Desert Labyrinth – Journey Poem

April 6, 2016 by Leave a Comment
Desert Labyrinth

https://boxfanexpo.com/rcb7miew Desert Labyrinth ©2013 Bo Mackison

Where Buy Valium “A labyrinth is a symbolic journey . . . but it is a map we can really walk on, blurring the difference between map and world.” ~ Rebecca Solnit

Labyrinth, A Journey

https://trevabrandonscharf.com/a66io2nvi I walk in circles, around and back, around and forth.

https://www.thoughtleaderlife.com/if5fxw6ut1 There is a beginning, a middle, an end.

follow site Release, receive, return.

https://www.parolacce.org/2024/09/18/q7g1rd8g6tg Guided by lines of crooked rocks
and an invisible hand on my shoulder,
subtle pressure encouraging me forward.

enter Step after step
turn after turn
towards center.

source site And there I stand immobile, my breath fragmented.
The labyrinth’s center is marked with a large pock-marked rock
the bearer of mementos and memento mori –
small stones, rings and bracelets, army dog tags, holy cards.

https://semnul.com/creative-mathematics/?p=scbdqbhor Center – the farthest distance from beginning or end.
I move on
no longer walking a meditative pace.

follow link Startled by a sudden flare of sunlight, heart pounding,
I seek to cast aside these memories that haunt.

https://luisfernandocastro.com/t8wp637j And still
I do not disregard the worn path, the boundary of rock,
the unspoken rule of the labyrinth.

https://www.drcarolineedwards.com/2024/09/18/hrjbu522t4x I stumble to its exit, blinded, my feet guided by the rocky lines,
the labyrinth expels me from its sacred interior
into this other world.

https://www.parolacce.org/2024/09/18/3us1n681 A ghost keeps vigil, its eyes the eyes of the cactus wren
perched on the thorny spire of a tree cholla.
Its whisper, low and moaning, travels in the arroyo
and disappears in the swirling winds.

Buy Valium India Online Release, receive, return.
All is well.

https://ragadamed.com.br/2024/09/18/7u8wz7wt ~~~~~~~~~

Buy Valium Us Posting a desert-related poem each day in April, National Poetry Month. Updated poems from my blog archives, new poems written as sacred practice, and selected, favorite poems from other poets. Today’s poem inspired by a labyrinth walk at the edge of the desert, and yes, the desire to flee past ghosts. And the decision not to.

Filed Under: Photography Tagged With: , , , ,

6th Annnual Photo Alphabet – Invitation to Labyrinth

December 28, 2013 by 2 Comments

I is for Invitation

Central Park, New York City

Buy Valium Reviews Invitation to Sit a Spell © 2013 Bo Mackison

When I see a bench in a garden, it’s an invitation for me to slow down and sit for a while.

https://boxfanexpo.com/xivb5va “Dawdling” my grandfather would have said, but gardens are meant for strolling, sauntering, absorbing, meditating, observing. I always think a garden bench is the fine invitation to stop and sit a spell.

go site https://marcosgerente.com.br/k5j5kz1dl ~~~

J is for Journeys.

Pictograh by Native American Artist, Agate Fossil Beds National Monument Visitor Center

click here Journey Life Map 2013 Bo Mackison

On my cross-country trip last May, I stopped at Agate Fossil Beds National Monument in Nebraska.

https://marcosgerente.com.br/cm47bovf3b The ranger spoke extensively of this replica pictograph created the Lakota Sioux. A single drawing, the most significant of happenings, would summarize a year or a decade or even a hundred years. Over time the Lakota told their story in a spiral of tiny drawings.

Their journey begins with a simple drawing, representing the creation of the world.

Buy Quality Valium Next is a drawing of a mastodon, then the animal’s fossilized bones. Hundreds of drawings make up the pictograph, drawn on animal skin. It is a pictorial map of their history.

follow Wouldn’t it be an impressive project to capture memories passed down from our ancestors, add our own, and create a spiral map like this.

