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April 18, 2022

Every year the king tides come

long and strong against the coastlines—

the full spring moon pushing behind

towering swells and sheets of spray. 


Something in me is drawn close—

closer than is safe. Something in me 

wants to take that wave inside me 

like a gong and let it wash away 

all the debris—to be filled with the sheer 

open roar of white noise. 


I think there are angels

who line the arcs of these waves—

there is a taste of heaven in this tide—

some lust for the shoreline

some promise of the mortal press, 

the union of water and land—

the hard and soft, this holy third thing 

that is created here—

a breath we long to breathe. 


Something in the sheer pounding force 

shows me there are powers far greater

than my small mind that seems to find

so many threads in the weave to pick at.  

For now the waters rush up the riverbeds 

that usually flow down to the sea—here, 

there is an insistence on the fluid forces

that reshape us, either little by little 

or in a flood, in widening gyres.


Yes, how the life we lived 

a decade ago is now a distant song—

a set of waves we catch glimpses of 

in dreams— poems from old lovers,

fireflies through windows, cedar and lilac 

on summer wind, fresh honey on the tongue— 

all these notes that plummet us 

into the cave of memory.

But this is not us anymore. 


We are like crustaceans who must leave 

one home for another or die—

and we are so vulnerable in between. 

And yet, this is what is here—

these moving shifting currents of time,

the blossoming faces of loved ones,

the strange unexpected mysteries 

that arrive at our doorsteps 

when we least expect them. 


And so I turn to the King Tides 

and say yes, take all the old versions

of me back to the sea— for I am ready 

for this new shape of myself—

the one who is riding in on this full moon, 

while the calla lilies bloom on river banks 

and owls cry the night open 

and the angels ride on the backs

of the King Tide to re-make us again. 

©Laura Weaver


April 15, 2022

Come to the dream temples

where the gods of healing live—

Where the snakes of our primal knowing

flow up from the center of the earth

where our own lungs are filled 

with the breath of Dreams 

that show us the way 

our center is connected 

to the navel of the world.


Incubate a dream ~

call it to you with your attention 

let your body become the vessel 

for the Great Dreamer

who casts a net into the stars 

to catch the one golden fish 

that will speak the language 

of our soul, our own particular myth. 


For though in these times 

so much seems impossible— 

the reach of the Dreamer 

is infinite. And as day dreams 

and night dreams weave their tapestry—

we see that all that is falling away, 

all that is breaking down at the end

of empire is becoming

the fertile soil of the garden.


It is so easy to give up. 

It is so easy to have blind hope. 

But what is awakening

is some deeper medicine—

the way under the cities you can 

feel the river of fire running.      

The way underneath the structures 

of modernity you can hear

the web of roots speaking.

The way you can see 

the bonfires of the future lit

on the shores of this now. 


Come to the Dream Temples.

Incubate a Dream for the great waves

of generations to come. See them 

flowing out from this birthplace—

right here, from this pregnant moment.


Meeting Eros

April 3, 2022

Because after the snow and the rain

the redwing blackbird trills in the cattails

and the song of the inner life is born again. 

And from out of our dark caves

we stumble and call to each other 

wondering what has been transformed

in the winter months and who will now emerge. 

We are like bears bounding 

out of the mountain, slightly bewildered

blinking in the bright new light,

ravenous for the world. 


This is eros unleashed—

the seduction of apple blossoms –

petals raining on wet fertile earth,

hummingbirds unzipping the cerulean sky,

the glint of streamflow and bare skin.

How the full moon pours Maylight 

upon our upturned faces, 

and the breezes carry the scent of longing 

and melancholy, lilac and the spice

of all that is greening. 


We have died a thousand times 

and been reborn for this.

To lie back, even for a moment,

into the arms of the world—

to meet eros in every turn –

to be courted by you who stirs

the inner waters and tears apart

the old husks. Yes, you 

who makes us want to eat fire

and lay down in every meadow.


We have been waiting for your arrival

and now you are here,

no longer a Stranger, but a Storm–

you, who strikes the bell of awakening, 

so the whole body rings out 

with Delight.


Down in the Roots

January 20, 2022

All of our life we are taught 

to spread our wings like Icarus—

to fly as high as we can towards the sun.

Such is the way of a world 

full of transcendent gods.


The other day I climbed a thousand-year-old 

bristlecone pine, felt my small body nested 

in her wise branches. For a long while

I sat amongst her coiling roots

pushing up from hard earth, 

a labyrinth within the mountainside. 


We yearn endlessly for the infinite above us

when we are tapdancing on the cathedral

of the infinite just beneath our feet.

