Poem of Blessing. Sleep peacefully.

by Chris Roe
(Norfolk. England.)

Sweet Spirit

Sleep peacefully
Upon your journey
Sweet spirit.
Such caring love,
Such strength of courage.
A smile to touch the soul,
A smile of hope,
A smile of truth.
Sleep peacefully,
Upon your journey
Sweet spirit.

Note from a-spiritual-journey-of-healing.com

I knew I would like this one from the title. :-)

Thank you Chris for this poem of blessing.

May we all sleep peacefully on our journey through this world of illusion.

May we awaken little by little to the peace that is always ours.

With the Love we are so blessed to know and share through our poetry,

Move from Poem of Blessing to a page on non duality and the world is illusion.

A poem: You are Beautiful, says God

Tags: poem of blessing, sleep, peace, spirit, journey, smile

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Poems Gods Rest

by Penny

An Angel Nests Here... Do Not Disturb

...As I Rest...Do not wrest me from it...
...Peace...Be Still...
...and know that I Am...God... in the making, the waking, the creating, the healing, the saying, the doing...and,
...in the needing...
...of my Sacred Place...my Sacred Space...

Oh yes, I will invite you to rest your weary head on my shoulder...rest your dove wings around me...press me with your feathered chest...

...for you have saved me from walking down a beggared by-way in fortune's-lost-paradise...from a place of endless seeking...from a place of thwarted dreams, where wings of adversity beat against the tender soul. ...

...My Dear Dove Love...As I Rest...I Rest in Peace...
...not in the passing away of this world...
...but, in the Peace of the Next...

...Yet, We Here, in the Now...is Where Heaven Is...there is no need of a Next...nor Exit...

...For, ...I Am Found in You...

but sometimes...I Need that Rest...
...the kind that is not to be wrested from me...
...so, that I might know that I Am...God...in the making, the waking, the creating, the healing, the saying, the doing...

...even in the Dreaming...

...My Sacred Place...My Sacred Space...where I learn to live the Miracle Life...with You.

Move to a short inspirational poem by Tagore on Gods rest

Move to 10 Ways To Finding Peace – Spiritual Relaxation Techniques To Find Gods Rest

Tags: poems about rest, spiritual poetry, heaven, the present, peace, eternity is now, God

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Spiritual Sonnet About Home And Grace

by Frank Cavano
(Bluffton, S.C.)

Self's Sonnet

'Tis o'er the furrowed land I journey yet.
In dark disguise the parcels speak my name.
But separate stars do send but fractured jet
of light; they leave the dark a shadow game.

I hearken to that call and bend with rays
that I might become a something after all;
Yet watch the talking picture count my days
and heights obtained portend the certain fall.

Then homeward to a place all but forgotten
the Grace beyond the grateful calls my name.
And speaks of me in ways till now forbidden
by old convention's sin, guilt, fear and pain.

And now I see my face in light resplendent,
The Self of God and all the world attendant.

As a long-time student of ACIM, my sonnet speaks to our identity as the extensions of God's Love. We don't have to try so hard to "become" something wonderful because God created us as perfect loving spirit.

56 Falmouth Way
Bluffton, S.C. 29909
frankcavano at hargray dot com

Click to read about a book of Spiritual Love Poems by the author of www.a-spiritual-journey-of-healing.com

Tags: spiritual, sonnet, ACIM, love, god, poem, light, home, grace, self, dark

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Epic Poem about the world as illusion

by Roy K Austin
( Dorset England)


With that invisibility of age
I can fly my life like a kite!
Uninvited and unseen,
albescent, grey, you know what I mean,
(not the first flush of youth or strong,
the young forget that we were young,)
hold on to that, the string of that
to grip the meaning of it
as I grip the iron balustrade
along the miles of esplanade;
think the century's wise men are ignored,
each lamp a light, a sage for each lamp...

Drawn to the Sailor's Arms, her kegs
the weight of years upon the legs,
for whispers round an inglenook
where galaxies are in the glass,
to swap a tale, another round,
a golden fleece, a crumpled map !
Or waft around for words, like smoke
along the butt - ends from the tar,
or vanish down into the draught
if Alan Watts is at the bar.... ...

Below, where gulls quarrel in kelp
no harbour there need shelter me,
no life - boat slip to cries for help
need bring my spirit to the lee -
I hear the past with all its murders,
the wind wail through the rusting girders
yet still am I, free to fly with you
who lean against the railings, too !... ...

'You'll win' he said, 'its in the bag',
out on the point
what can the mindless wind do
but wave the flag?
Missing the point forever
signalling our nascent spirit.

Full to be empty, empty to be full -
do you hear the paradox, do you feel the pull ?
I do not mean to be patronising,
have I asked you too soon ?
Do you see what I mean when you gaze at the moon,
when the full moon, lifeless, is full of light ?...

I sit upon the lobster pots
that decorate the harbour wall,
if you come a little closer
you can see me in the hall,
if you do not hold the key-
Mrs keepings locks the door,
I'll be looking out to sea
after eight but not before....