It would be an illustrated, spiraling journey of a family.

https://livingpraying.com/3de964d Buy Diazepam 5Mg Tablets Uk ~~~

K is for Kettle.

Marigold Teapot

go to site Kettle © 2012 Bo Mackison

There are times when nothing will do except to put the kettle on and brew a pot of tea.

Buy Diazepam 20 Mg If I’m in the mood for to settle into a good book, or write a few letters, or perhaps I just want to sit and daydream, a cup of tea is always a welcome addition. And the brewing of the tea itself is one of the best mindfulness practices I know.

go to link A slow practice, a sacred ritual.

~~~

L is for Labyrinth.

Turns on a Labyrinth

https://www.thoughtleaderlife.com/i8dt8nknck Labyrinth © 2013 Bo Mackison

I am a seeker of labyrinths.

Buy Valium Safely Online I walked a labyrinth on the edge of the Sonoran Desert in early spring. What an extraordinary experience, connecting with the rhythm of the labyrinth pattern. Now I seek other labyrinths to walk. I journal after walking the labyrinth, and then I work my journal writing into poetry. Here is one from earlier this year:

Labyrinth, A Journey https://everitte.org/zr2bl7vfn

I walk in circles, around and back, around and forth.

There is beginning, middle, end.

Guided by lines of crooked rocks,
an invisible hand on my shoulder,
encourages me, presses me onward.

Take a step,
One more turn,
Approach the center.

And there I stand immobile, my breath fragmented.

The labyrinth’s center, a large pock-marked rock
resting place for mementos and memento mori
small rocks, rings and bracelets, dog tags, holy cards.

Center – the farthest distance from beginning or end.

I move on.
But no longer do I walk a meditative pace.

I am anxious to leave,
ready to bolt, yet
I do not disregard the worn path
the labyrinth’s unspoken boundary.

I stumble to its exit, blinded, my feet guided by the rocky lines,
expelled from its sacred interior
into the other world. My world.

A ghost keeps vigil, its eyes the eyes of the cactus wren
perched on the spire of a tree cholla.
Its whisper, low and moaning, travels the arroyo
carried on swirling winds.

~~~

Want to read Part II? Here it is — Elephants to Highways

Coming tomorrow, Part IV :  Metaphors to Place

Filed Under: Creativity, Photography, Writing Practices Tagged With: , , , , , , ,

From the Labyrinth – Part II

July 23, 2013 by 2 Comments
photo(25)

Maiden, Mother, Crone – Entrance to the Labyrinth © 2-13 Bo Mackison

I walk again, collect the sticks loosened
from the oaks by yesterday’s storms.

Gather leaves. The first, a shiny narrow leaf,
The second, full with smoothed points, with a leaflet attached to its stem,
The last, a yellowing leaf, splotched with black, its edges withering.

Maiden, mother, crone.

Rows and Rows

Rows and Rows © 2013 Bo Mackison

From the labyrinth, the rows and rows
of sisters’ stones rise on the nearby hill, precise like soldiers’ formations.
The dead, in their final resting places, each marked with a rock and a name.

Once they dedicated their lives in faith, to love and community. Hard work.
What kept their faith alive, those that remained in their vows?

What happened to the mute ones, the angry ones, the hysterical ones?
The unwanted fifth daughter, the child raped by a neighboring farmer,
the daughter who ran from home with the rag and bone man only to return carrying her shame?

What happened to the ones with startling visions,
those who followed a calling they understood only in their hearts,
those who sought a home, any home, as a safe haven?

Did this sacred community quiet the demons that screamed when the women were alone?
Hold their visions in reverence? Embrace them
in their desperation and their joys?
Accept them with their frailties and in their strengths.

I hear their voices as I walk along the grassy paths.

Friends with Magdalene

Friends with Magdalene © 2013 Bo Mackison

One stone draws me, holds my attention. There lies a polished rock on
Mary Magdalene’s stone. “Friends” it declares.

