Let the creative word romp begin! Our exercise will be simple, yet challenging. I invite you to write one devotional poem per day for the next seven days about whatever moves you spiritually that day in whatever poetic format the words emerge.
Your goal for the next seven days is to let loose a little- step into the creative flow and allow your Bardic Soul to speak. What we will not be going for is perfect, publication-ready material. I know whenever I undertake something like this, I have to remind myself of that. And I have to muzzle that horribly devious little fellow known as my Inner Critic in order for my Courageous Bard to spring free.
Poetry is the creative form which attempts to capture in words and sound the mystery which lies beyond language. We are all capable of writing poetry.
~from Priestess of Avalon, Priestess of the Goddess by Kathy Jones~
Look for divine poetic inspiration in any and everything around you during next week. Step with intention through your days. Let the whole world sing to you. Dance with language- FEEL it move you! Do not bludgeon yourself with repeated editing. Write, share, and be brave enough to let it be.
If you’re having a hard time getting started, try picking either a theme for the week/day or a form for the week/day. Try telling yourself something like “I’m going to write about apples this week,” or “I’m going to write haiku this week.” Sometimes giving yourself a bit of structure will open the way. HOWEVER– give yourself permission to deviate from that structure if you find yourself moved to later in the week.
Also– it is perfectly ok if you write a poem and hate it or think it’s awful. Sometimes we have to move through the awful to get to the other side– it can be a vital part of the creative journey. If you’ve ever read Julia Cameron, this is the idea behind her Morning Pages exercise. Sometimes we have to get that stuff out first, like skimming the broth of our Creative Cauldron. If you write a poem and hear yourself saying something like “This is: (insert self-degrading adjective here- horrid, cheesy, garbage, etc.)” try repeating the following mantra “(Insert the same adjective here) is creative too.” a few times. Then let go, get a good night’s rest and move on to tomorrow’s poem.
I invite you to please feel free to post your poems here on this post each day for the next seven days. I will share my work too! I like doing this because it keeps me accountable for my work during the exercise. I also like the perspective it gives me on the poem. Sometimes after posting it, I see something in it I did not see before. All readers are welcome to contribute, whatever their personal faith tradition. I also encourage you to feel free to share your thoughts, frustrations, creative processes, etc. here too. Cheerlead yourself, ask for support, encourage each other, etc.
Most of all—flow.
*********
Here is my first poem to share with you, today:
Witness
Today I bore witness to the bittersweet kiss
of sky-born tears
meeting scorched earth
Where three days prior, raging tongues
of flame consumed every
blade of parched and brittle grass.Today, speckled trees- survivors- spread wide
roots in black, black chardness and
turned dazed and bleary leaf bits towards
too long absent gray, soft, dark
unmistakable rumbles that brought
past and future to wet, ecstatic present.Blessed be the rain.
*********
I look forward to sharing creative sacred space with you, my fellow Courageous Bardic Souls!
Kate Brunner is a writer, healer, ritualist, & member of The Sisterhood of Avalon, studying at the Avalonian Thealogical Seminary. She is an American expat, living in Queensland, Australia and homeschooling her children, with the world as their classroom. Before motherhood, Kate earned a Bachelor of Arts from Tulane University, while studying Economics, International Relations, & Religion. She served four years as a logistics officer in the US Army, after which, Kate became a doula and holistic birth educator. She is a regular contributor to The Sisterhood of Avalon’s online journal, The Tor Stone and is active in the Red Tent Movement. Kate volunteered in Houston as a presenter for monthly Red Tents and semi-annual women’s retreats before relocating overseas. She enjoys international travel, perfecting her cooking, reading great books, & having fascinating conversations with friends, old or new.
feminismandreligion.com 
Ok, you asked for it- bad poetry Ahoy!
Meditation 1
Wind shivers the branches
of the old maple tree
tumble down yellow-brown
leaves, suspended slowly by
autumn breaths.
Husked summer shells drop
on my black asphalt driveway.
What is this sound?
Leather slippers’ shuffled step.
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I’ve been telling myself for a couple weeks that it’s time to write a new poem. Trouble is, I’m so obsessive and such a perfectionist that I haven’t worked up to verse yet. Here’s the beginning of a rough draft:
Is She hiding in the fog of dawn?
Singing with the doves hiding in the trees?
Will She arise arise from the sea
or come through the clouds with the sun?
Or is She merely hidden in the fog
of my early-morning mind?
well, it’s a start, anyway. I’ve already edited it, and I haven’t even clicked on Post yet.
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crone whispers come
on the rustling of falling leaves.
her gnarled and twisted fingers
beckon from the bare branches.
her dark, quiet cavern
calling me home.
her chilled breath
settling into the bones of the earth…
my bones.
