The Womb


 Seasons ~ Ebb ~ Flow
Bride and Groom
Ocean ~ Desert  
Star and Moon
Life ~ Death ~ Man ~Beast
Day of Doom
All  Are Mastered by
The Womb

“Every midwife knows
that not until a mother’s womb
softens in the pain of labor
will a way unfold and the infant
find that opening
through which it can be born.
O my friend,
there is treasure in your heart,
and it is heavy with child.
All the awakened ones,
like trusted midwives
are saying to you,
Welcome this pain.
Let it open
the dark passageway
of grace.”

(italics:) Rumi 

(I found the Rumi poem @ Diane Walker’s blog, pay a visit there!)


Well there it is: I’m speechless, I watch my breath
and it is empty, imagine clouds desperately looking
for a sky to populate, or birds lacking support to
spread their wings and fly, I’m speechless, watching
the horizon as it has just swallowed my last word,
and with it all it had to offer, not being sure if there
will ever be a dawn to unfold whatever meaning was
still hidden in its womb, I am aborted, speechless,
even the memory has left together with the smell
that hand in hand accompanied this precious treasure,
it’s gone, and here I wonder whether it is time to go
to sleep and to surrender, to lower now this useless flag,
where are the eyes, where are the ears to spot, where
is the home to enter, what harbor is it that would
welcome this forgotten sail, where are the hands
to comfort, I am speechless, but suddenly I realize
that there is room to fill, and unannounced one tear
touches my lips, and then another, and another still,
until I am no longer able to resist, I am flooded, for
every breath I take there is a wave, and the more I
breathe the more the waves keep rolling, on and on,
I become an ocean and I wake up to a new horizon,
and there it is: I’m speechless at this sight of nearing
fleets, a multitude of sails and waving flags are coloring
the dawn, then I remember, by letting go my last word
thus became the key to unlock what beyond meaning
is the keeper of the mystery, O yes, there is a deeper
womb, it is speechless, but it breathes, it is the silent
birthplace of eternity.


“In the beginning was the Word…” 
John, 1, 1
“When you see ‘the abomination that causes
desolation’ standing where it does not belong
– let the reader understand- flee to the mountains.”
Mark, 13, 14

Some words are leaves, they grow, they whither,
then they fall to merge with soil only to feed
again what by some long forgotten wind was
destined at first sight to vanish and never to
some words are mountain winds, they
travel, they vaporize
and merge with clouds,
and when the oceans call,
they become rain
to feed the rolling waves that
with a mighty
roar deliver treasure to the waiting
reapers on
forgotten shores, some words are
tears, they
flow, they testify, they merge with
silence only
to feed the hunger of a deeper
craving, they are
the vessels of forgotten fleets
that in forgotten
ports wait for the wingmen to
return their due,
some words are windows opening, while others
then are closing doors, 
some are the swords
on forgotten battlefields are left, their
shimmering blades
making the rising sun turn
red, but most of all,
whatever they may be,
all words eventually shall by 
The Writer be
reclaimed and then each one of them
shall have
to take the stand, each one of them
shall be
confronted with the verdict of its Maker,
stripped from all  meaning, naked, eye to Eye,
as well remembered  as forgotten ones are heard,
and Paradise shall be the reward for those  believing
in the final revelation of
 the Promised Word.

(picture: I Ching > “Change”)

The Promise


As sure as seasons and as sure as stars, as sure as
ocean’s breathing ebb and flow, as sure as sun and
rain, or arrow leaving bow, as sure as mother’s womb
gives birth to all: a greater force encompasses it all,
so when we go to sleep it is to wake up and collect
what has been given, it is to carefully consider how
and when we are to fit each little drop into an ocean
we can call our own, our dreams then are the waves
that keep on rolling on the darkened shores, never
revealing what the smiling Moon was witnessing,
while rising Sun is waiting for our eyes to reap,
and so it is: there is a Postman that continuously
delivers, even our smallest wish is handled with the
utmost care, He knows what message matches with
our Soul’s desire, He trusts our Heart eventually shall
break the code of whatever lies encrypted in the Letter
He imprinted in our deepest vault, who, when or where,
however, this mystery we never shall unfold, we only are
recipients, but here it is: as sure as seasons and as sure as
stars, as sure as ocean’s breathing ebb and flow, as sure as
rising sun, as crescent Moon, or arrow leaving bow, as sure
as mother’s womb gives birth to all, so is the Postman’s
Promise: your Letter was delivered, it just craves for you
to use your opening key, enter the vault, trust your Heart
and read: believe Love is the greater force encompassing it all.

(img: “Christmas”, oil on canvas, 1964, F.Vercnocke)

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