October 19, 1990 in Peterborough, Ontario was a dark and cold autumn day with sleet falling and grim grey cloud. The only light at all was the fact that I met my beloved partner Caitlin Frost that day. Here is my anniversary poem for her.
On a sleet driven day
when the sky split into a million bits of darkness
and rained down on the groggy morning
I could never imagine
that what was falling
was me for you.
May you all know the love I have been lucky enough to be blessed with.
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It has become a standard practice for me now to make a slam poem from the words of opening or closing circles, as a way to reflect to a group something of it’s wholeness. These poems are completely improvised, using the words of the participants as material. There is a lot of reincorporation of people’s words in these poems which makes for a lovely reminder when I read it out and participants shift their awareness around the circle
A poem I wrote at the end of the Open Space for Transition Nelson. One of our participants brought her two chickens to the event to look after them while she was away from her house. On day two the chickens escaped, which explains one of the lines in this piece.
Practicality, courage
Where's the agenda?
Appreciative thanks
amazed it didn't tank
This scenario is a dream and it seems that
whatever happened, happened.
Woooo….
Gratitude is the attitude of rebirth
A reenergized connection, soft walk on the earth
Want to pass a torch but also linger on the porch of this
new house created by friendship
and the magic in the talk…
We gonna rock…
I'm already looking younger, cultivating the hunger
for transitioning, repositioning,
gestating and relating, digesting and reflecting
seeing what is born this morning
feeling what is important to raise
in these days of unity, community, in what is bigger than me.
I'm new to this place
but what a face you wear –
a community of angels who care.
It's open and I'm curious to see where it goes,
two feet, ten toes
I don't know, but somebody knows
and I feel direction, infection
a virus of creative work
the explosion of potential that stars from a spark,
light sparkling in the dark.
Thanks to the angels and the bees
and all that frees us to fly, respond to the calling
pick up those that are falling
and send them back in the air.
I'm more connected than ever before
walked through a door to a store full of knowledge and inspiration
full of awe at the creation of what's going on –
knowing that together I can be strong enough
to live off the grid, draw on my own power,
this is the hour!
Even the chickens have become free!
It's hard to do this alone,
to clear a field full of stones,
to live a peace that is co-owned
bring a bell to the young,
three deep breaths,
words that rest lightly on the tongue
and hold the terror of action,
the commitment to a fraction of change
to a group that can rearrange the best of what we have –
time, ideas, muffins –
strange resources for a movement, but sustenance is a must for sustainability
so that's good.
So in the shadows of locally hewn wood
in a place free of shoulds,
I acknowledge the work we have done
and the potential of what is to come
life springing from ash,
passion leading to action,
a rekindled fire that burns off
guilt and fear.
Inspired –
our future starts here.
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A poem by Ralph Copleman a longtime Open Space practitioner, posted this week on the OSLILST
The Days of Now
On the night before Now
we all clambored over
and greeted each other by the gateway.
Now came the first morning.
We opened for each other many conversations
and passed cups around the shining circle.
On the second of Now,
I could see a long way in people’s eyes
which cleared to let in the light.
On the third of Now,
everyone started dialing up tomorrows,
released laughter and embraced
every future Now with braided voices
and sweat-slicked arms.
Each night Now the sky
came down to join us,
like an animal testing the scents.
On the fourth of Now
we saw magic inside ourselves
and blew gently the embers in each other.
On the fifth day Now transformed
into pieces of hours and sounds.
There was baying and mirth
and sweet fresh rubbing of skin on skin.
The sixth of Now saw us
plain and fearful, thrilled and drawn
to each other in new forever dreams.
On the seventh of Now
we redrew all our lines,
filled all the hollows, as Now expected.
At last the night Now
draped velvet and quiet
as hushed we prepared our ascent.
This night is that night Now.
It has unquenchable questions
and the same different beginning.
On top of morning Now
and all through evening Now
we waxed and shined the circle again
sipped each other’s songs
and touched old and new alike.
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Forwarded to me by my colleague Ray Gordezky, with whom I am part of a team looking convening people around polar bears in Northern Labrador and Quebec.
The Moon Speaks of Polar Bears
Hailey Leithauser
Some things are better defined
by what they are not,
as when snow heaping the world
replaces the world, becoming
no longer a rooftop, no longer a narrow
gravel shoreline or road,
even in times, in places,
no longer the black breathing
of the sea.
In this way the polar bear
stealing her difficult, beautiful life
from the ridges
and drifts, the colorless
plateau around her,
teaches her young to hunt
by sliding her belly
flat along the frozen light,
blunting her cloudlike
respiration, covering
with one comic paw
the dark flesh of her nose,
so well suited to her artifice
that the oily
seals collecting the ice
are pulled by an intimate
landscape, soundless
and ravenous and white.
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Comfort
Oh, the comfort–
the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person–
having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words,
but pouring them all right out,
just as they are,
chaff and grain together;
certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them,
keep what is worth keeping,
and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.
–Dinah Maria Mulock Craik (1826-1887)
Sweet to find that faithful hand in the space between me and the other.
via easily amazed.