Be Luminous.

Be Luminous. Because you can be.
The only reason you are not luminous
Is because you have draped yourself in dark cloth.
Perhaps you love the moon, but why be the dark moon?
Why not be the bright full moon?
Be your Fulsome Self. Because you can be.
The only reason you are not fulsome
Is because you reduce yourself to nothing.
Perhaps you love a full harvest, but why be a scanty one?
Why not be a cornucopia?
There is no such thing as too much overflowing,
We are not flooding rivers after all.
We are meant to be too much, too often, too intense.
Too excessive, too exorbitant.
And for this I am too thankful.

©2015 Frances Ann Osborne

Firefly Night

Lighting a lantern for the long lost ones,
Glowing in the gentle darkness,
now they are here, latecomers to the gathering,
no longer lost but wending their way to me.

Awestruck by their luminescing souls
forcing night’s recession, I spiral my way to them
to touch lightly their power.
I, too, light up the night.

©2010 Frances Ann Osborne

The World of the Healer

The healers have all left our world.
We had them once….healers of the spirit
Nurturers of souls….
Those who blessed us and made our hearts function.
I want to bring them back — but I cannot find them.
Why are there ones who think they do not need the healing care
Of gentle hands and accepting words?
Our hearts are alone…we are afraid…we do not allow ourselves
To speak our inner worries and doubts.
We fear the judgement and intolerance of those whom we love
And the criticism and rejection of those with whom we have no relationship.
If we had a healer, we would have a bridge of hands:
The healer holding my hand and also one of your hands.
In this way, we’d know each other’s thoughts, feelings, sorrows and triumphs.
We would know how not alone we are — we would know that we are never alone.

©2015 Frances Ann Osborne

Wisdom Descending

Wisdom descending from the sky…
The sound of Orpheus speaking…
Waiting, eternally, for the undiscovered.
What you reveal to me I shall never forget.
Very often I do not know what I know
Until I speak it — and my words come out whole and sure —
As if I knew what I knew all along.
It’s like magic falling from the starry night.
It’s thunder from the clouds.
It’s the Universe speaking in its own language.
©2015 Frances Ann Osborne

The Twinkling Memory

Have patience. It will come back — that which is forgotten will return.
You will see it very miniscule, a dot in the horizon.
Move towards it. It moves towards you.
The foreverness of its approach …. it is too slow ….
And not clearly seen ….
What makes this remembrance twinkle in and out?
To be closer is not clearer….
To be further is not more clouded.

©2015 Frances Ann Osborne

Sakshi, “The Observer”

In the yoga classes I have been going to, the teacher keeps mentioning “The Witness” so I looked it up. From Wikipedia:

Sakshi or Sākśī (Sanskrit: साक्षी) means – ‘observer’, ‘eye-witness’ or the ‘Supreme Being’ or the ‘ego’.[1] In Hindu philosophy, the word, Sākshī or ‘witness’ refers to the ‘Pure Awareness’ that witnesses the world but does not get affected or involved. Sakshi is beyond time, space and the triad of experiencer, experiencing and experienced; sakshi witnesses all thoughts, words and deeds without interfering with them or being affected by them, other than sakshi there is nothing else in the entire universe.

This sounds like Panentheism to me (which is where I think am on the theism scale) and so I looked up Panentheism to make sure, and sure enough:
from Wikipedia

Panentheism: Like Pantheism, the belief that the physical universe is joined to a god or gods. However, it also believes that a god or gods are greater than the material universe. Examples include most forms of Vaishnavism.

Wow. Maybe I am getting closer to figuring out what I am spiritually! (Though I do not think I would ever consider converting to Hinduism) I consider the Universe to be a deity, or at least deity-like but it’s not involved, it’s non-moral or perhaps has its own agenda that I do not fathom. It’s good to know that other religions have defined something that I have been working out inside of myself.

Forgotten Roses

If we were to speak again, we would  both reminisce about the things we neglected to do for each other.

We all know what love remembers and what love forgets.

But you and I have not forgotten each other — no, we have not forgotten each other at all

The blood red is the color of our heartbreak, the delicate leaves of our pain, the thorns of our anger.

What is the nature of our forgiveness?

We have not paused to analyse that at all, nor examine it.

All we can notice is the flower that is difficult to grow, hard to preserve, and treasured in its death.

©2015 France Ann Osborne

The Mist’s Door

A mist descended today,
a low lying cloud.
Cold — rainy — sad.
Struggling to wake up, to shed this grogginess that I feel.
Eyes are puffy. Heart is puffy. Feeling the weight of the atmosphere upon me.
Breathing is heavy and slow.
This kind of day is a closed door — locked — the key thrown away.

copyright 2015 Frances Ann Osborne

The Missing Truth

Let’s discuss truth.
Let’s talk about the things we refuse to mention or the things we avoid.
Whether we say the truth or not.. we still notice it, we recognize it, we internalize it.
We hope that if we look away, the truth will not be noticed — it will disappear into the void.
I try the forgetfulness road, the never looking back, in the hopes that the truth disappears with the sun.
I want to recreate a NEW truth each morning with arriving sun.
There’s an honesty I long for, a radical honesty, a deep truth that is touchable.
Please say to me that you long for the same thing — the truth that is found and in front of us.

©2015 France Ann Osborne

What is it like to be a writer?

What is it like to be a writer?
To be a writer is akin to dreaming constantly,
to perpetually engage the mist of creativity.
One sees — and is seen — imperfectly.
There is always the hidden darkness that bubbles and ferments
the odd connections.
It is to be misunderstood and mysterious.
One is forever lost going down forest paths,
forgetting to lay the crumbs that lead you back home.

©2015 Frances Ann Osborne