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What a lovely invitation and such beautiful responses. Here’s a haiku that came earlier today.
in answer to my prayer for a talismanic sign
cupped inside brown hands
clear water catching the light
and a smooth white stone
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Halloween
How rich their hearts,
those beggars with mischievous eyes —
tattered gypsies and pirates,
bedecked with fine jewels made of paste
and in their scabbards, plastic swords
I wrote a draft for this tanka some years ago…thanks for the chance to edit and dust it off, and share it here!! I’m not sure I can fulfill six more days of poems however!!
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Go for it! This one is great! “Jewels made of paste”, “plastic swords”- you got it!!
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As my father lies dying
I reflect on the falling autumn leaves
Everything fading
Everything fading away
Trees falling asleep
Will awaken in spring
But, where will my father be then?
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This one took my breath away. Please ma’m, may I have some more?
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Waiting for death
Quietly focusing on the breath
A meditation
Birth and death
In and out
In
Out
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Kate! You’re brilliant! This sounds fun (and a little daunting)! Here’s poem number 1…
The Crone Within
Seeking you in plastic domes
when I sing your ancient tomes.
Neon skulls and pumpkins lack
with white sutures etched in black.
All your teeth on display
What do your empty sockets say?
a crone in hiding
strong back bending
face downcast
woman passed…
Dark eyes upon me stay.
What news do you share today?
In triple voice she says to me,
“Trust what your inner eye does see
for we live within your heart
and from there we shan’t depart.”
Then those empty sockets dim
but Her spirit is within.
On my way I go again
fearing not the bogeymen.
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Fantastic! Keep going with it! I can’t wait to watch the collection of spontaneous devotional poetry grow!
It’s so interesting to see the strong influence of Autumn right now for those of you in the Northern Hemisphere. Here everything is in bloom because we are eyeball deep in Spring. I’ll be back to add another day’s poem later today. If you miss a day, don’t stress. Just pop back in and add another poem when it comes.
Also feel free to share this post and encourage others to join us!
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Leaves
giant fig fronds rest
liquid amber leaves blaze red
cool autumn stillness
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Prayer After the Synod
Take words with you
And return to God,
Says Hosea. But where
Do women take their words?
Their tongues are stilled.
Their lips have been sealed.
They are outside.
To be silenced is
To be sent to a sacred
Space. And there
God dwells.
Dawn Morais
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Sadly, so true.
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The Marian Way
To listen. To accept.
To pay attention.
To embrace godliness.
To make flesh the word.
To ponder things
In her heart. To act.
To trust her son
To work a miracle
To save a wedding
Feast. Give us wisdom.
Give us words.
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Beautiful!
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Driving by the pumpkin patch
orange field of unsold squash.
Today’s jack-ne’er-be-lanterns
are tomorrow’s pumpkin pies.
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;-) !
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black cat song
sometimes you have to be a cat
to curl into the lap of the one you love
in another life you might have been
a mated pair of the same kind
loving and fighting and breeding
but what is that to this?
a slow-blinking look, a hand stroking
black fur, a low resonant purr
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Lovely, but it makes me miss my cat!
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“workout weather”
shorts fun work done
barefoot run toes numb
in the park okay today
spicy hot pepper spray
circuit training breath caught
moon rising water brought
wind tearing cold face
feet falling quicken pace
turn round go home
greet purple garden gnome
slow down take stance
rest listen yoga trance
heart beat
nice slow
stretch breathe
let go
watch stars
climb high
workout
weather
out
side
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Love the purple garden gnome. With this, and your other poems too, you get so much power out of just a few words per line. Masterful! er, Croneful!
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Yesterday it was haiku and today I tried a cinquain. It does help to have a structure. With these short ones, it seems easier to get started.
Woman
Growing old
Crowned with Wisdom
Becoming Luminous with Age
Crone
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I like the shape of this poem, it makes a scythe blade. Very cool.
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Last football game of the season
the crunch of interlocking shoulder pads
a referee whistle, announcer sharing score updates
Cheerleaders forming human pyramids
Dance line snapping high kicks
Marching band resplendent in military regalia
purple flags swooshing and woorshing to a symphonic beat.
My youngest son’s attention is captured
by the pageantry of small bats darting
silently above our heads
their aerial acrobatics illumed
by stadium lights.
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Love the bats. They are reality; existing, continuing beyond the false (but fun) activities we create. Your poem is such a treat!
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Another Haiku
Rain after a drought
Thirsty trees raise their branches
Thank you, Great Mother.
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Here’s yesterday’s first draft (today’s will probably be done tonight):
Past Peak
Focus on the bare treetops
Or on the color still beneath?
