#4699 - Tuesday, September 4, 2012 - Editor: Jerry
Hi everybody. In my previous issue some links weren't
working and here they are:
A Guru in the Guest Room link is: http://www.amazon.com/Guru-Guest-Room-Vicki-Woodyard/dp/1936539578/ref=sr_1_1_title_1_pap?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1333224537&sr=1-1
Scott Kiloby's talks:
For each of us, I would say, there are two sides
to our nonduality story. There's the side of pain and
suffering and the side of freedom along with the reactions of people around
us when they see we are no longer known by our complaints and pain. These two
poems by Elizabeth, a poet from Cape
Breton, Nova Scotia, depict both sides. A third poem by Elizabeth makes
for an effective triad.
i dig at my skin til my arms are raw i wait by the phone
but you never call these are the things i cant forgive they call it endsville
where we live
if you look at the sky you can see the moon the newspapers
say that she died too soon there are cracks in the mirrors and holes in the
streets there are lies in your eyes, there is blood on my sheets
nothing was said that was ever done in endsville you cant
see the sun the playgrounds all are poison cracked where houses stood, there now
these are the things i cant forgive they call it
endsville where we live the air is wasted, no birds sing they fly aways on
theres nothing lost that cant be found these days i
stand on sacred ground with arms stretched wide, i scream to pray that someday
ill forget your name
where trees once stood are gnarled roots i fold myself in
solitude these are the things i cant forgive they call it endsville where we
The Lost Years (a ghazal)
We tracked her to a point, then she was lost.
years that passed, all trace of her was lost.
We thought that we had pinned down where she was.
did not last. All trace of her was lost.
Someone saw her standing on a bridge.
It happened fast.
All trace of her was lost.
They said that was the way that it should be.
stone was cast. All trace of her was lost.
Isabel, what have you done? How could you?
aghast. All trace of her was lost.
seashells gently drift
these white-foam waves,
this endless, rolling