored within lines for a rainy tomorrow.
Minute corners of comfort
Protrude between the lines of our story
Year after year after year.

Today, I pull the blanket of truth
From its hidden place
And shake out its many folds,
Unfurling its colours to the wind,
Airing the frays and tears in the
Interwoven threads of a soul’s journey.
I spread it on the Earth,
A multi-coloured landscape
A resting place to come home to
A place to lay a weary body.
I take the well worn edges and draw its
Heavy warmth around my trembling shoulders.
Fingers feel the softness and touch with tenderness
That which is constant.
Like a child enswathed, hidden and safe,
I fold myself in the comfort of truth
And close my eyes.

There are wide spaces between the lines now
And I glimpsed the tattered edges
Of your truth hiding there.
It is time for you to take out your blanket
Caress with love its tears and frays,
Wrap it around your shoulders
To keep the cold at bay.

Is it possible
That we can appreciate the beauty of another’s blanket?
In the dark night of our journey
When the lines drift free with no space in between,
Can we feel the warmth and wonder
In the folds of each other’s truth.

 

(Wendy Slee)


Silence

SILENCE

Silence speaks, in volumes that ripple their thick base notes across the surface of my heart.

In silence swims the essence of memory, a slippery persistent fish, nibbling nerve endings of raw, familiar sorrows.

Silence rains with the gentle patter of teardrops against the windows of my dreams.

Oh, silence, too heavy to bear, so cruel a curse, the weapon of choice for a fearful soul. Silence, the sound of fear and woundedness, it cringes in the shadows, and torments itself.

Silence trembles waiting in the doorway, afraid to take that next small step, a limbic dance between then and now.

Silence, the humbling voice of truth, echoes across self deception, and is heard in the cold glassy voice of mirrors past and present, mirrors I have known and loved. self consciously reflecting what it hurts too much to hear.

Silence is the vacuum, a pulsing void of the unknown waiting to become known. Listen… as silence speaks, It is the language of the dead whispering secrets across the veil, icy words to remind and haunt, elusive answers dangling between unspoken lines.

Silence speaks in sameness, in difference,
Indifference,

Silence stands alone without keys to break its own code, an insurmountable wall, a deafening presence. Yet Silence at its worst cannot survive without the spirit of another to shine light into its darkness and kiss meaning onto its cold lips.

But silence has its sunset and sunrise.
It is the falling sun, and the awakening moon.
Listen…
Silence holds a music of its own,
It dances in the light
And rings with hope,
Like birdsong in the dark hours
Before dawn.

Silence is a gift,
A healing touch…
A solace to the mind;
The herald of the now.

Silence,
An affirmation of distance,
Invisible hands that push away,
Yet in a change of heart
A beckoning of souls,
The drawing near
Of intimacy,
A holy communion.

Silence bristles with passion,
The connecting force
That vibrates the chords
Between two hearts,
A living entity,
Rich with meaning.

Listen…
Silence with soul, breathes
The song of the living,
The turn of the seasons,
The waiting breath for a baby’s cry,
The resting place for a body
Whose being walks another plane.

Silence holds power.
The Master musician knows.
In that instant between two notes
The silence dwells,
Defines their diversity and
Enhances the beauty of their union.

Silence is the tide
Between all islands,
A portent of emotion,
The song of the heavens,
And the swell of the heart,
Silence, whose connecting force
Tunes the keys of all instruments,
Lives, and its unsung harmony endures
Beyond life’s symphony, through the final curtain fall.