God grant me the power of thanks
For all the blessings of life
For breath and voice to sing
For the coming of this spring
Small birds that sing to you
The passing of our brother Pete
These are the blessings to know
That life and death are gifts
each day we have the time to
celebrate this being here and now
this being of breath for peace
the plane of suffering is but one
aspect of the joy of living to
breathe the beauty of each moment
to give thanks for this our home
prayers for those that morn today
in far of places they bury the dead
what more can we say to live is good
to die is to chart the tides of tomorrow
thank you for my life for the gift
of song and word for the gift of peace
thank you for the moments of pain
to remind me of the goodness of being
for family friends dogs cats cows hens
thank you for love and letting go
when the lessons are learned again
for tall trees for water earth sky
for every nook and cranny of life
I give thanks for ancestors beyond
For the children coming to live well
For an end to war where nightmares
Get silenced by the sweet sound of
Peace for peace is a river flowing
May we who are here flow with beauty
Holding the reverence of each day
Holding the reverence of dying
Living each moment like our last
I give thanks for my breath
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Peter died this day Friday 25th February 2011
Your last breath was taken before noon
The lines of pain were lessened
Your face returned to peace again
Warrior spirit you endured long
Born with spinal bifida operated
Your body let you down from birth
You fought all your life to live
Intelligent witty and brilliant
That chip on your shoulder was
a big one to carry for those you
let love you Diane Darren Stacey
You grew up in a family of six
Third boy you wrestled them all
Demanded to be heard in the din
You carried the rosary beads of
Your grandmother and mother on
The lines of pain were lessened
Your face returned to peace again
Warrior spirit you endured long
Born with spinal bifida operated
Your body let you down from birth
You fought all your life to live
Intelligent witty and brilliant
That chip on your shoulder was
a big one to carry for those you
let love you Diane Darren Stacey
You grew up in a family of six
Third boy you wrestled them all
Demanded to be heard in the din
You carried the rosary beads of
Your grandmother and mother on
Thursday, February 24, 2011
My Friend Moshe
My friend Moshe wants to know about
everything he wants to know history
he wants to know about how all works
he cares and loves the whole world
My friend is turning ten years old
intelligent and he is full of love
he is a pure kind divine crystal boy
he is a gift for this world from God
everything he wants to know history
he wants to know about how all works
he cares and loves the whole world
My friend is turning ten years old
intelligent and he is full of love
he is a pure kind divine crystal boy
he is a gift for this world from God
Monday, February 21, 2011
Denman United Church
This do in remembrance of me
he took the bread and shared
this do in remembrance of me
This is my body that was broken
for you this do in remembrance
of me and my walk amongst you
He took wine and blessed it
this is my blood spilt for you
drink this in remembrance of me
Jesus wept often and torn asunder
the greedy bastards desecration
of the holy temple space abused
by money lenders and fornicators
He kicked some ass big time then
In the streets the empty handed
are forced to beg some coins for
food for cigarettes and whatever
they have lost home family comfort
they wander aimlessly everyday
they have lost all connection
to what we take for granted now
a warm bed an familiar kitchens
the spirit of the holy ghost
will guide you through thick
and thin Hail Mary full of grace
Jesus came to shatter peace
to challenge the power of evil
the story of Jesus begins in
the middle east and there it
will end as woman gather Peace
he took the bread and shared
this do in remembrance of me
This is my body that was broken
for you this do in remembrance
of me and my walk amongst you
He took wine and blessed it
this is my blood spilt for you
drink this in remembrance of me
Jesus wept often and torn asunder
the greedy bastards desecration
of the holy temple space abused
by money lenders and fornicators
He kicked some ass big time then
In the streets the empty handed
are forced to beg some coins for
food for cigarettes and whatever
they have lost home family comfort
they wander aimlessly everyday
they have lost all connection
to what we take for granted now
a warm bed an familiar kitchens
the spirit of the holy ghost
will guide you through thick
and thin Hail Mary full of grace
Jesus came to shatter peace
to challenge the power of evil
the story of Jesus begins in
the middle east and there it
will end as woman gather Peace
September 11th 2001
The day is brisk and cold
fresh as fresh can be in
