Poem for a Rainy Day

Awakening Now

by Danna Faulds, from Poems From the Heart of Yoga

Why wait for your awakening?

The moment your eyes are open, seize the day.

Would you hold back when the Beloved beckons?

Would you deliver your litany of sins like a child’s collection of sea shells, prized and labeled?

“No, I can’t step across the threshold,” you say, eyes downcast.
“I’m not worthy” I’m afraid, and my motives aren’t pure.

I’m not perfect, and surely I haven’t practiced nearly enough.

My meditation isn’t deep, and my prayers are sometimes insincere.
I still chew my fingernails, and the refrigerator isn’t clean.

“Do you value your reasons for staying small more than the light shining through the open door?

Forgive yourself.

Now is the only time you have to be whole.

Now is the sole moment that exists to live in the light of your true Self.

Perfection is not a prerequisite for anything but pain.

Please, oh please, don’t continue to believe in your disbelief.

This is the day of your awakening.

“The Love of My Life,” she called him

and he thought, everyone should have a Love of My Life, to be able to write love poems to them, like this one:

Blessing The Wounds

You sent me alone to the concert hall
Where only half the notes played
Until the music discovered your face—
Your smile alive, in the smiles of my friends.

You called to say you weren’t coming
But when I turn around, there you are,
Reflected on each one of my walls and
Weaved in the silky sheets that cover my bed.

I spread you on my morning bread,
Drink your sweat to calm my thirst.
My palms rest on your skin. My fingerprints
I press, branding forever your flesh.

Thirty days I walked, my eyes shut
And in the darkness of my steps
I follow the warmth of your breath
Through the desert to the valley beyond.

Blessing the wounds we’ve carried,
Our true love joins us in the search for home.
We learn leaving from some lovers,
Only one can teach us the way back.

Your Second Act Begins in 2015

From Bruce Rosenstein, via Next Avenue:

In 2007, British psychologist Richard Wiseman followed more than 3,000 people attempting to achieve New Year’s resolutions including the top three: lose weight, quit smoking and exercise regularly. At the start of the study, most were confident of success. A year later, only 12 percent had achieved their goals.

and the grand finale!

To make meaningful New Year’s resolutions that you’ll really keep, set long-range resolutions for your second act. This way, you can help reach the goals that matter to you in the context of your entire future, not just a single year.

(MORE: Resolutions From the Wisest Americans)

To make holistic New Year’s resolutions, look to the wisdom of Peter Drucker, the father of modern management who died in 2005 at 95. Drucker’s iconic 39 books and countless articles were always forward-focused.

I’ve studied Drucker’s career for 30 years and had the privilege of interviewing him while working as a researcher and business writer at USA Today. So, armed with Drucker’s sage insights, I recommend you make these five long-range resolutions for your second act:

1. I resolve to embrace uncertainty rather than avoid it.
Don’t assume that tomorrow will be like today. It could be, but the future is unknown. And while uncertainty can be unsettling, remember this: we’re all in the same boat. There’s more…

The 117 Most Beautiful Words in the English Language

Via Yorick Reintjens

Love made the list…

Fiery Foliage Against the Blue Sky

Acquiesce Submit or comply silently or without protest.

Ailurophile A cat-lover.

Ameliorate To make or become better, more bearable, or more satisfactory

Assemblage A gathering.

Becoming Attractive.

Beleaguer To exhaust with attacks.

Brood To think alone.

Bucolic In a lovely rural setting.

Bungalow A small, cozy cottage.

Callipygous Having beautifully proportioned buttocks.

Cathartic Inducing catharsis; purgative. Continue reading

Worth Repeating

If you continue to pursue the goal of salvation through a relationship, you will be disillusioned again and again. But if you accept that the relationship is here to make you conscious instead of happy, then the relationship will offer you salvation, and you will be aligning yourself with the higher consciousness that wants to be born into this world.

–Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now, A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment.

A Poem And A Photograph Of My Father

Dad, Hoboken 1973


I accepted your invitation
to accompany to your death
at the end of the winter
of your normal existence.
On the flight to the motherland,
covering fears with smoke
shared over a continent made up
of the states we had crossed,
meeting with ancestors south
of the wife and daughter
that continue to postpone
their well deserved joy.

