Poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

Short and Sweet

To be a poet,

wake up with wings poised to 

float on your morning breath.

Let your eyes open as windows

that God may see.

Turn on the inner flame

and alight the senses.

Choose to be the love

you seek to understand.

Be watchful as

the words arrive

and sing faithfully

from the heart of your soul.

Surrender to how

they change you

as the poem 

is born.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

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Poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

Word Provider

 

Often when I sit to write,

the decision is spontaneous.

I may be in my usual routine,

and then the urge bubbles up.

A thought comes…

        Maybe I will write.

Then I simply position my fingers on the keyboard

and out it flows.

My head, heart, and fingers

are connected to that larger reality

that usually slips through the fingers.

It is an act of faith –

to put myself in the position

to be available

and receive.

I trust the words will come.

And when they do,

I am one with Inspiration

and being 

me.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

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Poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

Loss For Words

 

When I have a moment

or three,

I like to sit

and light a candle.

I open my laptop

and position my hands…

my fingers are at the ready.

I wait for the words.

Sometimes they arrive

rather quickly.

Lately,

for reasons only my soul knows,

not so much.

I wonder why this is so.

It has been a challenging time

of late

with a health issue here –

relationship issues there…

My mind and heart

have been busy

and not in the good way –

the way of truth and inspiration.

My spiritual training teaches me

that my distractions of late

are just that –

DISTRACTIONS.

They have a quality of

friction –

and friction usually 

rubs the wrong way.

It can also hurt and harm

when it keeps going

and the tender places

get wounded.

My task now

is to reorient myself.

It is time to surrender

in faith

and allow myself to be lifted

out and beyond

anything that keeps me

from being 

who I really am.

It is time to heal.

So, no more scratching the itch

of all that seems

to be rubbing –

keeping me focussed

on the discomforts of life

that are not real.

Instead, I will mindfully

let go of all that.

It is time to step aside

from the personal

and be here wholeheartedly

as a channel for the divine –

to be a beneficial presence.

What could possibly be better?

It takes practice –

and attention –

moment to moment.

This is not what we are taught

but it is available to us

as the literal, 

ANSWER-

the one we all seek.

I speak the truth.

The fact I know that

means I am on my way…

So, here I go.

Perhaps this larger

expanse of view

will bring 

my words back to me

so I can be helpful

to others

as the divine reaches

through everything I offer

as an expression

of divine love –

always available,

but not always seen.

It seems a beautiful endeavor.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

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Poem · Poetry

This Golden Crack

Like a canvas

before the artist’s brush,

we get our markings.

Our unique hues

and textures

create the picture 

of what seems to be true

about us.

But sometimes life is lived

more like a ceramic pot –

one that gets cracked

along the way…

shattered, even –

the mending of which

is complicated work.

It takes the artist’s hands

and keen attention to detail

to put the pieces together,

beautifully.

It is a necessary process.

This breaking,

followed by the recognition of the mess,

enables us to be held

and mended.

When we submit to the

Master’s hands,

and allow for the

hard work to be done,

we are fashioned anew.

Our cracks become golden

and essential. 

We are forever changed, and

we shine with humble strength

from our broken places.

Like the Velveteen Rabbit,

we have been loved into

becoming more real.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

Tea bowl Tea bowl
; Japan; 17th century; Stoneware with clear, crackled glaze, stained by ink; gold lacquer repairs.; H x W: 10.5 x 12.2 cm (4 1/8 x 4 13/16 in); Gift of Charles Lang Freer
Poem · Poetry

Signal Lights

With the guiding of inspiration,

they come through me,

pointing the way.

Their clarity can be piercing –

sharp and brilliant,

beacons through my

self-created fog.

I wonder at how

they show up-

just when I need them the most.

They are like friends who

know when a smile or a hug

is needed.

And, in the same way,

they are cherished, unconditionally.

This is what my poems mean for me.

I help create them, but

do not quite live them yet.

They love me still.

Funny, how words create worlds…

the beyond is brought forth

in the same way

a kiss presents affection.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

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Poem · Poetry

The Poems

You arrive as whispers

calling sweetly in my ear,

causing me to pause and ponder –

leading me forward.

It is like the dawning of hunger

when, no matter what I am doing,

I can think of nothing else.

The urgency must be addressed.

Words must be shaped,

voiced –

labored over and delivered.

Inspiration has called to me.

Each time she visits,

I come alive a little more.

I am born

again and again –

in a blanket of words.

Why me?

I sometimes wonder…

but I open to her, anyway –

and learn to surrender again

to her message

and to what is real.

The whole dance we do

creates a hunger

that builds.

I want more.

In the meantime,

I live the poems I have.

I hold them close to me –

with pregnant anticipation,

I wait for the others.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

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