The Bulb : Students of Inner Peace

Love’s face

has taken her place

she smiles from behind my eyes

she’s wearing me as her disguise

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That which is for you a poem for me is not,

that which is a poem for me for you is not,

that which is for you a truth for me is not,

that which is a truth for me for you is not,

that which is for you a peace for me is not

that which is for me a peace for you is not,

that which is for you love, for me is not,

that which is for me love for you is not,

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soft friend
I find you now
I find my end
in my blood-shot hand
in my fragile frame
I seek to stand
I write your name
with my stick in the sand
in the oncoming tide
my footprints are gone
pulled deep inside

the life that I see
Is the fruit on the tree
the bank has a branch
but the money is me

deep root of my heart
deep jewel on this ring
this marriage forever
this song
I will never
be able
to sing

Who doesn’t want to be fulfilled?

Who doesn’t want to feel love and peace?

Just recognize your own heartfelt kiss

and you will be satisfied and fulfilled.

IS.

I am.
Here.
The moment of Everything.
Wonder.
Life is soft.

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Summer is Earth on your Hands and Clay on your Feet.
There is a Gentle River that calls, making the journey sweet.

There’s something about connecting to the Planet we stand on; to the earth that yields our food, to the elements that make up the bread and bones of our physical existence.

The world we live in has become a maze of blinking lights and beeping appliances, taking us on a journey farther and farther away from our source, our origins, our internal drum-beat.

We amaze ourselves – again and again – by the return to Simple Roots, the immersion and re-immersion in the Sound of Us, the Place We Sprang From, the Fountain of Familiar Song that echoes deep in our own caverns.

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WARM HOUSES

__________________________________

By Melissa Gordon Rhine © November 2006

There’s a house

deep inside the woods

Where you and I

Can live out our days

Constantly amazed, that we found each other

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Palmero, Italy, July 2008

Hi Folks…

I am typing in the dark back of my hotel room in Palermo so as not to wake my roomate. The computer will go with her today and I want to get this to you, so I am writing. I cannot read my notes in this light, so I will start again so I can share with you – and savor my own memories, while fresh – of this amazing event which unfolded as a tale of old.

Corleone is not city like Palermo — indeed it is a small town. The bus ride took about 1 and 1/4 hours and way route was lined with grapevines and hayfields, beautiful mountains and a picturesque countryside.

Grown men baling and stacking hay waived at our bus, the way chlldren waive to train engineers in rural areas. The town square, named for 2 men who were shot because they stood up to the Mafia was smaller than a football field.

Chairs had been brought in and some bleachers at the back. They said this important event could have been held indoors, but that they wanted it in the open air where all who wished to could come. Their sincerity and genuine affection for Mr.Prem Rawat was evident and very touching.

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