Poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

Buttery Grace

When love is real,

it is easy –

effortless in its appearance,

warm and yummy,

like buttery grace.

It comes from the beyond,

much like inspiration does –

and wisdom is infused

within all its practicalities.

It simply makes sense.

It feels like the sweetest hug.

It sounds like a soothing tide on the move.

It looks like a rose in bloom, and

has the aroma of

bread in the toaster.

It calls to you like bird song in the morning.

These are the measures 

of love that is true.

When you have it,

you know, and

trust becomes the glue.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

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Poem · Poetry

Transitioning

 

When in an unfamiliar place,

you are on your way.

It usually comes with lots of tension.

You become unsettled,

and maybe even a little bit scared.

Transitions are that rocky time

when your usual patterns are useless

and you have to allow for

change.

The big ones are literally

earth-shattering,

setting you off kilter,

making you feel raw and

vulnerable.

But when you get to the other side,

you are in that shiny spot of

All New.

You have grown new muscle, and

you are reborn.

When this freedom flowers,

you realize that

the pain of change

was nothing but 

the peeling of the layers

that are no longer needed.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

Poem · Poetry

The Body Knows

 

You bark at me

when I am off kilter –

when you don’t get what you need.

I can hear you 

scratching at my door

seeking urgent attention.

I get in my head

and forget you need me, too,

and I need to be present.

Like a caged cheetah,

your tension tells me

that something is amiss.

Gradually, through your constant blabbering,

I get the message.

I learn to listen to you.

Your complaining wakes me up:

This pain, that stiffness, is not you. Stop and see.”

I open my eyes,

look deep within,

and find there is more.

I can change my way of being.

Peace is born.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

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Poem · Poetry

Be Still And Know

Everyone has their special brand

of distraction and

dis-ease – that state of mind

that disguises and deters from

all the goodness

right in front of us.

Sometimes,

just stop yourself.

Tell that wrangling mind

Enough already!”

And then,

do the shift.

Laugh a little, and

forgive yourself for being

quite human.

And then trust that

you can heal yourself

with right thinking…

for your suffering –

no matter what it is,

comes from all the stories

you have made up

in your mind.

That stuff is not real –

but the pain that comes,

is.

Focus, instead,

on what is true.

Your job is to open yourself to

the things that last –

and to hold onto 

those principles

with your whole being.

When you learn this,

the problems disappear

and you are 

whole again.

Stop living the fiction

and arise to become

who you really are.

This is where your freedom is.

Be well –

with all your heart,

and your mind, too.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, June 2018

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Poem · Poetry

Big Girl Pants

I noticed her struggle.

It was one of those days when

the burden of work, life, and

responsibility 

made her bow low,

even as she quickly moved about.

She was weary –

maybe even in pain,

her eyes with the dark circles below which

appear regularly now,

despite daily application

of concealer.

She kept going,

kept producing,

despite her burden.

                  I’ve got my big girl pants on, she said.

I could empathize

because I get tired, too.

I understand how hard it is to stop

and just be –

to observe the blessings

along the way.

Perhaps one of the perks 

of getting old

is that as responsibilities

and requirements

fall away,

we can finally 

rest.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

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Poem · Poetry

It Happens…

 

….. if we are one of the lucky ones, that is.

We get older.

When did this natural reality –

with wrinkles in the mix,

become a source of shame?

I admit it,

I struggle with the mirror.

We, me and the mirror, have a daily dialogue which

is too personal to share…

For this reason, 

I try to keep my glasses off

when near a reflective surface,

like a mirror or window,

that is how silly of a woman I can be.

I am angry that I was taught

to be self-conscious, evaluative

on a daily basis.

Why do we do this to women, to girls?

I marvel how men could care less.

Their freedom is awesome

and also more affordable.

And as a spiritual woman,

I am embarrassed I still struggle with all this.

I know I go deeper than all that.

So, I am learning to embrace my wrinkles,

and all the rest of it –

as a woman in my fifties.

This is just another example of

how I must get out of my own way

in order to be

the wonderful creation

I was meant to be –

so I can be free, too.

Therefore, 

give me laughter,

give me love,

give me purpose,

and humility, too.

Bless me with health.

That is all I really need.

I  will take care of myself

as best I can,

and let go of the rest

with grace.

Life is way too short

and I know too well

where this all heads.

But I am not there yet.

My wrinkles tell a story…

the story of me.

Amen to that.

Copyright@ Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

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Poem · Poetry

In But Not Of

 

I belong to God.

The fabric of my being is

knitted with the golden threads

of love and divine insight.

The roots of my tree reach

to the depths of all there is.

The heart of my heart 

is God’s heart –

open wide with compassion and pain

brave enough to heal 

the brokenness within and beyond me.

I am a wave on the shore,

connected to the ocean of God’s Love 

and presence,

washing gently on the world but

separate from its shores.

I reflect both the sun and moon,

inviting a way out

of the darkness – 

simply by shining.

This is my true nature.

When I find myself dragged into

pain and drama,

the pull of ego and interaction,

I remember who I am

and I am lifted up

and out.

True freedom and peace arrive,

and I am whole.

 

Copyright@ Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

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Poem · Poetry

We All Die Our Own Way

We may wither and bend

like a broken flower,

close to life gradually

and fall quietly,

nourishing the life around us

as a life well-lived.

Or, we may get chopped down

violently, like a tree in its prime,

shaking the foundations.

How we die

is not up to us.

“I thought it would be easier somehow,”

said the patient.

One wonders if

the amount of presence we give to

the life we have now

informs and shapes

our own death, which waits…

It seems a courageous choice

to consider.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

Poem · Poetry

Pure Presence

You look at me with eyes of love

and complete attention.

You gracefully place your body

next to mine,

molding into me

for complete contact.

There is no space between us –

only pure presence.

As you relax and soften,

so do I.

Your purr

motors my heart to joy.

Your headbutts

nudge me firmly to awaken

to the affection in this moment.

Your eyes,

your eyes…

invite me to deepen

and embrace the music

hidden in my heart.

You bring God to me

and I am blessed.

I love you for that.

Eventually, you move away

to what is next for you.

Your work is done.

Copyright© Cynthia Cady Stanton, 2018

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