Poetry by Janet Doane

Wondrous One

I have carried you,
yet did not know.

Curled within my tightest dream,
held within my heart.

Fully grown, the infant wise.
I touched your hand
and tiny fingers wrapped around my one.

There, in naked perfection,
fetus of the living god,
you had come,
resting in stillness
within a field of light,
a body of color;
iridescent pearlized spirit flesh.

Eyes knowing, peacefully intent.

Teacher of the deepest truth,

harbinger of waiting promise,

softly breathing love.

Silence of God

In the silence
all is felt.

Silent skies,silent songs,
all there as potential,
yet to manifest,
formless form.

A fullness filling
spacelessness,
sounds that are
inaudibly heard,
visions of light
invisibly seen.

This is not an emptiness,
nor a hole,
not a darkness
or soundless place.

It is a conscious reality
that is everywhere,
in everything,
permeating all life,
an endless universe of peace.

Circle of the Rose

Turn, turn,
leaves of beauty and rich green life.
No thorns adorn this crown of love.

See now the tender new growth,
of buds pushing forth at every curve,
fledglings of beauty in the process of becoming.

The fragrance manifests
for a fleeting moment
in a spiritual blessing of heart opening awareness.

A new branch is created near the barren stump,
springing forth from the emptiness of
flowers fallen.

The fully opened roses
bloom with the Light and Sound of God,
and are filled with the starry light body of the Master’s presence.

Oh Circle of the Rose,
entwining us with Love,
it is God’s sacred promise, never forgotten.

Witness

The mind can watch for thoughts,
but who watches for feelings?

She sat on the bed
eyes closed,
waiting for a message.
Her head leaned against
the wooden frame
with nothing particular on her mind,
noting the warmth that poured
into and out of her heart center,
into her throat.

Pen in hand,
notebook resting on her lap,
waiting to hear words that had meaning,
she melted into a devotional moment;
the swelling of spiritual love
was what nourished her soul
and co-mingled with the atoms of her body.

The illumination rose to her inner eye,
then her crown chakra,
tingling with pleasure
as it spread across her forehead
and over her head.

Such was this moment in the silence.
Still no words, just feelings;
and her notebook lay open,
as did she,
in the afternoon light.

Calling, I Would Come

If I heard your voice
spilling down through ancient space,
cascading into marbled, liquid blue
and forest's dense canopies;
I would harken to echoes
off snowcleaved mountains
embedded in plummeting wind shears
that pound the dry, paved landscape
of tenement, rubble, glass, and stone.

If I heard your voice
in the rise and fall of one small breath;
through throated cries of many creatures
begging deliverance from pain—
or in the hushed shiver
of stark awareness
when all seems lost
and lives lay stripped, in emptiness—

If I heard your voice
in the whispers of the dying,
or in the silent,
wordless touch of love,
I would come to you
and call your name,
and come to you
closer, still...
embrace your sound,
aching to be with you,
and kiss your face, your hands,
your heart.

Everybody Knows

everybody knows
that snow
comes from stars
from the midnight sky
flurries of frozen light
resting on this sphere
in God's deep space.

Sensate

Steaming jasmine rice
cooks with translucent, orange-colored shavings
of sweet dried papaya,
sliced cleanly with precision.

Through the open window,
warm summer air blows on my skin,
still soft from a swim an hour ago.
Smelling a thick scent of jasmine,
I pause and give thanks.

Dark, moist, raisins,
and a handful of pale white cashews poured into my palm
plop into the simmering potful of grains.
"Baraka Bashad," the old saying goes.
Yes, "May the blessings be".

Season with a touch of seasalt,
a sliver of succulent, crisp ginger root,
and a small spoonful of Thai green chili paste.
Spicy aromas swirl on the rising steam.

I listen to music by Beautiful World;
to African words with melodies that transport me to Hawaii.
They sing:
"Ewe maisha murua" – hello beautiful life,
"Naoto iliyo nzuri" – hello beautiful dreams,
"Enyi watu miojaa" – hello people with smiles,
"Pendo ndiyo kila kitu" – love is everything.

