While on a cross-country road trip, I listened to a CD version of Sue Monk Kidd’s sweet book The Secret Life of Bees. It was read by a woman with a wonderfully rich voice – and in one of America’s Southern accents. This voice made the book additionally delicious. This silliness of a poem came forward.
Black Madonna Honey
Bees are no altar boys, smugglers of divine booty they are:
Viscous golden light.
Might I too become a lover of life’s corolla and her sweetness.
I am one of the silly ones who has made a vocation out of my own psychological, energetic and spiritual awakening. I do not mean a job or career – although – I work in “That industry.” Rather, I mean that I have made arduous labor of my own unfolding. The lines below capture my thinking – rather than my heart’s awareness. This poem reflects the conceptual awareness I seemed to require along the way of moving back into my heart – the one I had exiled myself from long before.
Crucible and Chalice
Forte and foible. A community of self, innocently fashions its biography, sculpting tomorrow’s now.
Mortar and pestle breaking away my heart’s protective husks.
Hitherto unaware of my exile, blind to the constraining banality of my prosaic and metered life; I understood conceptually, of course.
The juggernaut of my understanding is wholly insufficient, for knowing is the province NOT of an understanding intellect, but of the human heart and her fields of Wisdom’s Grace.
I, a refugee, dream of repatriation, to the contours of beauty in my Life’s poetic humus.