How the underland teems with conversations 

we forget to listen to. The electric network 

of mycelium, the rivers of magma, the tangle 

of rootlets, the flowing dark aquifers. 

All of these voices speaking.


What is it that your heart wants?

This is the question that sings from beneath.

Beyond the bright lights of the upper world.

Beyond the habit of endless activity. 

What is it that your heart really wants?


And what is it to grow the tree of our souls

with equal attention to the roots as to the branches?

©Laura Weaver

from the upcoming book The Pearl Sutras

Sing Back the Light

December 24, 2021

Because you have gone diving

into the darkness, explored the cracks

deep in the earth and swam

in the underground rivers of your soul….


Because you have traversed

the tunnels between worlds

to find your own heart’s pulse and longing….


Because you have written story after story

for lifetime after lifetime

and arrive here, now–quaking

in your naked truth.


Because you have walked through

fierce fires and watched parts

of yourself turn to ash—


Because you have alchemized your wounds,

metabolized your grief, and danced your love,

against all odds, in the midst of ferocious storms.


Because you have planted seeds

in the still heart of winter

and believed in the harvest

when you could see no signs of life.


Because you are a divine lover of the fertile dark,

and the Beloved mystery–and know the way

she teaches us to see with the inner eye—

and trust our inner compass.


Because you have the courage

of the first morning star….


Sing back the light.


Sing back the light

to the places that have forgotten—

sing back the light

to the places that are numb


Sing back the light

to all that has been desecrated

and abandoned

sing back the light

to the desperate and hungry ones


Sing back the light for the ancestors

who encircle us, whispering

instructions while we sleep


Sing back the light

to our children’s children’s children

who remind us –everything is at stake


Sing back the light

at this time of Holy Revelation


Sing back the light

that heals the wounds of separation


Sing back the light—because tonight

the whole world says—

I am tired,

will you stay with me

when the flame flickers

in the darkest moments of this passage?


Sing back the light–

because you are the medicine

the new world is thirsting for–

because you are a star traveling

at the speed of love–

because you wear the wings

of the Dove who takes flight now

in the darkest hour.


Sing back the light,

because we are a mighty forest

growing up through scorched ground—

Yes, we are the seeds

that open with just this kind of fire.


Sing back the light

because your song ignites my song

and the chorus is a swelling ocean of Awakening— 

and we are just beginning

to hear our own roar.


Sing back the light

because this is how we remember—

this is how we remember ourselves

past this ending

into the beginning –


For in the beginning

there was the Word

there was the Song

and we are here now

to sing ourselves Home.


Sing back the light!

©Laura Weaver

Drinking Starlight

December 6, 2021

In December, starlight pours

through the body like wine.

Long nights wrap around us—

a few hours of daylight,

a blink of the sun’s eye on the body—

and then back to the down and in

hibernation time.


Here, there is an inner fire that burns—

a stoking that can only happen

when the blaze of summer gives way

to velvet darkness, to the breath

of silence, to the wings of the sky

dropping feathers over earth.


All that once flowed up and out

of the trunk into the leaves, now flows

down and into the roots. And all that

lives below in the underland is finally

filled and revitalized. The rivers

under the rivers. The seas under the seas.

The mountains under the mountains.

The heart beneath the heart.


This is where the wanderer goes now.

Here, is the wildest territory

we could ever discover. Trackless.

A place where no map can guide.

Here we find the ancient handprints

of our ancestors on cave walls

reaching through time, reaching.

Here we find the paintings of horses

running across stone in the glow

of our own inner light.


In this place, the sound of a single

tone is enough to feast on—for all

is spun back to its essence. In these days

we hum a song strung from the notes

between the notes. We write stories

that live between the lines of narrative.

We dream with dark matter.

We lean into. Listen into.


In winter, the starlight pours

into the body like wine. Drink deeply—

for our very lives depend on it.

~Laura Weaver

All Soul’s Day

November 2, 2021

Tonight the ancestors circle close

and candles flicker between worlds

where souls pass to and fro. 

I have heard them coming and going 

murmuring prayers, humming songs

that come from the center of the earth. 


There are those who tend the portals

through time. There are those who dwell

in the canyons, caves, and lakes 

who sing the whole world into being 

again and again. There are those who 

sit around the hearth fire at the center 

of the universe and weave the next story.

There are those who hold the drumbeat

through the rise and fall of empire. 

There are those who 

know that death is a doorway 

and life a continuum. 


Tonight the ancestors circle close—

and we who have forgotten how 

to tend the holy are being asked to remember.

