Poetry has the Power to Save Us

I came to the blog yesterday and was frankly appalled that I had gone more than three months, just shy of four, since writing an article. Can I say I was busy? I guess so, yet, I must not so easily lay down the pen. 

One thing that shows me I'm pulled of course is...my distance from poetry. When this happens a big, red siren should sound the alert in my body. It's been three months since I've written here on the blog and...I'm still reading the book of poetry by Mary Oliver, which I referenced last article. It's a collection of many books, so I'll give myself a break. The most important point is-- I'm back. Why? Because in my life, poetry saves the day, every darn time, right alongside singing a meaningful song or two. I must not so easily lay down the pen. 

There's another thing that showed me I'm pulled a bit of course too, I received news yesterday that a friend had died, unexpectedly. First, I went for a walk, then, with heavy heart touched  by the beauty of a storm over the mountains, I cried; and lastly, I picked up Mary Oliver. (Interestingly, I had stopped at Vultures) 

Poetry has the power to save us, I don't say this lightly, I mean it in all seriousness. Poetry is truth and medicine for our world. I'm so incredibly grateful for the life rafts that Mary Oliver, Jane Hirshfield, Rumi, Alfred K Lamotte throw to us. I must not so easily lay down the pen....

Redtail Bear
©2023 Karla Johnston, InnerConstellation.com

To hibernate
or show your beautiful colors,
it was a struggle. 

Nothing, not even death,
takes away my vision of you:
Dancing in the sacred circle,
facing the bright and purifying sun
as it sought out every part,
you so willingly gave away. 

Open heart, radiant heart,
no longer disguised,
as shoulders back,
you stomped and swayed
and blew the eagle bone whistle
to the beat of the drum--
receiving it
through the soles of your dancing feet
as it pulsed into the palm of my singing hand,
one of seven,
holding the mallets,
producing and releasing 
the sacred heartbeat.

Dancers whistled, Singers sang, 
breath and heartbeat, did not waiver.   

I am witness
to your liberation, 
to my liberation. 
How can death possibly alter or change
a gift like that?