My feet dance on the cool tile floors.

In a big pan, chopped onions sizzle
in oil from sunflowers–
maybe from golden fields in Provence
thick with yellow petals.

Opening the fridge, I feel the chill,
and reach for a dry brown bag,
hear the rustle of paper
and pull out four firm mushrooms
picked fresh from the market–
rinse them under a stream of clear water,
pat dry, and slice–
gather the soft velvet brown cuttings in my hands,
and release them to the pan.

Morsels of heady, perfumed mango
gently drop, fizz, and crackle.
Chunks of juicy tomatoes finish the sauce,
colored a deep, satiny, reddish orange,
stirring memories of the lotus of the fiery light.

Over the shimmering landscape,
curry falls like powdered sunlight,
with a dash of mango-coconut juice
and several shakes of salty-dark tamari.

Outside the window is a garden of flowers.
Starry white jasmine clusters cascade upon a giant bush.
Tall stems of blue and gold lilies sway,
and deep coral-red roses, and spikes of blue butterfly bush
slow dance on the wind.

"Pendo ndiyo kila kitu" – love is everything.

As we eat the richness of this meal, a blue jay's call pierces the air, and he splashes in the fountain next to the window. He bends and dips, tips his head back, and drinks again. He rustles his feathers in the cooling waters and shakes off a thousand tiny diamonds. Another cry. He looks up. Another drink. A shower of white crystals. He is hoping for a sunflower seed.

The music wraps around every space and form, and fills the places between.

"Pendo ndiyo kila kitu" – love is everything.

A Thousand Kisses

He stood in the open doorway;
the half light from the room beyond
silhouetted his frame, dark against the warm glow.
"I will see you in a thousand minutes", he said,
leaning over to give an achingly soft kiss.
And then he was gone–
the night lay still,
while the world slept.
A thousand minutes will pass,
and a thousand kisses shall come.
A thousand moments,
to share over a thousand years.

The night was strong,
yet within herself she felt vulnerable.
So she set fear aside and chose love,
and wrapped love around him,
saying a prayer.
For that kind of fear had no foundation.
It was as illusive as illusion itself.
Once again she chose benevolence,
and cloaked herself in it's cocoon.

She thought of him,
speeding through the night,
in this one small leaving, going away,
to come home again.
Still, in the dark,
a thousand minutes would have to pass,
as the day would,
and a thousand kisses awaited soft lips
in the darkness of a new night.

Then love was everywhere,
and she slept.

Fallen Angels Rise

Fallen angels are rising
from the desert of separation,
the chasm of forgetting,
from the emptiness of a gaping hole.

Fallen angels rise
through the veil that whispers an illusion of reality,
from the remembrance of a pain
devoid of wholeness.

Falling angels rise
in tremors,
in shafts of lightning that shoot up from the ground,
in storms, and in the great spiral vortex.

Unseen hands lift the dross,
for it is an anguish to endure alone.
The songs of heaven alight upon the crown
and river through the vessel of the golden matrix.

Fallen angels rise,
as freely as the breath flows
on a current of compassion,
fallen no more.

Bird and Sea

Feathers lay on the rain-soaked ground
telling of a story,
a struggle, a mystery.

What was that dream
as it lifted from her memory
on a grey wet dawn?
...a ribbon of thought, like a wave,
pulled back to the sea.

Lingering foam
floated on a thin veneer of water at the shore,
then melted, hissing.
Feelings remained,
tinged with doubt or longing.

She waited for the next wave.
Lucid,
light drenched,
hushed with expectation,
to heal a broken wing.

Under Magnolia

Hands cupped to catch flowers
falling, snowlike
under a giant tree,
consumed in palest pink white.
The ground is blanketed with
pearlescent glowing petals,
released
by winds of spring.

I stand gazing through
multitudes of soft dewy blossoms,
prayer-like hands reaching,
unfolding upward.
Feeling a rise of wind blowing,
hearing its hissing sound of cool passing,
watching the cascading flowers
falling, gathered by wind-fingers,
some touch my hair.
In a moment of glee,
you gather them up,
laughing, and
throw them over me.