#
Poetry is both lighthouse and harbor.
It does not force the journey, nor does it
fill the void of what is unresolved
It stands in its own gravity, unmoving;
Offering only a silent invitation:
Will you Unfold?
There is a craving that walks the shorelines of poetry,
a widow’s walk of those who have not yet learned
how to participate in what they long for.
They circle the docks,
watching the ships come and go,
watching the light shift across the waves,
watching for something that will draw them
back home.
Some mistake the lighthouse for the flame
and rush toward it as if to be consumed,
as if breaking open is the same as being made whole.
But the call is not to burn.
The call is to move toward what moves toward you,
*to become ready for the return
rather than wither within the waiting.*
A moth drawn only to light
will die before it ever understands
what it was meant to become.
But a moth that finds its way to the cocoon
will emerge with wings strong enough
to meet the wind.
This is the choice--
to remain circling, craving, watching
or to disappear into the transformation
that will allow you to stand whole
when the vessel returns.
For he is both the lighthouse and the emerging vessel,
both the safe harbor and the dock,
where the journey finally ends.
And she, in waiting, is not idle..
She does not chase passing figures,
nor fill the silence with lesser pursuits.
She does not betray the longing
with distraction.
She deepens.
She prepares to meet the one
who braved the waves to return.
*And when at last the ship appears,
bathed in the light of its own voyage,
she will not meet him as she was;
.. but as she has Become.*
#
Mar 20, 2025
Mar 20, 2025 at 4:51 PM UTC
#
Poetry is both lighthouse and harbor.
It does not force the journey, nor does it
fill the void of what is unresolved
It stands in its own gravity, unmoving;
Offering only a silent invitation:
Will you Unfold?
There is a craving that walks the shorelines of poetry,
a widow’s walk of those who have not yet learned
how to participate in what they long for.
They circle the docks,
watching the ships come and go,
watching the light shift across the waves,
watching for something that will draw them
back home.
Some mistake the lighthouse for the flame
and rush toward it as if to be consumed,
as if breaking open is the same as being made whole.
But the call is not to burn.
The call is to move toward what moves toward you,
*to become ready for the return
rather than wither within the waiting.*
A moth drawn only to light
will die before it ever understands
what it was meant to become.
But a moth that finds its way to the cocoon
will emerge with wings strong enough
to meet the wind.
This is the choice--
to remain circling, craving, watching
or to disappear into the transformation
that will allow you to stand whole
when the vessel returns.
For he is both the lighthouse and the emerging vessel,
both the safe harbor and the dock,
where the journey finally ends.
And she, in waiting, is not idle..
She does not chase passing figures,
nor fill the silence with lesser pursuits.
She does not betray the longing
with distraction.
She deepens.
She prepares to meet the one
who braved the waves to return.
*And when at last the ship appears,
bathed in the light of its own voyage,
she will not meet him as she was;
.. but as she has Become.*
#
I'm but a lonely woman
Waiting at the moor
To bring home my fisherman
To Gloucester Harbor Shore
A kiss goodbye
Upon the moor
A wave goodbye to see
I'm praying every moment
That you'll come home to me
The halibut, the cod to he
The numbers are too few
Too far the men go ferrying..
Far not enough, do live
Come home
Come home
Come home
Come home
I'm but a lonely woman
Waiting at the moor
To bring home my fisherman
To Gloucester Harbor Shore
The days, they pass
A storm blows in
And not a ship in sight
The icy hand of death, I fear,
is on my home tonight
The sea, tonight, a feral force
A wild cyclone eye
Is circling,
And swallowing,
Our vessels in the night
I've worked the piers
I've raised a daughter
And a little son
How will we manage
Without you?
Without a father's love?
Come home
Come home
Come home
Come home
I'm but a lonely woman
Waiting at the moor
To bring home my fisherman
To Gloucester Harbor Shore
https://youtu.be/QcAIEs7OzUM?si=JCFGpM5xYjbM81yX
May the strong hand of Love
bring each and every one of us
back Home
❤️