KING TIDE
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
LauraWeaver.org
TEMENOS
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.
©LauraWeaver
Meeting Eros
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.
©LauraWeaver
LauraWeaver.org
Down in the Roots
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
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
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
LauraWeaver.org
All Soul’s Day
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
LauraWeaver.org
©Laura Weaver
Deep Time
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
LauraWeaver.org
White Kites
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
LauraWeaver.org
Diving for Pearls
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
LauraWeaver.org
soulpassages 