sun clad bustling city
Oh New York the heart of
America on the Hudson river
My ancestor lies sleeping
in Grant's tomb overlooking
The day is just unfolding
morning light spills warmth
In his bunker death stalker
waits knowing not caring
his commanders are unseen
he waits with baited breath
what goes on at the airports
are passengers really loaded
into planes bound for death
Women children men innocent
No No No this did not happen
Why is this nightmare surreal
fresh as fresh can be in
sun clad bustling city
Oh New York the heart of
America on the Hudson river
My ancestor lies sleeping
in Grant's tomb overlooking
The day is just unfolding
morning light spills warmth
In his bunker death stalker
waits knowing not caring
his commanders are unseen
he waits with baited breath
what goes on at the airports
are passengers really loaded
into planes bound for death
Women children men innocent
No No No this did not happen
Why is this nightmare surreal
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Crystal Bowl Breaks
shards of crystal sever small artery blood
spurts on white surface as I scream
scream loud for help scream in pain
left hand struggles with the phone cord
who to call need stitches help me
loose car keys take farm truck out
down the wet dark country road driving
left hand to doctor's office lights on
feel blood pumping into cloth is red
injection freezes pain away in few minutes
Watch as doctor carefully inspects deep wound
tendon severed will I play guitar again
four stitches later artery still oozes
another stitch bleeding stops pain returns
the moment before this accident I raged
second finger right hand anger finger say
hold your tongue now keep finger safe
instant karma sees red blood splash everywhere
spurts on white surface as I scream
scream loud for help scream in pain
left hand struggles with the phone cord
who to call need stitches help me
loose car keys take farm truck out
down the wet dark country road driving
left hand to doctor's office lights on
feel blood pumping into cloth is red
injection freezes pain away in few minutes
Watch as doctor carefully inspects deep wound
tendon severed will I play guitar again
four stitches later artery still oozes
another stitch bleeding stops pain returns
the moment before this accident I raged
second finger right hand anger finger say
hold your tongue now keep finger safe
instant karma sees red blood splash everywhere
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Irish Times - Monday, January 31, 2011
St Brigit, whose feast day falls tomorrow, was a negotiator, peacemaker and early community activist. Just the kind of person we need now.
‘BRIGIT, WITH her white wand, is said to breathe life into the mouth of the dead Winter and to bring him to open his eyes to the tears and the smiles, the sighs and the laughter of Spring,” wrote Alexander Carmichael.
This weekend marks a turning point in the Celtic year. February 1st is the festival of Imbolc, announcing the arrival of new life: never more needed, and never more welcome.
The whole month of February is also called Mí na Féile Bríde (Month of the Festival of Brigit). In Celtic myth, Brigit was goddess of poetry, healing and smithwork: in Christian history she was an abbess and saint. Her traditions are preserved today in ritual, story, artefacts and her Christian Lives stories.
However, one aspect of Brigit seldom receives attention: Brigit the Weaver. Her cross was made of newly plucked rushes; her crios (girdle or belt), of new straw; and her cloak was of woven material. Now the opening up of Eastern Europe expands our understanding of the importance of this connection.
Before mass media and travel, and great political rallies, societies were held together by fragile threads, and weaving tools signified a key responsibility: that of weaving the precious webs of life and tending the bonds of community.
Throughout European mythology and folklore, the wise women were spinners whose advice was ignored at one’s peril. Images abound of European women leaders holding distaffs, spindles, weaving swords or spears which were not used for war making but for practical and ritual purposes.
Some of the few surviving relics of Saint Brigit are thought to be her weaving or embroidery tools, held in Glastonbury, England.
During Brigit’s festival, on February 1st, weaving or turning wheels was strictly forbidden in an honouring of Brigit the Weaver’s holy day.
Brigit was also a “peace weaver”, the name given to distinguished women in Old European times. Peaceweavers sometimes married into their enemy’s tribe, and their daughters carried gifts to weave peace. Such women had great negotiating skills and authority.
As with such peaceweavers, St Brigit caused mists to appear between opposing sides in order to prevent bloodshed. With her nuns she accompanied protesting warriors to the battlefield, rendering them unable to fight.
