The turmoil of our times
dances round the globe—
Kali destroying and Durga creating.
What can humans do but join
the dance of transformation.
Let us cry and let us whirl
in the storm that tosses tiny earth.
Let it turn us inside out
until protection disappears, until
we wear our hearts outside our shell.
Lightning flashes all around us,
but even as we shudder,
we shall be the rods that ground it.
Let us tether one another
while we shake and tremble,
while we become conductors of the power,
transmitters of the Change.
Channeling the current now tempestuous
cannot be done without the body.
Bow and whirl, leap and dart!
Sway, gyrate, and quiver.
As we mediate the thresholds
we return to earth ourselves.
When we do not use our bodies
the vital dance is jammed into depression
or explodes into annihilation.
Unleash it now, the oldest form of worship.
The equilibrium of earth demands it.
We must dance the planet.
The turbulent upheaval
of these times that we were made for,
demands we blend the parts of self
until a fusion powers us like stars!
Thus we ride uncertainty and tumult.
Thus we dance disorder into balance.
“This intense full moon creates a window to speak your truth, embrace your personal power, and step up to a new level of integrity, maturity and confidence. It is a perfect time for a bid for Power… Face your doubts, fears and anxieties, and ask for help and support for your bigger dreams. This is a great time for transformation, expansion and clearing of some very deep old emotional insecurities and wounding. It is a good sign if you feel slightly unbalanced, emotional and vulnerable. Great healing is possible and forgiveness is a key…” from Lena Stevens (firstname.lastname@example.org):
“…the portal opens. With the Full Moon in Aquarius, we can envision our dream for the well being of all humanity, we can love our sacred planet through the fiery heart of the Leo Sun, we can look beyond the dark, shadowy current times of the Kali Yuga to a time of cohesion and rebirth. We can invite in the positive pole of the masculine, awakened by Mars’ journey out of bounds of the structure of the solar system…” from Patricia Liles (Patliles@aol.com):
Last night watching the 1964 movie Zorba the Greek, I turned it off when the Widow was murdered and wrote this poem.
I am the Widow in a story told by men.
It is their story, I am their widow.
They view women in their lives
as extras in their films. They
are mankind, actors, real.
I am the Widow, fierce and content
who doesn’t belong to any of them.
An affront! And worse,
I don’t desire them.
I am the Widow who,
in a culture made by men,
has her own desires.
A woman with her own desires
in a story told by men
lives cast out and can be stoned,
deserves to have her throat sliced
and silenced by a cowardly mob.
I am the Widow in a story told by men
on a planet ruled by men,
but not much longer. From the ground
outside the church where I lie bleeding,
I am rising. In the story told by men,
the end is changing. I am turning
to the man who holds the knife.
And he sees the life that’s in me,
he sees with shock I am as real as he.
He sees with fear he cannot kill me.
I am turning to the tellers of the stories
to make my throat whole and tell my own.
I am the woman in a story told by woman.
I am the Widow and the Magdalen,
the one the men could never see
as whole unto ourselves,
and I am rising, turning,
I am acting, telling, making my own tale.
I am the Widow, see me.
Hundreds of mangos,
burnished with morning sun,
hang thick in the branches
of the tree next door.
The wealth of it!
One perfect mango dangles
from the highest branch,
and though no one can reach it
my poet’s soul is fed
by its ripened flame.
From my hammock vantage,
I contemplate its magic and
the simple sight of it
quiets all my hungers.
But from her yard, my neighbor
hands me a mango, red;
firm and fat and ready.
Rich and blessed, I rise.
In my kitchen, I rub its living skin
slow against my cheek;
thus we caress, this mango and I.
Finally I peel it, reveal it,
holding its juicy gold in my sticky fingers.
Standing reverent over the sink,
I let the nectar, like no other,
drip down my chin, and I taste
the wealth of the mother tree next door.
It feeds my deepest being.