Sowing peace by the roadside,
planting pleasantries of gold
over the forgotten grievances
that never inhabited your breast
punctured in repeated symmetry
by the totalitarian bayonets
of your sister and your brother
and the Bolshevik friend—now judge—
covering their blinded eyes
with the tainted hands
of complicity with ignorance
dripping the blood of red lies.

I saw the coldness of dead tears
in the paternal shadow stream
over the edge of the stone.
A contraband of used flowers
lead a morbid procession
of untraceable footsteps.
After a failed last attempt
to rescue your tired face,
I left for the nightly dance
in search of the elusive liquid balm
that temporary flesh perspire
while you slept by your ma.


I documented the last miles
of the fatal approach
to the point etched in time
that finalized your being
and ripped mine in halves.
Testimonial to unanticipated
darkness in prey—at the turn
of a murdering route—
to cripple, to rob, to maim
the returning prodigal sons
to the land they never left
and vowed never to return

I woke up to the death
of you in my trembling arms,
as if asleep to the deafening
cries of your only son—
this boy of your pride—
screaming not to be left alone
in a world of blind grief,
unspoken words of the heart,
pain yet to come and unattainable plans,
calling your brief name
not to be left behind.

I struggled to contain the essence
of life escaping your eyes
in the back of the car
provided by the rescuing hands
belonging to unknown angels
of mercy that I could not thank.
They took your wounded body
of Forty Seven views of March
and realized how futile it was
to continue to try: I watched
with incredulous eyes as a doctor
shook his head no, no, no three times.


Not trusting my bloodied eyes,
I resurrected your life
for the three critical days
I walked in darkness
holding the intermittent hands
of separated childhood friends
who would not take away
the illusion of you I held—
like the mortally wounded gasp
for the elusive gift of breadth.
My soul’s twin can only prescribe
compassion at the foot of the bed.

In spite of the charity
of each brother, sister, friend,
I embarked—bandaged and alone—
in the pilgrimage east
to where you lay, dressed in blue,
in a simple pine box, a gift
of the state that desecrated
the destiny you inherited and
ransacked the house you built
in the name of urban reform;
they gave you a free burial
in exchange for your labor’s of slave.

All your friends came
and the friends of your orphans
to walk with your widow
to the stone eroded by three decade-old
tears of anguish.
Black eyes in deep sockets
looking down at empty hands
that excavate the barren ground
—to tired to extend condolences—
they only shrug their shoulders,
look to the distance and sigh
the deep sighing of regrets.
I have no memory of the time
they lowered you to the earth!
Why in hell can’t I remember?
Is like never saying goodbye, or
turning my back to the loss
of your smiles, the serene
disposition of spirit you wore.
I tried remember once, twice, til
the spike of unbearable truth
plunged me, head first
in the muddy waters
of a black sea of lost souls.

I walked alone into the sea,
the muddy waters climbing up
my being until I was covered
with the putrid film that clings
to decaying flesh and bone, being
Forty Eight months drifting at sea
—unable to drown pains for long, or
reach the receding beach
of a harbor devoid of lighthouses—
I was rescued by a passing ship
on a day when the weight of my errors
buckled my spine and I fell to my knees.

Today, I inhabit this shore where
I died and endured rebirth,
still nursing my wounds, still
searching the waters for victims
of other drowning attempts, and
with each rescue, I rescue myself.
Only recently I’ve come to accept
the undeniable fact of your absence,
the void that runs through my hands
since your departure last century.
For the presence of you in my life
I now call myself—your son—blessed.


“Parents of Gays: Unite in Support for Our Children.”

Jeanne Manford, Pflag founder, has died:

After her openly gay son was beaten in April 1972 for protesting news coverage of the gay rights movement, Jeanne Manford, an elementary school teacher in Flushing, Queens, did not tell him to stop embarrassing the family. She wrote a letter to The New York Post criticizing the police for not protecting him.

Two months later, she walked alongside him in a gay liberation march, carrying a sign: “Parents of Gays: Unite in Support for Our Children.” These turned out to be the first steps in the founding of Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, now a national organization, which announced that Mrs. Manford died on Tuesday, in Daly City, Calif. She was 92.

There’s more…