The Execution of Thomas More (1535)
March 10, 2010
by Michael Shorb
Struck, the arteries lose eloquence.
Even the hooded man shudders.
Tributaries of power and change
Spill from the vented block
To the stage of statehood.
Ignorance in brown fields abides.
Disrupted elements congeal
Across the silent morning.
Tell me how your God works, scholar.
If he were the snow alone,
or gold,
Or singularity
focused into concentration,
How should the unsightly,
beheaded
Body of His Spokesman twitch
To a halt before the multitudes?
He answers: how natural to see enlightened
Men court death, appropriate he who loves
The tree should follow, standing
A still, short time among its
Fallen leaves, hastening
To the root.
And here within this peace
There is no fuel for sorrow.
Flaws that mire
Life exist only in outer rings of ages,
Where the feint and storm of empire
Looms,
where brittle destinies
Foolishly contend.
Michael Shorb’s work reflects an abiding interest in myth, history, and the lyrical form, as well as a satirical focus on present day trends and events. His poems have appeared in over 100 magazines and anthologies, including The Nation, The Sun, Michigan Quarterly Review, and Queen’s Quarterly.
Remembering Who I Am
February 19, 2010
by Peter Bergquist
I’m not the me
that I can see.
I am the I
behind my eye.
I’m not the me
that feels he’s free.
I am the I
who does not try.
I’m not the me
that seems to be.
I am the I
who does not die.
I am the one
in everyone.
I am the one
and only one.
Peter Bergquist earned a BA in English from Princeton University and an MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from Antioch University Los Angeles. He is married with two daughters and is currently teaching English, Film and Academic Decathlon in the Los Angeles Unified School District. His poems have been published online, in journals and chapbooks.
Soul
February 17, 2010
by Josefine Cole
where is the soul of you, world?
for, bittersweetly pining, I would
press my palms into the sheath
of flesh that wreaths you,
and like so many other lovers
find some succor in that bending
breeze of compliant skin and sallow
entrancements of your lesser suitors-
to witness so much misled fallout,
the broken bottles and couples’ quarrels
cascading through your rigid veins,
the streets howling of misspent longing!
when will i breathe the soul of you,
savor the sour and salty opening
of you, press my tongue to you,
invite the shock of unfiltered munificence
sweating and streaming from the core of you,
near-bursting, ripe, relentless truth,
to soothe the facade-weary and scare away youth,
to reanimate passions long displaced from misuse?
when will i love, world-
would your consent then extend to me
to touch the elusive heart of you-
could i find a home in you
and could you find the soul in me?
Josefine Cole is a recent graduate of Naropa’s BA Religious Studies program and a practitioner of Tibetan/Shambhala Buddhism.
In a Nutshell
February 15, 2010
by Mary Dyer Hubbard
“Go out and let something in nature speak to you.” What a silly thing for a Retreat Director to say to a group of nuns! I walk aimlessly up and down the rolling paths, hardly registering the green fields, wild flowers and spreading trees. My fellow retreatants, mostly white-haired women dressed in black, eagerly search for some mysterious treasure.
Even though we’re in silence, I break it when encountering kindly Sister Margaret. “Did anything speak to you, Margaret?” I ask jokingly. “Yes, I just realized it! See those blue flowers up there? One of them is speaking to me and I have to go back and listen.” A little ashamed of her sincerity and my skepticism, I watch as she hobbles back up the hill.
I’m 35 years old, a nun since 18, and burned out. Like Audrey Hepburn in The Nun’s Story I have journeyed from cloister to missions. I too have known: fervor, striving for perfection, willingness to suffer, working in impoverished areas, burning zeal. But the flame is dwindling and now I walk around with ashen heart.
Listlessly I turn back. I’ll be the one with no story to tell, no stone or twig clutched in my hand, excited to share its amazing personal message. With head down, I trudge along without seeing. But, that’s odd. What is that lying on the ground: small, brown and hollow? Oh, it’s a walnut shell – or half of one. Strange, there are no walnut trees around here.
I pick it up and study it. The inside ridges are more pronounced than the outer smoother shell; the inner grooves are pitted, sharp and dark. Imagine the nut pressed and squeezed until it matched those unyielding convolutions! Suddenly I drop the shell and gasp. Sobs follow and I’m on the ground cradling the shell in both my hands. This is me. Squeezed and pressed into a mold of perfection. Convoluted. Rigid. Never good enough. Try harder. Conform. But where is the nut itself? Where am I? What is left of ME? I grieve wildly for my lost self.
It’s a long time before I can breathe without pain and tears. Slowly, gently, I realize the shell has been cracked open; it’s half gone. Maybe the warm air and sunlight have already enticed my hidden self to start emerging. What would it take to shed the other half? But if I relinquish it all, I’ll be exposed, vulnerable. Who am I without the shape of the institution? I am alone. I am afraid.
I sit with my fears on a dusty path and wait to feel myself crawl back into my familiar shell but it doesn’t happen. Instead, something new begins to grow inside: hope. It won’t be right away. I don’t know when. But I will emerge all the way. Looking up at a nearby tree, I see a bird soar from its branches into the sky. Free.
Mary Dyer Hubbard was a Sister of the Blessed Sacrament for 20 years. After leaving the convent, she met and married Carl Hubbard and the couple lives in Horsham, PA. Mary Dyer Hubbard is a Licensed Professional Counselor and a therapist with the Samaritan Counseling Center since 1995.
We are Landscapes
February 5, 2010
by Lewis J. Kahler
We are the poems of history.
We are saying nothing.
The all-important nothing-
that resonates in the mind,
and nourishes
the spirit.
