Haiku From the Heart, a Collection of Inspirational Haiku

Posted on January 20, 2013 by Jennifer

Haiku
From the Heart

A
Collection of Inspirational Haiku

Dear Wonder
Child Blog Readers,

Thank you
for stopping by. Today I am going to
share some inspirational haiku poems I wrote on twitter recently. They are not traditional haiku in that they
don’t always “cut,” (the root in haiku
means “to cut”) in the sense of having a surprise ending, or an ending that
jolts (gently or not so gently), or an
ending that wakes you up. I am simply
using the 5/7/5 syllable form to couch some images and spiritual ideas. I enjoy the challenge of using a set structure
to fit words into. It’s like a puzzle or
a game that yields satisfying results (for me, that is, and hopefully for you,
Dear Reader). In traditional haiku
nature is almost always mentioned in some way and the season of the year is
often implied or explicitly stated.
Sometimes I follow this tradition, sometimes I don’t. Mostly, I am just having fun sharing poetically
wrought insights and images that might inspire you to keep moving towards your
heart’s desire, or to rise up and sing, to love yourself and the world around
you, to forgive and be forgiven, or to be filled with hope and wonder. These are some of the goals of my haiku. Of course, there are some written just to be
silly. I’ll sprinkle in a couple of
those in another entry. Let me know what
you think if you would please and feel free to add some of your own.

Peace and
Light,

Joseph

Haiku
From the Heart

by Joseph Anthony

Winter woods opened ∞bent to receive
the children ∞living for their joy

Gazing at the moon ∞ dreamers looking
for heaven ∞ find it in themselves

There is grace within ∞ it sleeps in
winter’s garden ∞ waiting for your hand

Gratitude rises ∞ clearing away
morning fog ∞ glad to be alive

January trees ∞ draped in ragged,
misty shawls ∞ know that spring will come

Inner acceptance ∞ navigating the
darkness ∞ following your light

Climbing up from night ∞ the sun rises
inside us ∞ clearing fears away

Discover your dreams ∞ held in the
hands of the heart ∞ waiting to be shared

The winter hawk glides ∞ letting
winter comb its wings ∞ cleansing my spirit

When you find yourself ∞ it will be in
the moment ∞ holding hands with love

Dreaming in the ground ∞ the seed
senses holy light ∞ and begins to grow

Winter’s greatest gift ∞ it reveals to
us our breath ∞ and where our souls go

A world filled with light ∞ is shining
in every child ∞ is shining in you

Gratitude and praise ∞ ever rising
from the heart ∞ of the lost one found

I create the spring ∞ every time I
stop to praise ∞ the wonder of you

No Matter What Happens

Posted on December 17, 2011 by Jennifer

No matter what happens,

Or what you do, or do not do,

What you pray or do not pray,

You will walk out of your house one day

And look up to the sky,

Or down to the ground.

Either way you will stumble,

Either way you will fall.

Be safe, look where you’re going.

The road is opening before you, like

A path through the sea, like a bridge

Between the night and the day, but it is you

Who must put one foot in front of the other.

It is you who are making straight or crooked

The way.

Reflections on Dreams, and The Artists Within

Posted on September 23, 2011 by Jennifer

Good Day, Dear Readers,

As you know I talk a lot about following your dreams here at the Wonder Child Blog. There are other dreams however that may influence us–the kinds we have while sleeping. Today I am going to share with you some poetic reflections about these other kind of dreams. And while it is best to focus on our waking hours, our sleeping hours can provide a vast storehouse of subconscious information that can help guide us on our way.

This piece was inspired by the insightful work of Dr. Jean Raffa (http://jeanraffa.wordpress.com/). Enjoy.

