There are ghosts in every land,
spirits the 1+1=2 world
cannot comprehend
in the places of birth
where elders watch
our faltering steps
toward a world
beside and within,
whispering quiet music,
shadows in the moonlight
calling us to live the life
they hold in promise
but cannot touch,
needing our faulty vision
and fumbling hands
to write the words
and sing the songs
and more than that
to live the life
as yet unknown
that is their hope
and what we feel
when we walk again
upon the ground
of our ancestors.
Very cool Don…inspiring some music from my soul!
In a relay race of track and field, one receives the baton in a micro-second. In elderhood of the human race one receives the baton in a measureless vibration where a stopwatch is of no use. Bare feet to the ground of Being, a knowing comes fueling from our ancestors that we
may hold that which is sacred.
“…to live the life” – yup. Sometimes my yearning to hear the Elders more clearly becomes a physical pain. I know I try too hard sometimes, or listen with the wrong ears. Fumbling and faltering, I keep asking for their guidance, because I know that without communion with them, there is no life for me.
So hopeful and ,we hope. prophetic……..
ahhh, just lovely … as well as how I believe, but not put into words.
Thank you, Don, for putting words to my music.
Yes, these ghosts of the past seem to be making themselves known when we gather together in groupings for higher purpose. They have been watching, singing, dancing the old ways of knowing for a long time. Finally we are listening!
To me, the most significant part of The Lord’s Prayer is “Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven”. And how do I know “Thy will”? By asking, by listening, and by acting upon what I hear. And who is it that I hear? The Elders who love me. I call them “Beloveds” and weep at their intercession and guidance. What patience they show as I stumble around this mind made world and then remember stillness, listening, and moving with the flow we create together.
Wonderful poem, Don. I become more aware each year of the closeness and richness of the ancestors in my life.
So beautifully written; the mournful ache that fills the hollow places and finds expression if we can tune out the noise and hear the gentle whisper.
Great reflection, Don. Just returned from a Journey and supporting my wife in spreading her Mom’s ashes. Your poem rings true with most of the feelings I experienced during that time.
You’ve probably experienced the deafening sound of silence in the wilderness
when there are few other sounds; this is the same sound of the ancestors “whispering” to us! How can we not hear them? Not listening is what takes effort – – –
I’m glad for this very different message right now as I prepare to leave the land of my ancestors. We are moving very far away, which is uncomfortable for me to do — but this sentiment helps. Thanks….
Beautiful Don.
Thanks,