Let Loose Your Words

Child Spirit

The words flowing through you
Are sourced in light
The more you share them
The greater the light will grow for all people

Let loose your words upon the hearts of man
Some may turn away
But those that are tuned in to love’s frequency
Will hear and they too will be inspired
To ensure the light of Source
Reaches those who stumble in the darkness

Let loose your words upon the hearts of man
That they may know Love

©SpiritLed 2015

Invisible

The well runs dry and, parched with fear,
I agonize that I, myself, may shrivel up,
run dry of heart-felt words, that in the end,
the new will once again be old, dwindling
on the page where the worn out and overused
go to seek their final solace, exhausted
from their time of service to the higher cause
of originating expressions of light,
inspiration, and heart-pouring sentiment,
the depth of inner being
spilled forth on public pages

I write my words for you,
my life laid platter-bare,
but what if, after all the words dry up,
there’s nothing there?  What if
I really was invisible?

©SpiritLed 2014

Collection of Words

One collection of words breaks
the camel’s back, upsets the order
of things, rocks the proverbial
boat and sets it sailing in a new
direction, not to foreign lands, but
waters well traveled and often
overlooked for what seems
to be finer things, a path that
appears to offer more, but actually
conceals darkness, a façade
parading as a savior, and because
you are so vulnerable, you hardly
feel the sting of the thousand tiny
cuts, until that one collection of
words causes you to bleed out

©SpritLed 2014

When Silence Ends

When, as a child, did you play happily
by the stream, and come singing home,
passionately sharing your adventures,
only for the beloveds to tell you, “Quiet!”

And when, in your classes, did you
confidently speak your truth, answer
their questions, paint your construction
paper masterpiece,  and the trusteds told you,
“It’s not good enough.”

And when did you feel the whisper of spirit
in your soul, gently guiding you on your way,
and you shared, and they laughed?

And when did you stop listening, painting, writing, speaking, trusting? 

And when will you decide that the darkness has
lasted too long, that the  passion of a new day
can no longer wait, lest  you tear free from your
own skin where you’ve been confined all these years?

That stumbling across stones and briars,
feet cut and bleeding, is preferable to the safe
and righteous path, where no pain, in fact
nothing at all, makes cuts into your soul?

When will you decide that fear of words
without real meaning will no longer be the
prison walls that demand freedom of the captor?

And when will you stoke the flames, when will you once
again tend to the spark, blow the breath of life into
the still-smoldering ashes, collect the branches and
twigs that have fallen in your path, burn them on
your altar, and fuel the dawning of reclaimed light?

© SpiritLed 2014

Sacred Spring

I once wrote what was on my heart
Without thought to form or line
Words flowed freely,
Pouring from me as if a long-ago built
Dam had broken, allowing the pent-up
Stagnant muck behind it to find freedom
Spilling over and rushing downstream
With a fierceness that warned observers
To step back lest they be caught in the torrent.

Behind the sludge, once loosened,
Free-flowed a clear stream of seemingly
Endless inspiration tapped directly from the Source.
Yet how quickly a newly-remembered spring
Is once again muddied by silt and debris.
To remain pure requires constant movement
Removal of garbage, purifying of the sacred water
That longs to move and change
Shape the forming, growing soul
Carve the being into that which
It was born to be.

Control

Poem 2 in the series…

It’s taken so long to get words on paper
The words come out
But they’re jumbled, messy
Thoughts form in my heart but get stuck in my mind
Swirling around, confusing and irritating my soul
Writing is my refuge, my soul’s escape
But my muse is fickle and dependent on an unhurried, uncluttered mind

So much life to live in only short spurts of time
The bending of time doesn’t happen so frequently
When I don’t give life over to Spirit.
I’ve tried to take control, to let earthly concerns dictate my heavenly path.
Control is the enemy of the soul;
It calls forth the ego, which reminds me where I’ve gone wrong,
Numbing my excitement for life