In historical times, the Abbesses of Kildare, who succeeded the historical 5th century Brigit, could pardon criminals encountered on their way to execution. They were revered figures of authority who were known as “Those Who Turned Back the Streams of War”.
In the 12th century, however, ominous events took place. Two abbesses of Kildare were raped, symbolically rendering them unfit for office. Twelfth-century church reform councils restricted sacramental offices to male priesthoods. The offices of weaver would be entirely superseded by the offices of sacrifiers, with wide-ranging social and political implications.
European grave excavations show that, whereas priestesses were buried with their spindles and distaffs, priests were buried with their knives. Subsequent European history, with its numerous wars, colonisations, and constant threat of violence, speaks loudly of the consequences.
Today, weavers and nurturers – community activists, parents, carers, and educators – continue to weave webs of empowerment. Their authority is fragile, rather than heroic. Their work is often unpaid, their views are unrepresented and their perspectives are silenced in the corridors of political or religious power.
This weekend, those in search of a new Irish spring, will celebrate the festival of Brigit and Imbolc at their holy wells, in their homes and communities.
Like community activists and nurturers, Brigit wove the fragile threads of life into webs of community. She invented a shriek alarm for vulnerable women travelling alone, she secured women’s property rights when Sencha, the judge, threatened to abolish them and she freed a slave-trafficked woman. Above all, her bountiful nature (23 out of 32 stories in one of her Lives concern generosity) ensured that the neart (life force) was kept moving for the benefit of all and was not stagnated by greed.
Today, the old religious and political structures have crashed all around us. In any new arrangements weavers and nurturers must be represented and their voices heard, loud and clear. No better woman than Brigit to inspire their efforts.
Mary Condren ThD teaches at the Centre for Gender and Women’s Studies, Trinity College Dublin, and is director of the Institute for Feminism and Religion: instituteforfeminismandreligion.org
St Brigit, whose feast day falls tomorrow, was a negotiator, peacemaker and early community activist. Just the kind of person we need now.
‘BRIGIT, WITH her white wand, is said to breathe life into the mouth of the dead Winter and to bring him to open his eyes to the tears and the smiles, the sighs and the laughter of Spring,” wrote Alexander Carmichael.
This weekend marks a turning point in the Celtic year. February 1st is the festival of Imbolc, announcing the arrival of new life: never more needed, and never more welcome.
The whole month of February is also called Mí na Féile Bríde (Month of the Festival of Brigit). In Celtic myth, Brigit was goddess of poetry, healing and smithwork: in Christian history she was an abbess and saint. Her traditions are preserved today in ritual, story, artefacts and her Christian Lives stories.
However, one aspect of Brigit seldom receives attention: Brigit the Weaver. Her cross was made of newly plucked rushes; her crios (girdle or belt), of new straw; and her cloak was of woven material. Now the opening up of Eastern Europe expands our understanding of the importance of this connection.
Before mass media and travel, and great political rallies, societies were held together by fragile threads, and weaving tools signified a key responsibility: that of weaving the precious webs of life and tending the bonds of community.
Throughout European mythology and folklore, the wise women were spinners whose advice was ignored at one’s peril. Images abound of European women leaders holding distaffs, spindles, weaving swords or spears which were not used for war making but for practical and ritual purposes.
Some of the few surviving relics of Saint Brigit are thought to be her weaving or embroidery tools, held in Glastonbury, England.
During Brigit’s festival, on February 1st, weaving or turning wheels was strictly forbidden in an honouring of Brigit the Weaver’s holy day.
Brigit was also a “peace weaver”, the name given to distinguished women in Old European times. Peaceweavers sometimes married into their enemy’s tribe, and their daughters carried gifts to weave peace. Such women had great negotiating skills and authority.
As with such peaceweavers, St Brigit caused mists to appear between opposing sides in order to prevent bloodshed. With her nuns she accompanied protesting warriors to the battlefield, rendering them unable to fight.
In historical times, the Abbesses of Kildare, who succeeded the historical 5th century Brigit, could pardon criminals encountered on their way to execution. They were revered figures of authority who were known as “Those Who Turned Back the Streams of War”.
