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Posts Tagged ‘prayer’

Literal

 

 

The more light you allow within you, the brighter the world you live in will be.

            —Shakti Gawain

 

So I invite lanterns,

candles, torches, tapers,

street lights, spotlights,

glow worms, lasers,

wood matches, lighters

and one small prayer,

and at last I notice

it’s brighter around here.

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The heart that breaks open can contain the whole universe.

            —Joanna Macy

 

 

Give me a heart that breaks—

ears willing to hear the difficult news

and legs that do not choose to run from it.

 

Yes, give me a heart big enough

to accommodate a wrestling match inside,

a mind that knows no one wins a war,

 

hands that move to help no matter

what the mind might say.

Give me a heart that opens

 

long after it thinks it’s already open,

and lips that know when to listen.

Give me a heart that knows itself

 

as other hearts. Give me feet

that will stand when someone must stand

for justice. And a spine flexible enough

 

to turn and see all sides. Snow falls

on all my thoughts. It sometimes

takes a long time to melt, a long time

 

before I remember again to pray

to be open, to pray for a heart that breaks,

to notice the stars shining from the inside.

 

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One Sincerity

 

 

 

just outside my window

larkspur erupts

into generous blue—

in me blossoms

an old prayer

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One Prayer

 

 

 

with no snow

to make snow angels

I flap my arms

make night angels

send them to you

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Before you slog the next mile,

God sits beside you

and rubs your feet and ankles,

tells you jokes,

and spills his heart to you—

the next day,

still exhausted,

you find yourself laughing

grateful to have feet.

 

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Three Answered Prayers

 

 

 

in the beginning

before the word

the silence

 

*

 

walking the other

direction it’s so obvious,

that waterfall we missed

 

*

 

in my pocket

this laughter—all day

I pat it to check if it’s still there

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Showing Up

 

 

 

Before I pray

I do not wash

my hands—

not out of disrespect

but because

I do not

want to pretend

to be any cleaner

than I really am,

this filth,

this patina of depravity,

this is part

of why

I have come

to pray—

if I waited

to wash the stains

from my skin,

my lips, my sleeves,

I might

never pray

at all.

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Strange Prayer

 

 

 

When we know

we are lost

it seems

so obvious

to stop,

pay closer attention,

ask for help.

 

May we always

see

how

we

are

lost.

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I Guess This Is a Prayer

One by one,

I rip the roots

from dirt and shake

them clean.

Stalk by stalk,

I clear the garden

walk of all

the brittle stems.

And who might come

to pull from me

whatever’s brown

and dead?

My own hands

always find

another task

another garden.

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If I prayed, which I don’t,
then we could say that I asked
god to open every door that I
had shut, every door I did not
know was there.
Why I asked this, well,
this will make sense to you
or it won’t, but every closed
door I was aware of
had became a point of suffering.
And with every open door,
I could feel congruence,
the world rushing in to create
more space in me.
And god said to me, though
we could not say that it was a voice,
god said, Open even the door with people jeering
on the other side, their faces twisted
in hate? Even the door to an entire
forest of sorrow? And because
this conversation was not really
happening, we could not say that
I said yes to the questions, but
we could say, perhaps, that
the yes began to root in me
and it was not so much a matter
of someone opening the doors
but that the doors more or less
dissolved. And what I had thought
could separate me from anything else
was shown to be nothing at all.
I would like to tell you that I felt grace
in the opening, but the truth
is I felt such terrible ache.
And god did not come put a hand
on my cheek and tell me
everything would be okay.
In fact, if anything, the voice
I did not hear told me
there are no promises.
But I felt it, the invitation
to keep opening doors,
to not close my eyes,
to not turn away.
And though I do not pray,
I said thank you, thank you.

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