Instead I compose pictures
As a burning bush aligns
With a reddish oak and an ash,
Its yellow shouting to be seen.
Leaves underfoot
Or sky above?
Old oaks burn crimson today,
Bronze tomorrow,
Then brown and gray.
Great idea, Kate.
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Table Space
smooth woman bowl
water
dancing woman bowl
cornmeal
pillar man candle
flame
cone man incense
smoke
add to the mix
water
one who seeks
cornmeal
love and hope
flame
from divinity
smoke
listen well
wash away the world
and you can taste
spiritual nourishment
what divinity reveals
through the light
in the smoke
the answers dance
smooth woman bowl
water
dancing woman bowl
cornmeal
pillar man candle
flame
cone man incense
smoke
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Mother’s Little Helper
He asks me, “Why do you plant tulip bulbs every year?
Why do you bother?”
After five months of grays and browns, black and blues
I’ll find my gaudly redemption in
Scarlet red, golden yellow, lustrous orange and kitten-nose pink.
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@Katherine Bressler (because I can’t figure out how to get my comment under your most recent poem):
there is a tradition among some First Nations tribes that when someone says something very powerful and meaningful it is greeted with silence. I wish I had a silence icon, because I would insert it here ” “.
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Thanks, nmr. The waiting is starting to feel like a prayer.
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“Sky Dance”
The moon rises
to meet the stars. Grasshoppers
leap over the blades, around
the towering dandelions. Venus
joins the moon for the evening
pow wow. Trees anchored
in the dirt send
their leaves to sky dance.
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WOW. Just beautiful.
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Driving recklessly
as I shoo
the ladybug in my car.
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Another Cinquain
Seeds
new life
enrich the planet
bring forth eternal hope
Sacred
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I like the hope this poem holds. Great job capturing the promise of spring. :)
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Thank you.
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This is a terza rima poem called “Harvest.”
Juniper berries,
truly not berries at all,
dry in prairies.
Shorter days in fall
when farms and fields we harvest.
Hear the crows call.
Vacant brown bird’s nest.
Cold wind whistles ’round the house.
Sun sets south west.
Searching meadow mouse
gathers up the last cherries.
Pointers hunt grouse.
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Sorrow Singer’s hymn to the sun
here you are again, bright in my dim eyes
here I am standing to greet you,
unable to curse you, unable to curtail
my joy. When you clear the rim
of the dark ridge, my sorrows fly
a small flock of dark birds, and I forget
for a moment this moment will not last
I remember for a moment this moment
will come again. Is light at the end of night
reason enough for a heart, my heart, to beat?
note: Sorrow Singer is one of the narrative voices in a work-in-progress called Tales and Tails.
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Beautiful! Thank you, Elizabeth. I needed that today!
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Thank you! And thank you and everyone for their brave, beautiful presence here.
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(not exactly devotional, but you said ‘frustration’ was ok too)
Listening to the community’s new
golden boy scholar or
a routine dental exam?
Both require jaw-dropping
but the dental exam is less excruciating.
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;-) I can relate!
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You are all doing so fabulously! I am very proud of you. I am traveling in New Zealand & have limited connectivity, but will continue to read and share when I can!
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a tanka for October
grey morning, late fall
wind bearing rain unfallen
clouds and leaves a-swirl
some trees bare, some bright orange
ravens and poets give voice
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This one mad me laugh, to have the ravens and poets giving voice in the same line.
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Lots of ravens in my yard this time of year. I love to hear them!
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Morning Walk
Only acres of grassland
twenty-seven years ago
Now I follow a tall tree-lined path
from back fence to mailbox in front
reminded of castle gardens
at Versailles and Schoenbrun
It is my private park
in drought-ridden California
I am blessed
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The best magic is mindreading.
For this amazing feat I require two things;
One- A pen with which I will write
Two- my reader who will decipher my words
There you have it ladies and gentlemen!
The ability to read minds of all persons,
living or dead, as long as
they remembered
the pen.
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;-) ! Right on, write on!
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Love it!
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Ode to the Goddess (a little late to the creative romp but definitely devotional . . .)
I am the Queen of Sheba, more beautiful than all the rest.
I am the night-hag, more terrible then your worst fears.
Don’t try to hold me still.
Things change,
Time moves,
The coins on my hip girdle ring – like bells – as I move between the worlds.
Listen for me . . .
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Better late than never, and this poem was worth the wait. Thank you for posting!
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I love the tinkling of the coins on Her hip girdle as She moves between the worlds.
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Haiku
great horned owl calls out
who cooks for you, in moonlight
lady bard answers
I have really enjoyed this sharing. Thank you Kate for the idea, and everybody for participating. You’ve brightened my week. :)
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What a beautiful conclusion to a beautiful week of inspiring words!
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