Dreams– moving murals painted across the living canvas of the mind by the artists of the soul. The mediums they use are so mysterious: seemingly innocuous experiences we have during the day, foods we eat, events from our childhood, scents and aromas, music, the sense of touch, movies we saw twenty years ago. The venue they have chosen to work in is even more mysterious—the dark theater of sleep. We must enter the darkness in order for the artists to step from behind the curtains and begin splashing paint across them. Once they’re finished, and the curtains form a watery backdrop, they arrange a set with props from the past and silken memories draped over moveable, skeletal scaffolding. Then they invite us to go up on stage and parade around with huge, larger-than-life-gestures wearing the masks of dog, aunt, uncle, neighbor, co-worker, angel, devil—even ourselves. And oddity of oddities, we get to watch from the audience as well—and we watch with our eyes closed! It’s all so strange. And yet the players and the artists creating the whole vision are there to do more than entertain—each night they prepare elaborate mystery plays, initiation rites, ancient sacrificial rituals, and birthing ceremonies; and all of them on the stage of the imagination—that wonderful and blessed, living playground of the soul, and all of them meant to instruct and enlighten—to open our eyes to the truth. These players form the most loyal, dedicated guild of artists there is. They are the trusted servants of our deepest desires. Day after day they labor for us and with us. And every morning, as we wake, and sunlight begins filling the auditorium, all of the artists, the players, and the set, are moved behind the curtain to remain back stage until the next showing.

When we wake up, if we are troubled by a particular play that transpired that night, take a moment and peek behind the curtain, see backstage the most amazing mystery of all—the play within a play—all of the workers are one worker, one director–the person we most want to become.

In the Graveyard

Posted on August 29, 2011 by Jennifer

In the Graveyard

The fireflies

rose from the grass

among the headstones

and danced all night.

I couldn’t help but think:

“The souls have risen

to shimmer and to play.

Look at them.

That is what dancing

in heaven must be like.”

Searching For A Center

Posted on July 5, 2011 by Jennifer

Many of you know my mother crossed over to the other side

on February 18th. Poems and songs still appear in my heart,

needing to be shared.

This one came on Sunday, July 3.

Searching For a Center

After my brother and I watched them lower

our mother’s casket into the cold, February ground,

with a back-hoe no less, the funeral director gave us each

white roses he had saved from the viewing.

That night, alone, I held one of the roses,

and let the fragrant mass unravel carefully in my hands.

The petals fell in a heap, like silken snowflakes,

and as I wept, searching for a center, I understood:

The center of things is nearer to the thorns

than to the blossom, nearer to the ending

than to the beginning, and nearer to the unraveling of yourself

than to the trying to hold on for dear life.

Limitless Possibilities

Posted on June 30, 2011 by Jennifer

A few years ago I taught a troubled teenager. He struggled with rage and isolation, and had trouble believing in himself. When his birthday came around, I wrote him this poem–and without a preconceived reason as to why, I was moved to share it with you today.

Every seed
is hand-crafted
and placed lovingly
in a world of sweetness.

Someone eats the fruit
and casts the seed aside,
and the seed keeps the memory
of being surrounded with sweetness
for the rest of its life.

Every seed
contains the hope of sky,
and the memory of a twisted passageway,
and longing–longing for light.

And inside every seed
burns a steady darkness.
Not the kind where you can just make out the shapes
of things, but the kind where nothing
is visible.

Every seed needs that kind of darkness,
for that is the way it will look
when they are planted in the ground.

A Fisherman once told his fellow fishermen
to cast their nets into the deepest, darkest part
of the sea. Soon they were up to their knees in fish.
Not all darkness is bad.

And every seed
holds a question.
That question, once answered,
opens that seed into vast, cathedrals
of light. And then,

life blazes upwards,
past stones, through earth,
through darkness, and out–
out into the golden warmth
of limitless possibilities.

Rumi and the Art of Falling and Flying

Posted on May 14, 2011 by Jennifer

This is the first poem I ever memorized as an adult. It’s by Jalaluddin Rumi, a Persian mystic poet, and translated by Coleman Barks.

The way of love is not a subtle argument,

The door there is devastation.

Birds make great, sky-circles of their freedom.

How do they learn it? They fall. And in falling

Are given wings.

—Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks

Have you ever felt the devastation of love? Have you ever ached for someone as you watched them go down roads you knew were destructive? Have you ever loved someone with such intensity that everything else fell away from your conscious awareness, like leaves from a tree? Have you ever held a sleeping infant on your chest, like a baby bird? Have you ever been rejected? Have you ever longed for union with God so deeply that you stayed up all night weeping? Have you ever chased a dream only to fall and scatter your faith and pride across the floor like a spilled treasure box?

