Do I have a butterfly in my head instead of brains?

Happy to share with you that three poems of mine are on Pyrokinection :)

http://www.pyrokinection.com/

I dedicate the first of the poems 'Home is where the wasteland' to all victims of violence, direct or indirect. This poem speaks of the possibility to find peace, 'Free from the broken fragile minds
tearing open each other's bodies
with contrary dreams.'

I think the time is now..

Do you think poetry can add to peace? I can say the writing itself can bring peace to me. It brings people peace to do what they love. Do what you love! Be what you love!

Violence is caused by thinking in opposites. By thinking there is someone or something to blame when we suffer. It seems more easy to put the cause of our suffering somewhere outside of ourselves, so we can be angry without having to hurt our self, our ego. But you know what? Anger always hurts the self, because we are indeed everything we see.  I sometimes get sad about things I can not see but I wished for to be here. Deep down I know, this is inspiration! What is lacking for you? What do you want to see more? Do it! Be it! If you see there is no one believing in what you wish to see? Believe it! Be the believe!

Believe only turns into radicalism when there is anger, when there is blame. Leave others out of your believe! Leave them whole as they are! Add something, but don't destroy. Be a color-pencil not an erasor! Do I have a butterfly in my head instead of brains because of thinking all the world needs to be a better place is a bit more of creative therapy with color-pencils? Or in case of very bad anger, big cans of dirty paint to smudge an immaculate white wall with?

Here I am, possibly believing 'nonsense' by being naïve, but hey, at least it's harmless. At least there is beauty left where there is pain. For some reason, when I write after hearing about suffering in the big world, I always tend to write about beauty. How it is still there. How free we are. Free, the wild souls flutter. Above it, away from it, through it, colourful, beautiful. It is impossible to capture an artist.

Please share and comment. I reach out to people. I write this warm hand, that Susan Sherman describes in her poem 'Light', where you can here read an extract from:

If a poem were a hand, if it were alive, warm. If it could
reach out. If it could enter places I cannot. If it could do things
that make me afraid....

There is this thing that changes, that allows change to exist.
The poem is part of it, is its voice, this thing that is.

Any struggle is first that deep feeling that grows from
the center of a person, a people. The poem is not separate from
me, from the person I am. It is not the poem, but I, who feels.
It is not the poem, but I, who loves.

To hope, to have hope, to be hopeful, to hope against hope,
to believe in change, to believe in the possibility of change,
to know when to stay. And when to leave.
***
Thanks to Vinita Agrawal for sharing this touching part of a poem in the Woman Inc Poetry Group.

Say yes to poetry for (inner) peace, listen to your voice to stay sane. Speak out what he or she says, write it, whisper it into the bark of a tree. Be a yes to beauty where there is pain. Free yourself, and 'the rest'  which is also you, will follow.

The Daughter's Space

She is in my centre, clings herself into red earth’s body,
drinks the forest in through the cord, the leafs song
of oxygen, gathers strength with the natural turning
of the wheel.

She stepped into her absence.
The open space where I held my breath
when the crow screamed before it left.

My virgin’s feet drawn to the middle
of where my sister got burned,
island of life in the ocean of death.
I catch my womanhood
and her soul like a flame.

Emptiness recites for me, the mother concept.
The beating fever of life finds her home
whether or not I am.


A little note to this poem: most of you may know that I am expecting a baby at the moment. The due-date is in three weeks and a bit. In our case, modern technology has failed to convince us of the sex of the baby. Twice we've heard it is 'likely to be a boy'. Our baby just didn't want to show and started kicking whenever we asked the women's doctor to look, guided by our impatient curiosity to get to know more about our child. Even though I have never recognized it myself I started to think of the baby as a boy.. Whenever I write poetry though, this baby turns out to be a girl. Also the father of the child has been writing about 'her' already before conception.. Do you think the 'girl' in the writings is just like a metaphor or is this child really a girl? Here's a little cliff-hanger on a poetry-weblog.. ;)

This coming weekend I will be celebrating my Blessingway-party and one of the days after it I'll come up with a blog about that! Be prepared that most of the postings here will be about my pregnancy and baby. I will be happy to share some pictures of the belly painted baby belly, the women's circle, the flowers, the baby, the birth-card... If you prefer poetry only, please tell me, than I will keep them images for myself!

Love and beauty,
Laura

Where I am tired the garden revitalizes me with her soft paw-massage

 

Hedgehog in the fog

Some days we look into the face of darkness, or feel it's shadow hanging over us.
Yesterday was such a day. Someone dear to me but physically miles away, had to go through something horrible.

Let's call her the hedgehog. The hedgehog had to go through the horrible, let's call it fog. She did not have much of a choice, the fog just came over her, the way all living things have day after day with all kind of weather coming over them. This fog though was particularly thick and as the hedgehog swallowed it she could not imagine there would be another side. She could not imagine that there would be a visible landscape ever again. Living innocently in the present, with her wide open eyes there is nothing but fog in the middle of the fog.

So I got a telephone call, saying the hedgehog I love got dissolved in the worst kind of fogs. And the worst thing was: there was nothing I could do. From that moment on I felt like I was my hedgehog, I was the fog myself. Wherever I went and saw beings I saw my hedgehog and I felt so sad about her. I felt like I had not seen her until now I could not..

Today I watched Hedgehog in the Fog on YouTube, shared with me by a poet-friend I only know from Facebook. It made me burst in to laughter again and again. It made me aware of the love and beauty of my dear hedgehog. Now I can't see her, but I can be happy that she is there. I can be happy for what is there, the way it is. My hedgehog has placed everything where it belongs, in perspective. With a heart that lives in the middle of the fog, the planet of love in her own beautiful centre. How can she who is one not find herself again?

Today I read Frederick Leboyer's beautiful book 'Atmen, singen, gebaeren' (in german). It is about using breath and voice to stay above the waves (the birthing-contractions). A voice, a tone that feels like 'yourself' is all that is needed to not let the ship strand. While reading I experienced again, feeling freshly born in the simple beauty of a day.

Today I met the midwife on the playground who was there when I gave birth to my first child, a bright shining daughter. The last year I accidently met her was almost a year ago. Whenever I see her my heart skips a beat! Not only did she help to give my daughter, another beloved hedgehog of mine, a peaceful way through the 'hurricane' of birth, also she gave me the most gentle birth of becoming a mother I could possibly imagine.

Today I can imagine, she will get through, my beloved hedgehog.. Today the world appeared to me as a magical theatre filled with signs about getting through.

In this video clip the hedgehog is so happy in the end to listen to the bear, her friend who reminds her that without her, he can't look at the stars the same way. Without realising it, she has always been the one who knows the way, is the way.

My love goes out to you, my prickly sweetheart..