Poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

We Are Needed

 

It takes just a moment

to pause and let go –

to notice.

Presence always waits patiently for us.

She is found in the smallest of things…

 

The slow drip of water 

off a rock

which holds the riverbank in place….

Presence is there.

 

The thought that gives birth to the word that spawns a tear…

Yes.  There.

 

In that moment between

the reach of your hand

to the lifting of another –

Or when the homeless man 

catches your eye and

a generous smile blooms…

There!

 

How short our time is!

We squander Presence like we waste water…

We forget to look,

to hear the slow drip,

to speak the unspoken word.

We get lonely in this poverty

of connection.

 

Sad, isn’t it?

This slip of a rose through the grasp of our fingers.

We ignore the dropped flower

and miss out on the bouquet,

the colors…

And then we grieve the loss of 

a flower to cheer us –

it’s brilliance unwitnessed.

 

Love is like this , too.

It can hide beneath.

 

So, let’s elevate the 

Presence and the Love, too.

For without them,

we aren’t even here.

And we are so needed.

 

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2019

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Poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

Big Love

 

When one of us is lost,

all that is needed is the touch of another

whether to tender skin or the wounded heart.

For none of us are perfectly on track

all the time, are we?

So we help one another to steer and soften.

 

When one of us is sick,

it is time for a cup of Big Love –

we fill it with grace mixed with empathy

so the sickness cannot take root,

causing the soul to wither,

in a feeling of aloneness.

 

If disconnection broadens, 

it is time to seek your teacher –

that wiser one who loves as God loves,

without measure, and

 while nurturing the current lesson to birth.

A good teacher mirrors your imminent Spring 

as you struggle to blossom

and see.

 

This is what Big Love looks like –

its embrace feels like freedom on the wing.

Its presence is grace realized

as sibling souls open and

reach out to you,

sparking Truth and Light

so you can be healed.

 

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2019

 

Photo credit to Gary Stanton, my husband, who also gave me the mug recently when I was sick – the inspiration for this poem.  Thank you, Honey!  xoxo

 

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Poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

Enough Already

 

Don’t worry about the direction

ahead, or the matters of the day.

Simply place your hand

on your own heart

and feel the love there – love 

that was given long ago

that you may have forgotten.

 

Don’t be the person who

allows busyness to run

over your life, squashing it

with good intentions, and

all that learned stupidness which

pulls us away from

this preciousness given.

 

Remember those moments

when God has broken through –

those glimpses when you

knew beyond a doubt that

you are made of the same stuff

as the flowers and trees, and

forever is possible – that 

Love is You, and 

You are Love.

 

Let yourself glow, please.

For those who do, are

born in true freedom.

For in stepping aside from 

the pettiness of all our 

misdirected ways, we can

float like a feather

on the breath of God.

 

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2019

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Poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

Nurture

 

You are but a drooping plant

with a bowed-browned bloom.

Your light is not reflecting –

the shadows grow.

Grief visible like this

is more easily watered.

It calls out for nurturance.

When hidden,

it festers 

and roots into every pore,

making us sick –

stealing the colors.

This is the usual way…

for we are all good at facades

and hiding.

We smile brightly,

despite the pained cracks within.

    Where does it hurt, my friend?

Show me the place

and tell me the story.

Dig out the pain from

your hardened crusts – fashionably covered.

Lift your voice and let the cry be born.

Let me know what is needed.

Take the covers off

and allow the hurt to move you

to a new place of freedom.

All is well, and

I am here with you.

You belong.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2019

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Poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

When Loved Ones Return

Its a strange gathering –

all of us in our cars at the airport

anxious and watchful for that familiar smile and gait

to be seen among the masses…

Everyone is searching for that connection

to home.

It is like the perfect metaphor for life…

for daily we get lost in the crowdedness

of others in our space

as we journey anxiously –

searching and expectant –

until we are finally recognized, and

our place in the midst of it all

is secured.

We understand where we belong.

Now parked and watchful –

cell phones busy with directions,

our eyes finally meet.

Once bags are stowed, 

and the heated car is filled,

the lively chatter of connection begins.

We navigate the traffic,

and reach the hearth and tree alighted,

exhausted in a happy way.

My daughter releases her bag to the floor –

“I didn’t hug you yet.”

Arms wrap around,

and eager hearts touch.

Christmas has arrived.

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