Audio · Poem · Poetry · Voices from the Veil

Tell Them Who Will Listen

Listen to my story.

I was a man who worked hard,

A laborer.

Dirt lined my nail beds

From toil that cost me years.

My hands were calloused,

But not my heart.

My wife, pregnant,

We were happy.

Our home, built and painted in all the colors.

Still, we lost that little soul too soon.

Our tears washed our souls

But could not flush off our grief.

My toil was not the cure

For this deficit in love.

Our loss stole our smiles.

We sat like trees for years

Rooted in grief.

Can you hear me?

Though torn apart,

We are not alone here.

This is my garden now,

And we are tending it.

We are family in loss,

But not in this garden.

Tell them who will listen.

 

Copyright © August 6, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: pixabay 

Audio · My Mother · Poem · Poetry · Voices from the Veil

Hello, It’s Mom

Hello, it’s Mom. You called for me, so here I am!

Dad has visited you. Do you recall the dreams?

I called you shortly after everything,

You thought it was just static,

But I had so much to tell you.

I’m in a good place.

I can see old friends and play cards.

I’m learning about

How it is,

Who we are,

Why we are.

Maybe I’ll be back there

Someday and one day.

So many lessons to review;

So much yet to learn.

I recall everything;

You were a big help.

Don’t worry if you cried in fear.

I know you did your best.

I was not me.

I’m here for you now.

I’ll be fine; let go of worry.

Dad knows best here.

He’s been here before

As he told you.

We’ve seen all the old souls

In our ancient lineage.

You will know, someday.

I am more than Mom,

Dad is more than Dad,

You know?

We have many forms in this race.

God has God has God.

There is no beginning, no end.

It’s like a quilt, many stitches and layers

With complex designs.

As above; so below.

You are a finger of God

Reaching out to the human being until rebirth,

And so you will return to God.

And God will return to God as well.

Then we will be one again.

Essence to life to dust to essence.

We here know this.

I will return, and there are many who will

As will you.

This is our choice.

We are fine!

So glad you asked!

Let’s keep in touch.

Much love,

Mom

Copyright © August 6, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: Mom and I enjoying one of my birthdays

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Audio · Poem · Poetry · Voices from the Veil

Listen to My Story

I was only a teen who had no sense.

That’s why I’m here

In this spot under the trees.

Won’t they forget me?

I’m looking for them to tell them

I am here and

Just to say my name

One last time.

Why was I so senseless?

The clouds took me too soon.

I listened to the wrong tunes,

Dark, pounding, impudent.

Now I am lost.

Can you help me?

Where can I go?

Is that the door?

I’m just a kid with no sense.

How was I supposed to know

What would happen?

I can’t get past their tears.

They hold me tight.

How can I break free?

Where is God?

No, don’t leave me; listen to my story.

I’ll be fine and find my way

If my girlfriend is OK.

Go on. Go on. Tell her.

Don’t hold me down with your tears.

I have a story, a reason.

They told me I would feel great.

But now I’m here looking for the way, just a kid.

No, don’t leave!

I was young, buff, full of vigor.

Girls loved me. I was strong and grand to all.

Still, I was stupid.

Tell them I am sorry.

What was I thinking?

Now I’m here.

It will take me a while to see the light.

Their tears are like ropes.

But I’ll be fine. I’m sorry.

Put away my senior ring.

Take apart my room.

Box my trophies. I have a place.

They will take me there.

I’m just there to say I’m okay.

I can be free once they

Loosen the ropes of tears.

Fill my room with your own gifts.

There is no point to sing such grief.

 

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: https://www.pexels.com/search/trees/ (free images)

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Audio · Poem · Poetry · Voices from the Veil

New Audio: You Sit in Your Garden

You sit in your garden but

Where am I?

You, there, surrounded and protected

By fauna and flora

As you swat at bees

And stomp on ants to cross the grass.

You laugh as you eat Light and

Make merry with companions.

I’m lost to that dream now.

It was not my choice

But an accident, unforeseen.

I was just as wanton and naive.

How little I knew of myself,

Or the sun, the rain, the stars,

Or of the end of time.

I was not ready to leave,

So here I am attached to cold stone

With you only in a haze, and

I cannot speak your name for

Lack of a translation.

Where am I but nowhere.

Who am I but no one.

Night is always; always is night.

I cling to the wall of night

With no release and no joy,

Not even you in your garden

Are ready to know me this way.

Not even lightning knows my name,

For it is a mere flicker to my rage.

I am blind in this abyss, stumbling

To find a guest in this forlorn place,

To find a slice of dawn in endless night, where

I am but a mortar to shadows

As you slumber in your garden.

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

poetry and image (my garden)

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Audio · Poem · Poetry · Voices from the Veil

I Am Secrets

I am Secrets,

Slumbering here by the creek,

Sunlight hitting my rainbow heart

As I glisten like a blanket

Over my bed of grass and lady fern,

Not surrendering though they beckon:

It’s time for you now

To spring into hope and truth.

