The Grove Within Our Hearts

Written by West

We rest in the grove within our hearts
because we are wanted here
just as we are.
This is our family of choice and more,
a family beyond blood.
Here we are all at home.

We stand, our hearts within the grove,
because we belong here
as we have always been.

Here we can remember ourselves to each other.
The long lines in our faces
the rings of years around our center,
each one bringing us one step closer
to the Truth we all seek.

In this verdant house we call upon each other
to live beyond fear
to give beyond comfort
to love this garden we have sown
beyond the bounty of today’s harvest.
For while we work with heart and sweat and blood,
in this circle we stand not for us,
we sow not for us,
we tend not for us,
we love not for us.

Each root, branch and blossom
is a prayer, a yearning,
and that fruit which ripens here,
we offer in the name of peace
as a gift to all who are hungry.

So may it always be
that wherever we go, we rest
in the quiet grove of our hearts,
held close by brothers and sisters,
The Great Spirit and its many names and faces,
who knows us
who trusts us
who loves us
as we are,
and yet
who will forever and always
ask of us
to live more
to give more
to love more
because it is what is needed.

~ West Latta May, 2010 ~

The Sleeping Pool

by Moss

Down on the underside of the whispering glen
Where the aching bog steams with wilted hopes and moldy dreams
The dragon flies dance on the scum and the froth
Of the sleeping pool.

There you can smell the very rot of the wood
And see how the sludge has raised up from the murk.
The toads and the flies play their scenes on the stage
Of the sleeping pool.

Most folks pass by or avoid altogether
This smudge of a place, never pausing, never pondering
How this swamp (so beguiling!) came to be
Or what could mean. Whats the story
Of the sleeping pool?

These waters are to me, despite the stench and oily aura
A place where changes brew and transformation reigns.
The woodsy kettle of many deaths
Slowly cooking, gently stewing
The sacred cauldron. Taste the droplets
Of the sleeping pool.

Eleventh Moon

by Moss

As the fires crackle, the old men roll their eyes up inside their heads
And clasp their knotted fingers under smiles of knowing teeth.
The birds that scream and scour the ground from high above
Perch against the blackened night and watch with glowing eyes.
These are the ones who keep the words, the sha-men, the wandering wands.
If I am to fly among them, I must eat the burning fruit, drink the oil of the stars,
Give myself to the path of the Seers and attend to the ways of the Goddess.
This is my offering under this Moon of the Naked Tree:
To learn the language of the owl and the spark,
To see the flame at the end of the darkened room
And to spend my coins at the well of the Whispering Queen.

Take me, O Lady and hold me at Thy breast
For when I have acquired the glow of the golden hawk
I will spread my gilded wings for Thee
And fly to the four worlds spitting the seeds of ancient thought
Planting flowers of purple and indigo, blue and green, yellow and orange
And the reddest of red orchids pouting with their hairy lips.
Hear my preachings! Judge me if you must!
But know that the flames I spew are for You and Your audience.