To clear the patterns that have twisted 

the essence of our lineage. To make amends.

To bring honey and balm to the places 

in ourselves that have carried

wounds and atrocities. 

To call down the blessings of the line

that reimagines itself through our living. 


For in our bones we know how to listen

for the true names of things—

how to quicken the relationship between

our hearts and the heartbeat of the forest—

just by paying attention. 

How to notice that when we truly see, 

we are also being seen

by the eyes of the mountain.

In our bones, we know how 

to awaken the sleeper within.


Some say all the pains of the world,

all the great imbalances of our time

come from the restlessness 

of the unrecognized ancestors—

from the reckoning that will haunt us 

until we look into the Great Mirror 

and see ourselves as one in a long line

of beings spiraling through eternity.

Until we see ourselves as ancestors

who tend the generations we cannot yet know.


For we too will pass in and out of bodies—

through the hallways of time—

and be called upon by our grandchildren’s

grandchildren to light the way 

for a little while with a lantern

the size of the moon. We will be asked 

about the magic of old—that most exquisite 

ordinary magic of seasons and light and seeds.


Tonight, the ancestors circle close 

and the fires speak in their tongue.

Lay the table with marigold and pomegranate,

with scarlet leaves, seed pods and pumpkin.

For together we are already dreaming

the next year’s arc. Together 

we are already dreaming 

the world to come. 

~Laura Weaver

©Laura Weaver

Deep Time

August 23, 2021

Will you plant seeds
in the empty dirt lots
for the generations you will never see?

Will you reach through deep time
and touch the fingertips of cave dwellers
drawing horses on the walls in ochre?

Will you re-wild the desecrated spaces
that have forgotten the ways they were
once adorned with necklaces of praise?

Will you go to the sacred springs
to drink the wise waters
that run from glaciers to tongue?

Will you breathe the breath
of the original tides back into the oceans
that no longer know how to sing?

Will you put your ear to the voices
in the layers of canyon stone
that have been unheard for eons?

Will you lay naked by the high country lake
in the jewelbox of paintbrush
and make love to the ancient sun?

Will you recognize the quantum
entanglements that live between you
and Venus and the perseid showers?

Will you make kin with the bristlecone pine
and taste the blue sap of she who has stood
a thousand years guarding this valley?

Will you dream back the vast canopies
of the rain forest that once burned
when the world had forgotten its true name?

Will you plant seeds
that will remember you
when you are gone?

©Laura Weaver

White Kites

August 18, 2021

with great love, for David who flew on on August 14, 2021

*Note: A kite is a raptor, similar to a hawk

We walk barefoot over warm earth—

you with a walking staff, leaning into me 

for balance. Through the just plowed fields, 

under the old fence, across the low sway

of stream trickling, because drought 

has been on the land for years now. 

What it is to love and pray in these times 

that the ancient ones have sung about, 

have prophesied, for centuries.


And now, these days are here, and we are here.

And as we stand in the burnished summer fields

of waist high golden grass and chicory,

as we speak of the presence of illness 

in both of our bodies, of what it is to live

with the ally of death on our shoulders—

of how we feel the pulse of the divine life force 

pumping through every cell of our beings –

first one white kite*, then another, 

and then a third converge above us

in a holy trinity—like the triple spirals 

in the Celtic lands of our ancestors.


They cry out, they swoop and dive and circle 

in this dance of three—like you and me 

and the holy spirit—and a doorway 

between worlds opens. And their wings

catch the light in rainbows, carve the air, 

and their cries seem to say to us—

there is no death, there is no death—

there is only this miraculous arrival

here in the center, here in the communion of Now,

here where two or more hearts gather 

in my name— in the name of the Great Love 

that weaves through our bodies and beyond.  


And I know then that no matter

where our destinies take us, 

no matter how long each of us has 

in these mortal temples—

that this communion is eternal 

and that we will always find each other

in the doorway where the three kites fly—

our feet in the soft dust,

our faces lifted in awe.  

©Laura Weaver

Diving for Pearls

July 24, 2021

The way, within us, the grit 

forms the pearl. You know how this goes.

First the irritation. Something is not right!

And then the way we learn to soothe—

to grow something new from the seed

of what agitates.  


The way the sting

can be a medicine. Or a toxin 

an intoxicant that reveals

the God inside. Or the piercing 

the entry place for a new song. 


Dive into that sweet ocean within

and find the treasure boxes 

spilling over with pearls! 

Bless the grit 

that brings forth 

your own magic. 

from the upcoming book “The Pearl Sutras”

©Laura Weaver

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