In the 12th century, however, ominous events took place. Two abbesses of Kildare were raped, symbolically rendering them unfit for office. Twelfth-century church reform councils restricted sacramental offices to male priesthoods. The offices of weaver would be entirely superseded by the offices of sacrifiers, with wide-ranging social and political implications.
European grave excavations show that, whereas priestesses were buried with their spindles and distaffs, priests were buried with their knives. Subsequent European history, with its numerous wars, colonisations, and constant threat of violence, speaks loudly of the consequences.
Today, weavers and nurturers – community activists, parents, carers, and educators – continue to weave webs of empowerment. Their authority is fragile, rather than heroic. Their work is often unpaid, their views are unrepresented and their perspectives are silenced in the corridors of political or religious power.
This weekend, those in search of a new Irish spring, will celebrate the festival of Brigit and Imbolc at their holy wells, in their homes and communities.
Like community activists and nurturers, Brigit wove the fragile threads of life into webs of community. She invented a shriek alarm for vulnerable women travelling alone, she secured women’s property rights when Sencha, the judge, threatened to abolish them and she freed a slave-trafficked woman. Above all, her bountiful nature (23 out of 32 stories in one of her Lives concern generosity) ensured that the neart (life force) was kept moving for the benefit of all and was not stagnated by greed.
Today, the old religious and political structures have crashed all around us. In any new arrangements weavers and nurturers must be represented and their voices heard, loud and clear. No better woman than Brigit to inspire their efforts.
Mary Condren ThD teaches at the Centre for Gender and Women’s Studies, Trinity College Dublin, and is director of the Institute for Feminism and Religion: instituteforfeminismandreligion.org
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Cat Scan
She was just about to inject me with iodine
when I shouted stop and jumped up real fast
I am out of here I muttered to myself loudly
was I only remembering the last time there
when I was injected into a three day oblivion
Cat Scan...husband laughed and said OK now
Lets go find a cat and I will scan you over
make sure your safe and sound and healthy
call that healer on the phone he said to me
I was only blinded by my own indifference
when I shouted stop and jumped up real fast
I am out of here I muttered to myself loudly
was I only remembering the last time there
when I was injected into a three day oblivion
Cat Scan...husband laughed and said OK now
Lets go find a cat and I will scan you over
make sure your safe and sound and healthy
call that healer on the phone he said to me
I was only blinded by my own indifference
Red
The color of power of passion and love
Blood is the joy of life in our body
So many memories have I of that blood
Aunt Sarah fell down the stairs poe
pot in hand made of delicate delph
it shattered and sent her flying
it was not the blood I thought about
but her pee soaking into mother's rug
Blood is the joy of life in our body
So many memories have I of that blood
Aunt Sarah fell down the stairs poe
pot in hand made of delicate delph
it shattered and sent her flying
it was not the blood I thought about
but her pee soaking into mother's rug
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Open Wound (2)
She is about nine dressed for school
her uniform is a shade of dark navy
pleated skirt shirt tie and cardigan
her hair is shoulder length tangled
her skull is ripped open red gaping
she is unconscious her arm flinging
I stare in a deep shock immobilized
my eyes are drawn into that deep red
precise red bare deep forehead wound
clean gaping open red cavern space
Sister barks and orders me around
this is my first day in emergency
nurse get bandages lots of them now
I run the cupboard door is jammed
as the breath in me in fear jammed
The priest is comforting the parents
My tears came later in the hallway
I was crying for the memory of David
We found him under the back wheel
of the car it was dark thank God
we did not see his shattered skull
memory is a paradise with no escape
her uniform is a shade of dark navy
pleated skirt shirt tie and cardigan
her hair is shoulder length tangled
her skull is ripped open red gaping
she is unconscious her arm flinging
I stare in a deep shock immobilized
my eyes are drawn into that deep red
precise red bare deep forehead wound
clean gaping open red cavern space
Sister barks and orders me around
this is my first day in emergency
nurse get bandages lots of them now
I run the cupboard door is jammed
as the breath in me in fear jammed
The priest is comforting the parents