All true love—the love of spouse, children, friends, dreams, can be devastating. It can also be sheer ecstasy. But just as tears are shed while laughing or crying, love both hurts and thrums with the joy of the adventure. And learning to love and be loved is most definitely an adventure.

***************

I watched my three sons learn to walk. I watched them all go through the stages where they crawled across the floor, reached up for a hand-hold, grabbed the edge of a table, and slowly lifted themselves onto wobbly knees. I watched those boys sway, teeter, and fall. I watched them reach for that table again. I watched them take their first steps, arms held high at the shoulders, feet stuttering and plodding. I saw the look of amazement in their faces as they stepped haltingly towards me and then rushed—no, flew–into my arms. I saw the look of utter frustration as they fell over and over again. But never once did they stay down and cry for too long. Every time they fell while learning to walk, every single time, they got up again. Now they play baseball. Now they ride bikes. Now they go to dances. Now they are in the coolest rock band around. They fly.

So when you fall, rise again. The billy club has no place in the adventure of love. Self pity and remorse have no place in the heart of the one teetering and stumbling towards freedom. You once had the fierce determination of a baby learning to walk. Your body remembers, your cells remember, your heart remembers the complete focus you had on your goal. Deep inside, your heart remembers the spunky, desperate attitude of never giving up. It remembers wanting to walk so badly it risked bloody lips, skinned knees, and endless befuddlement and feelings of powerlessness. Of course, many of us were spurred on by the waiting arms of a loving, smiling parent. So what? Our dreams are doing the same thing for us. They are waiting, with outstretched arms, encouraging us all the way. GOD is doing the same thing. He is looking “a long way off,” like the father of the prodigal son, and yearns with a love for us that is electrifying in intensity.

And we can do this for each other. Who doesn’t fall or falter? Why not catch one another instead of taking everything so horribly seriously and personally? Are we not mirrors for each other anyway? Are we not brothers and sisters on the journey? There are no subtle arguments here. There’s no room for complaining. Rise up and grab the edge of something, even if it’s the tattered edge of a childhood dream. Lift yourself up. And it’s OK to let someone else carry you once in awhile. It’s OK to let them take your hand and lead you around the room as you step, looking wide-eyed at the world. Most of all, it’s OK to fall.

***************

At least the devastation is a door Rumi says. At least it leads someplace. It’s not merely pain for pain’s sake. It has a purpose, as annoying as that might be for some of us. Believe that the place it really leads is outwards—it leads to a ledge where the leap of faith must be taken. You walk through the door of devastation only to step out into open air, a thousand feet high. But there, about 20 feet away—just across a little cloud, is your goal. You look down, you leap, and it turns out the 20 feet is an illusion—it’s really 20 miles and you end up flying for years before you land on the other side. But think of it—you’ll be flying. How cool is that? Heaven is in the journey—literally.

For the wings are only given after you fall; when you’ve left the safe nest of old, regurgitated ideas, and are hurtling straight down towards the open, gaping jaws of a cat. It’s then the wings appear. They sprout from your shoulder blades as you begin wildly flapping your arms. They don’t form however, if you simply fall—they grow out of your desire to live your dreams. They grow from your instincts for survival and greatness. You need to at least try to fly…and then grace will suddenly, and quite unremarkably (since in heaven living your dreams is common place) pull wings from your shoulders and you will find yourself rising, soaring, and circling in freedom.

There’s Something Else

Posted on April 17, 2011 by Jennifer

It’s in that far away place

marked, “Open Upon Receipt.”

And it comes to you—a door

floating in the air, and settles down

near the bed. You get up and go through.

It flies backwards and backwards, tumbling, like

a memory you’d rather relive

than remember.

When it stops, you open it,

careful not to wake the sleeping giant

hunched over in his chair.

But there’s a golden quill pen in his hand.

Sure, you’re small.

You could sail in a walnut shell

if you had to. So what?

He won’t stay sleeping forever.