I am seen from the inside of the inside,
not the inside of the outside, mark you
not from what I look like or do
but the interior of what do I mean?
Quite literally - 'when all is said and done'.
Not the illusion of grandeur
but the lila and maya - the joy of divine play
the grandeur of illusion.
The causal spirit, the cause of sense
and the cause of what is seen,
the cause of the unseen in between,
the concatenations - all that links to the whole-
that is you, my friend, your very soul;
the royal seer, looking through your eyes
that in abdication you conveniently forgot.


as I sit here on the throne of my brain
decked in the trappings of thought,-
lassoed by that closed loop,
a prisoner lacking meditation
what thick walls are built by thinking,
half sought, half caught
by what I already am.
I hear the noise of the world now
at the altar of my ear.
Again the voice has said to me
your archetype enfolds you
but within it's sacred keep
you sleepwalk through your world;
you huddle together with others in your darkness
and call it your religion,
give priests their priestly powers
letting them feed on your ignorance;

you must be in touch with your inside -
ultimate reality is 'your kingdom '
and that kingdom is always there
and never, never elsewhere;
in there you must be fearless -
have 'the courage to be'
as when ' christ the tiger came ',
a man who showed his day
a way, which is not the way now,
he foresaw his words would be surpassed
if they were lived inwardly
and not outwardly emulated.

One must be like the wandering albatross
facing the skies and oceans of one’s own.
If one is raised by children
one will become a child
that must leap to adulthood
which is no - self acceptance and realisation,
the latter, denial not of that which is real
but of that which is unreal,
not as pulpit to the pew,
not as clergy say you do do you exist.
'Be a light to your own mind' said the enlightened sage,

the wine is corked my friend!
The fog of centuries must clear,
so that that morning of divine splendour,
no longer hidden, may break through
as the bright morning sun,
so that Atman may be Atman
and Christ as all men
Christos pantocrator
for then, beyond the stream of time,
all will have never occurred
and the Kingfisher will perch again
over a quiet a stream.... ... ...

From a high vantage point
let light, seeking out the shade
be every human contact made,
alienation is unkind -
we need to touch the braille of mind ;
what spirit intercedes unseen,
long suffering, a friend between
those lonely figures on the beach ?
Though tongue - tied they may long for speech.... ...

Mr Rush begrudges me
the weather and the time of day,
I wish I'd known him more, before
he had nothing else to say,
like a Lowry figure, blurred
elsewhere beckons him away,
time is running out for us
if he will not stop and say
'good morning Mr Birros !
How are you today '?

Out at sea the day descends,
a sail to lee, a journey ends
as sunlight glitters on the flood
from sky, the colour of the blood
as from the living fauna shed ;
a buzzard, circles overhead ;
a mill had caught the wind for bread
and dusk, like dawn was something said,
in whispers at the end of day,
as wisdom, nothing else to say
save rest a body for a night
or give a shepherd his delight,
or turn my spirit to the west
when I, reluctantly must go,
at evening, in the afterglow. ...

Without the memories of this world there is no persona
Who am I? I immediately ask them for an answer,
but I do not believe them anymore. Thus I am deceived
by the world from the cradle. Is it a divine game, I wonder
for paradoxically, I need to rediscover my true self
and that requires memory too. Memories of a different kind,
memories of peace, bliss though not oblivion, indescribable
colours, sights and sounds that are the very oxygen of the soul,
memory of love and being loved, but strangely enough, not
memory of words. In this context, words are absurd and as
dead as the persona ; present company reluctantly accepted
if you know what I mean !

'Let the dead bury the dead ' said Christ,
bearers of the body
walk crookedly with pseudo geist ;
poke the ash, poke fun at someone
as shadows fall upon the gnomon ;
see them creep their route -
the floral limousine that shouts
through the dull cluttered streets,
block the 'living daylights' out
as they bury Mr No one.... ...
Being reaches out from depth and for a span
all space and time accumulates to man,
though faith be what we may not see
being, cannot cease to be !... ... ...

(As left undone)
Test the sinews, yawning,
nimbus glares forbodingly,
seaward wind this morning
slants the rain away from me,
brolly, sprouting from the back-
grey blue sky with streaks of black,
the calves will get soaking wet
dripping down to soak the feet ; -
one thing that I always dread
looking out inside my head ;
tomorrow is another day -
draw back the curtains all the way !
No guilty footprints, dirty traces,
my boots are vacant, trail their laces -
keep Mrs Keepings in her place,
I see it, written in her face.... ... ...

Thinking of you all the time my dear -
and I'll find that old tree of yours,
where we use to dream of bygone days
on the old road to the moors,
and I'll drink again at the smuggler's arms
to the vows we made one another,
and I'll wait for your stage that never comes
through the creeping mist and the heather,
for still lies my heart on that old stony road
where I said I'd love you forever.... ... ....

God is something
but some - thing is not God.
God is as nothing
though no - thing is God.
God is the ultimate
limit of perception,
faith surely, is the love of this,
love of this mystery
which is the mystery of God:
Belief is to cleave
to what we preconceive,
having circumscribed the prize
it is that which we idolise!
Such deception may promise bliss
but God, will not, be this.... ... ...
Inner voice of Mark Birros
BY Roy K Austin : From Towards Atman:
Dorset England.

Move from Epic Poem about the world as illusion to an article on Non-Duality - The World is Illusion.

Tags: spirituality, God, memory, epic, long, poem, old, world, illusion

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© Katherine T Owen

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Be Loved

15 Spiritual Love Poems
God Love Self Love

(by the author of a-spiritual-journey-of-healing.com)

For 14 years, Katherine T Owen was severely disabled with Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, unable to walk, with little speech, and with inadequate care.

Katherine's small beautiful collection of poems take the reader with her as she journeys to know both self love and
God's love.

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"One thing that struck me was the stripping of ego in the work. Most of us have a comfy ego façade, but weakness and disease tore Katherine’s away. The poems in Be Loved Beloved come from the heart."

Dana Taylor, Author of Ever-Flowing Streams: Tapping into Healing Energy

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