My tears came later in the hallway
I was crying for the memory of David
We found him under the back wheel
of the car it was dark thank God
we did not see his shattered skull
memory is a paradise with no escape
Open Wound
He said my back hurts please look
I pull up this sweater the wound
is gaping red and bleeding red
everywhere is red sticky blood
his life force oozing steady
into the car flashing hazards
maybe four miles to Saint Joes
park walk in sit down at a desk
she starts to ask the questions
name age address doctor I say
he needs stitches now for wound
not hearing she goes on ahead
I pull up his red bright shirt
sticky with matted blood look
she cringes puts down her pen
this is an emergency after all
I pull up this sweater the wound
is gaping red and bleeding red
everywhere is red sticky blood
his life force oozing steady
into the car flashing hazards
maybe four miles to Saint Joes
park walk in sit down at a desk
she starts to ask the questions
name age address doctor I say
he needs stitches now for wound
not hearing she goes on ahead
I pull up his red bright shirt
sticky with matted blood look
she cringes puts down her pen
this is an emergency after all
Clayoquot Sound
Earth sky forest cedar bark big trees
Eagles bears wolves live well here
rain endless rain damp soaking wet
moss deep smelling scented forest
silent standing years pass you by
pure great green eminence of life
everything is humming in one note
harmony great green magnificent
Clanging metal doors locked in
arms wrists bounded by clamps
freedom denied now by the law
prison cells metal toilet seats
Guards in uniform indifferent
the day grind in a metal world
eagle calling out swooping up
bear foraging natural world
wolves showing themselves now
oh breathe in the memory of
rain dripping through boughs
sweet scented rainforest time
Sheriffs boots shone all clean
fake perfume on a cheap whore
handcuffing terrified civilians
endless orders without reason
Locked up in empty metal cells
confined in windowless rooms
jeered taunted verbally abused
physically abused in hallways
Grinding geared logging trucks
carrying off ancient cedar trees
cut down in their prime of life
bear runs fearfully from his den
eagle cries as trees fall heavy
bigger than you can ever imagine
sad to see them lying down now
when they stood so tall so grand
wolves howl for their grandmother
Chainsaws don't care about life
Judge sits above the court staring
six months in jail he utters after
seeing bear swim under the bridge
six months in maximum security jail
the small plane flies me handcuffed
to Vancouver Airport then paraded
across the departure lounge people
close their eyes rather than see
a woman in handcuffs guarded by
a sheriff in a brown slick uniform
Mountain side bare of all life
nothing will grow here again
eagle bear wolf just a picture
in a library book doubted now
a far distant memory of freedom
locked in a school like jail
freedom denied by old man judge
will I haunt his dreams forever
cold clean crystal fountain stream
Eagles bears wolves live well here
rain endless rain damp soaking wet
moss deep smelling scented forest
silent standing years pass you by
pure great green eminence of life
everything is humming in one note
harmony great green magnificent
Clanging metal doors locked in
arms wrists bounded by clamps
freedom denied now by the law
prison cells metal toilet seats
Guards in uniform indifferent
the day grind in a metal world
eagle calling out swooping up
bear foraging natural world
wolves showing themselves now
oh breathe in the memory of
rain dripping through boughs
sweet scented rainforest time
Sheriffs boots shone all clean
fake perfume on a cheap whore
handcuffing terrified civilians
endless orders without reason
Locked up in empty metal cells
confined in windowless rooms
jeered taunted verbally abused
physically abused in hallways
Grinding geared logging trucks
carrying off ancient cedar trees
cut down in their prime of life
bear runs fearfully from his den
eagle cries as trees fall heavy
bigger than you can ever imagine
sad to see them lying down now
when they stood so tall so grand
wolves howl for their grandmother
Chainsaws don't care about life
Judge sits above the court staring
six months in jail he utters after
seeing bear swim under the bridge
six months in maximum security jail
the small plane flies me handcuffed
to Vancouver Airport then paraded
across the departure lounge people
close their eyes rather than see
a woman in handcuffs guarded by
a sheriff in a brown slick uniform
Mountain side bare of all life
nothing will grow here again
eagle bear wolf just a picture
in a library book doubted now
a far distant memory of freedom
locked in a school like jail
freedom denied by old man judge
will I haunt his dreams forever
cold clean crystal fountain stream
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