And there’s entire villages of pages

waiting to hear word

of what happens next.

–Joseph Anthony

Your Heart’s Desire is on the way…

Go Slow, Go Far

Posted on March 13, 2011 by Jennifer

Nine years ago I was teaching first grade and I took to the practice of writing each of my students a poem for their birthday. I didn’t believe in giving meaningless homework to first graders so instead I would give them tasks like: memorize their birthday poem—learn it by heart so that it lives there. Then I had them recite their poem once a week on the day closest to when they were born. All of the poems I wrote for those first graders were about seeds and about growing. This particular poem was written for a little girl who desperately wanted to learn to read and was feeling bad that things weren’t moving as fast as she thought they should be. It’s amazing how the poems I wrote for those first graders still teach me things today.

In husk and shell a maple tree slept

Deep through winter, quiet and blessed.

She dreamed of swaying through morns and eves,

And standing with starlight draped over her leaves.

“I want to sprout,” the maple tree said,

And a good kindly ground hog over heard from his bed.

“In due time, dear seedling, for grace is not rushed.”

And he fell back to sleep, in the snow-dappled hush.

So the maple tree waited, impatient and weary,

And dozed off to sleep so as not to feel dreary.

One day the sky cried warm tears of joy

And springtime returned for each girl and boy.

The seedling arose, trembling and proud,

Reaching for heaven through rolling white clouds.

The Burial

Posted on February 26, 2011 by Jennifer

It was oddly industrial. My brother and I witnessed the burial, and just before it began, the representative from the funeral home warned us kindly that it involved a backhoe.

A man from the cemetery fastened ropes to the stone box that they placed my mother’s casket in and signaled for the backhoe driver to lift it up. As the casket rose from the ground it swayed, bumped into the arm of the backhoe, and then, as the machine began driving towards her grave, actually began to spin around. It was bizarrely comical and tragic all at the same time. An amusemnet park ride for the dead. It was definitely cold and industrial.

As her casket was lowered into the ground, a man stood atop it to steady it and center it into the hole. And even though I know in my soul that my mom is elsewhere, happy, healthy, young again, the process seemed disrespectful to the shell that was her body. But I know those performing the inglorious task were trying their best to make it OK, so I cannot fault them.

After the casket was settled in the ground, my brother and I tossed down two white roses. And for a brief instant I had the sensation to jump into the hole and make a big dramatic scene. But I didn’t. Thank goodness I am slowly learning that I do not have to do everything my thoughts say to do. It reminded me of the few times I’ve someplace high and the thought comes to jump, and I don’t. It was sort of like that.

After we sent the roses down, the backhoe shovel began to slowly, and I will say, almost tenderly heap the heavy, February dirt into the hole. I think the backhoe operator knew how difficult this was to watch for my brother and I and he really tried to make it as gentle as possible.

As I watched this process I was reminded of a poem my wife Amanda wrote when her dad’s mother died. At that burial, her dad and the other pallbearers actually lowered the casket down themselves. The poem she wrote is very moving and so I will, with her permission, end this post with it.

Pallbearer

Your brothers and you are lifting

your mother from the back of the hearse

as she once lifted you

from the deep shaft of nothing,

and you are thinking “she has left me behind,”

as you left her behind and learned to live

a story she had not hoped for you.

Around you it is weirdly warm for January,

and you are coatless before the bare trees

and your own grown children watching

like blossoms on dark stalks

beside the waiting hole.

You are holding her body that once held you,

the wet earth smell around you like a blanket,

and carrying her across the muddy graveyard

as she first carried you when you were too small

to walk, too small to bear

something as heavy as your life.

The casket is so heavy,

the thing inside so light

as you lower her,

as she lowered you,

gently to your cradle,

covering you with kisses that fell

like flowers on your face.

The Wonder Child Blog

Sharing the Journey

Category Archives: poetry

Haiku From the Heart, a Collection of Inspirational Haiku

No Matter What Happens

Reflections on Dreams, and The Artists Within

In the Graveyard

Searching For A Center

Limitless Possibilities

Rumi and the Art of Falling and Flying

There’s Something Else

Go Slow, Go Far

The Burial

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