We are the topography
of all that never was.
The memory of what could not be.
We are the note in the cosmic music of chance,
the lost tomes of our foremothers.
We are our guides.
We are the light-
the hope.
We are divinely lost-
and we dance.
Lewis J. Kahler is the Dean of the Center for the Arts and Humanities at Mohawk Valley Community College. He also is the co-editor of Portrait literary magazine and is the author of No Mind: A Collection of Haiku (Portrait Publishing, 2008). Lewis was a contributing editor to Alternative Medicine: The Definitive Guide (Ten Speed Press, 2002). His poetry has appeared in the Resonant Review, Ampersand, Fusion and The Oracle Literary Journal.
Inconspicuous Shield
February 3, 2010
by Alex Chornyj
If it’s integrity we’re after
Then keeping to the high road
Adhering to principles
Must be first and foremost.
Secrets that abounded in the past
Will be left at the curb
There is no place for whispers
But a refreshing frankness.
To be told where we are
Not where we thought we were
So lead to believe
By some surreptitious propaganda.
I will not live a lie
The silence will be broken
The days of turning the other cheek
Have vanished with the lost apathy.
The ones who were powerless
Now see the impenetrable wall
Was only there by the force of suggestion
Almost like a placebo if you will.
Once one summoned the courage
To just walk over a line
That was only imaginary
One saw a true reflection,
In an unaltered mirror
The difference was like night and day
The actual from the inferred
Would be like an oasis,
Being posited as a barren waste
One could not have been further
Like thinking there were no trees
Then finding an entire forest.
Which would not only be shocking
But rather disturbing
From feeling rather naive
To then inquiring as to the motive,
Behind such an inconspicuous shield
To keep most from realizing
What truly existed
Only for their own selfish consumption.
Alex Chornyj is a reiki master teacher. Alex has been published in White Mountain Publications, Articulations, The Tower Journal, The Canadian Federation Of Poetry, online at www.artistsforabetterworld.org and in many Blog Talk Radio spoken word programs such as “Shaman’s Hand” and “Poetry Super Highway.” Alex currently resides in Canada.
Wandering Hobo
February 1, 2010
by Simon Rubin
I am iam iam
Alive under the great sky
My heart is calm as a cumulus cloud
Crossing cerulean blue
My legs are like
Two tumbleweeds
In a cartoon
My mind is clear
And free of concern
I am not fretting about you anymore
Each passing moment
My being smiles bigger
I pull the trigger on violence
I slice up unnecessary thoughts
Like jack the ripper
I am the skipper of
My destination
Through all creation
If you find my body
Bury it or use cremation
Doesn’t matter to me
My soul is in rotation
Maybe I am Buddha
Maybe a barracuda
maybe I am Muhammad
Maybe I am Moses
Maybe I am two Eskimos
Rubbing noses
Maybe I am Jesus
Christ I don’t know
Might as well blow
This town
End up on Saturn’s freeway
Driving On it’s rings
Shooting stars to Pluto
Dipping cookies in the milky way
On my way to my own nebula
Across a sea of tranquility
Gathering no stardust or moss
Just going going gone
Only a song left
Simon Rubin believes that English majors are people who haven’t yet made up their minds what they want to do with their lives. Simon has the gift/curse of self reflection and currently reflects in Eugene, Oregon.
Garbage
January 29, 2010
by A.M. Donovan
Old dreams discarded
By the roadside
Amongst old fast food wrappers
Beer bottles, and dead animals
Dreams
Broken by the world
A world in which
They couldn’t survive
Or abandoned, like a puppy
To ridicule and shame
Outgrown, outmoded, thrown away
Some will come back, briefly
Into vogue
Like patriotism, and faith
Or– lets whisper– God
Then we dig, frantically
Through the detritus of our lives
Trying to find
The newly realized treasure
A.M. Donovan is a writer, a folklorist (teaching classes part time at a local community college) and a very good cook. The folklore does tend to show up in the writing. “Garbage” originally appeared in the 2nd Annual Northwoods Anthology.
The Gentle Buzz
January 27, 2010
by Kelsey Hannon
Connecting mind, body and spirit to a point of abrogation
More clarity than ten clear windows
A gentle buzz of energy in its purest form
Subtle surety softens the muscles in my face
Existing, unafraid of jarring impulses or cuts inside my stomach
And I am
they have entered the half-an-hour-late crowd with salt rings on their shoes and jeans
Editor’s Note
December 25, 2009
Dear reader,
It’s hard to believe that 2010 is right around the corner. I say the same thing every year, and still haven’t become accustomed to looking at the calendar in late December, realizing there are only a few days left. I love this time though, an obvious point of reflection on the year gone by and consideration of the year to come. What accomplishments deserve celebration? What did I not quite finish that would be beneficial to wrap up? What was my greatest joy this year? Who came into my life and what have they taught me? What am I hoping to do next year?
In mid 2009, I dreamed of Awaken Consciousness Magazine being a place where art integrates with personal transformation, a resource of inspiration and potentiality. I am so grateful to YOU for helping to make that happen. It’s an honor to have published such fantastic work, and I am humbled by your commitment to art, to growth, beauty and inspiration.
ACM is on break until the new year, but I hope you’ll visit again in January for more works that articulate and explore the Great Work, that of experiencing peace and joy, remembering our authentic source, our true self.
As always, I’d love to hear from you. Email your comments or questions to me at editor@awakenconsciousness.com or post directly to the contributors through the comment log. If you’re interested in subscribing to ACM, please scroll down to the bottom of this page and click “Sign me up.”
Many blessings to you and yours in this season of love and light.
Mindie Kniss