 

I am Secrets.

All my treasures gone to ash,

Leaving me with lapping waters

As I cling onto my soil, said

Trampled by those arriving

To skip rocks

Or capture frogs,

Crooning for mates.

 

I am Secrets.

Caught here as food

For the rushes.

Rooted soul, I cling

Like ivy to a cold stone wall.

But a whisper to those searching

Throughout time turned into past

And dead memories.

 

Willows weeping,

Casting shadows on my crib

Quilted in riparian,

Visited by butterflies

Loving my nectar and blooms

Of my camouflage

And seclusion.

I am Secrets.

 

Copyright © July 28, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: pixabay

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Audio · Poem · Poetry · Voices from the Veil

You Sit in Your Garden

You sit in your garden but

Where am I?

You, there, surrounded and protected

By fauna and flora

As you swat at bees

And stomp on ants to cross the grass.

You laugh as you eat Light and

Make merry with companions.

I’m lost to that dream now.

It was not my choice

But an accident, unforeseen.

I was just as wanton and naive.

How little I knew of myself,

Or the sun, the rain, the stars,

Or of the end of time.

I was not ready to leave,

So here I am attached to cold stone

With you only in a haze, and

I cannot speak your name for

Lack of a translation.

Where am I but nowhere.

Who am I but no one.

Night is always; always is night.

I cling to the wall of night

With no release and no joy,

Not even you in your garden

Are ready to know me this way.

Not even lightning knows my name,

For it is a mere flicker to my rage.

I am blind in this abyss, stumbling

To find a guest in this forlorn place,

To find a slice of dawn in endless night, where

I am but a mortar to shadows

As you slumber in your garden.

 

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

poetry and image (my garden)

IMG_0845

 

Essays · My Father · My Mother · Prose · Voices from the Veil

Writing Poetry

What I might call my best poems and writing is from Muse. I remember as an English Literature major being guided by my creative writing teachers to travel inward and seek the Muse. I always thought about this process in a theoretical way and never thought of it as genuine contact. However, where does creative work originate? There are some poems which I know I wrote pen to paper, but where did those images come from? Are they from Muse alone? Does Muse engage with my mind? Is Muse my mind? Is Muse really divine intervention? Does Muse deliver crucial messages?

My poetry is based on human experience translated from and into spiritual experience. I’m not sure what comes first. Maybe I’m trying to understand the deeper meanings and put the poems into the framework of universal human truth and universal spiritual truth. To do so, I listen. An intriguing thesis is proposed from somewhere inward, and I grab the pen or stylus and start to explore this proposition. If I do not do that instantly, I lose the moment of this truth and only hope it will return someday. Therefore, many poems are resting in my bones and flesh as a kind of wailing pain. I have found by returning to my writing in this recent thrust of creative energy that I have had less physical pain. Maybe the pain resulted from my deafness to Spirit’s, or Source’s, calling.

With more life experience and a treasure of images, I am able to listen again. This treasure trove of imagery and messages opened up to me after Mom’s death and led me to writing Voices from the Veil. I’ve been trying to trace the connections.

A while back maybe 3 or 4 years ago I was helping my mother a great deal because her memory was declining. She was living in an independent living facility in town. To get to her place, I always passed by a funeral home and cemetery. In a tiny plot of land near the road were the graves of children and babies. Come visit. Come visit. I felt I was being invited to stop there often. Finally one day I turned into the cemetery and visited those tiny grave sites. I was compelled to do so and to return to leave gifts to offer those little spirits. I know Archangel Gabriel was at my side in this endeavor. I could write a volume just on Gabriel’s influence in my life. I placed flowers and toys on the graves, most of which were already decorated with dolls, backpacks, infant angels, and other assortments to entertain the children. Some toys had been tossed about by storms, so it was important to anchor them down. I could not have children, so these visits were meaningful to me.

Mom eventually had to move to assisted living and within a year, her body failed her. Alzheimer’s shut down her heart and kidneys. Grieving her, my Muse reawakened. I wrote a few poems about this loss. In this poetry, I relived her last days and tried to make sense of certain signs and symbols that appeared before and after her death. Writing these poems led to others. After my retirement, I had time to review my poetry and was surprised at the number. I began this blog to continue to nurture my creative ventures.

One day, a year after her death, I asked my parents to visit me. Dad came in a dream and Mom, in a poem. While I was working on that poem while building my blog site, I recalled my visits to the babies and children in that small plot of souls. My mind also wandered to another beautiful cemetery near my home. I wondered if I could visit there and hear messages like those from Mom in that poem I wrote, Hello, It’s Mom. Without my even visiting the cemeteries in person, suddenly, more poems arose either out of me or to me. One from a young male teen and one from an older man, a laborer. Hence, I created a series of poems I call Voices from the Veil.

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

poetry and image (my garden)

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