The Child Within -- Remembered

     By  L.S. Heatherly

We should never forget, my friends,
How our Common Soul gathered in,
Deep breaths of time, back when!

Still now, child within, remembers--
How Adult, still, wishfully creeps:
To re-catch sweetest love, through sleeps!
Glow of  revelation's embers!
And long-lost joys in childhood's leaps!

Don't forget spells within our reach,
That gathering wild berries teach!
Catching fish, storing food, once, reaped
Panting breath of ol' hide and seek!

Being, within child, remembers
The glowing of spirit, its shine!
From intimate concourse and consorting
With passages of time!

Being, within child, remembers
Spirit-time, before machine-time!
When all systems were go
For Earth-place, we could know,
As our rhythm and rhyme!

Being, within child, remembers
A time, before Ego's thrusts for power,
Released the tragic flood --
Automated bodies over concrete;

Before urban time and commercial feat
Crowded out rituals of mealtime!
And many of Life's sparks
That our Spirit was meant to greet!

Being, within child,  remembers
A time -- before speech suffered culture's breach!
When pure words from a primal spring,
Flowed true in Earthly, Human banks of time!

Being, within child,  remembers
Spiritual intercourse-- all living things
Within an Earthly Soul,
Sprouting  family-saplings,
Catching  ancient breeze-songs --

Whispering, It takes a village. --
An ancient creed, now, gone;
As arrogant storms, still,
Flash-flood along!


--Edited from a poem published in Ch. XI of
The Last Human Spring (2002) E book (2011)

Self, World, Life, and Soul

When Life evolves to that place
Where Self and Life interface,
With Soul and World perceived as one,
Time and Being become as one.

This sacred matrimony, once in place,
Bequeathed, holds to its patterns and its pace.
Novel things break in to have their way,
Forsake such bliss for fancies of the day;

Wild oats of Ego fly at the face
Of downtrodden youth, still yearning for its grace.
Greed and lust run naked in the street,
Till Life confronts the Soul it has to meet.

Nature waits out these wars against her will;
The springs of Life, from tears, again refill.



Copyright 2001-2015  L. S. Heatherly

Literature as Epitaph for Humanity

Literature seeps, reaches our immortal,
species' Seed-sprouts; tapping our primordial.

Voice shuns Desire's cold, written speech--
Words painting bright, our species waning bleak;

Voice tastes not, the news'  conversations:
Tonque licks, the olds'  tribe-relations.

Soul sighs! Timed-strewn, voice-pearls form.
Through mind-heart will, our species reborn

Human being's scrawled, Earth-speech?  
Epitaph for Soul, long breached.



2012 All rights reserved

Awe, Soul and Art

by L. S. Heatherly

One should never hesitate to express awe
At the true gems of any living writer.

The greatest ones are never in danger
Of hearing such praise too often;

As they are always ahead of, outside of,
Dwelling deeper than, their Time and Age;

They are in great and lonely need,

Of such soul-arms around the soul-shoulders,
Of their refuged and besieged humanity.

They slowing burn your offerings;
Tend your kindlings into their night of the soul;

You keep their isolated flame,
In their solitary, human camp,
From dying midst winter-storms of civilization.

Your awe at their labor of love,
Is destination for their journey of joy.

.

The sound of your voice ends the sounds of silence;

Your message is a candle passed, a gleam of redemption.

.

2010 Creative Commons