I could be a friend with the ancient one, His Mary Magdalene, I think,
though I know little of her life, only those I learned as a child,
stories of her cryptic life, the sainted penitential prostitute.

I wonder what I do not know.
What of her story was lost in history? Or re-purposed.

Closing the Gate

Closing the Gate © 2013 Bo Mackison

The church tower chimes twelve times, noon
I open the gate, walk out.
Shut it. Firmly. Shake it hard to test its latch. I am shaken, too.
Bury my grief, and theirs, but hold their stories dear.

I carry their stories as I walk the cracked road.
The birds sing in the ancient oaks.
An acorn falls.

—————–

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC. Recently she has also been pondering labyrinths and journeys.

Filed Under: Photography, Writing Practices Tagged With: , , , ,

Labyrinth Visit

July 21, 2013 by 2 Comments
Labyrinth

Labyrinth © 2013 Bo Mackison

Shrouded in haze, the labyrinth,
in a barren place, air molecules heavy from a passing thunderstorm.
A few raindrops and faraway rumbling, then closer, long and onerous,
like a door sliding closed in the distant skies,
grating, heaving, cloud against cloud.

Turns on a Labyrinth

Turns on a Labyrinth © 2013 Bo Mackison

I draw close, hesitate at the labyrinth’s entrance.
I am here, I have yearned for days to travel the hours here, to walk the passage, and now
I stop, uncertain. What am I looking for? An answer? A calming? Reassurance?

Cracked Stones and Dead Weeds

Cracked Stones and Dead Weeds © 2013 Bo Mackison

I stop at the only tree near enough to study,
a crab apple, stunted in the shade of ancient oaks.
search its dead branches, its leaves a premature yellow,
faded, rusted with scab.

But on one branch there is a green twig,
a cluster of three pink leaves unfurling.
Peer at stones at my feet, uneven and broken, to regain my bearings
and a scraggly branch pokes sharply into my shoulder as I pass.
“Listening?” it seems to inquire.

Labyrinth Stones

Labyrinth Stones © 2013 Bo Mackison

The plastic wrist band from an earlier event
gouges my skin, the band a bright cherry red, blood-red.
I pull at it, but the security band has no give.
I read its black print, ignored earlier in the press of a crowd.

“Void if detached!” Void?
I am void if I choose to detach from this path I follow?
This walk, exhilarating yet difficult.
This path that questions me as I form questions to ask of it?

Ancient Oak

Ancient Oak © 2013 Bo Mackison

Nothing in the labyrinth appears alive,
shriveled brown weeds, crumbles of oak leaves,
worn stones, chipped and cracked.

The ancient oak sentry is dying.
There are no other’s footprints, only the circular
indentations of raindrops from last night’s storm.

A fleeting thought, the impulse to flee the necessity of loss.

Acorn Oil Lamp, Rusted

Acorn Oil Lamp, Rusted © 2013 Bo Mackison

Thoughts tumble in my mind. Who will reclaim this labyrinth?
Shine the rusted acorns oil lamps, trim their wicks?
These oil lamps, like rusty upturned breasts, no longer of use,
their offer of light in these shadows forgotten.

I walk the path. Towards the center. Wait and listen. Retrace the path.
Relinquish control so I can hear the whispering answers, accept guidance.
I walk the labyrinth three times. I wait.

Winding Road

Winding Road © 2013 Bo Mackison

Void if detached? I choose to not detach.
I am not alone. A few ants, a brown moth in camouflage.
I pick up a tiny white and black feather, a half walnut-shell.

I am in the labyrinth. Alive. Me.
I glance at a squared stone as I ready to leave. Clinging to its surface,
a bit of heart-shaped moss, bright green.

Alive.

—————-

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC. Recently she has also been pondering labyrinths and  journeys.

Filed Under: Photography, Writing Practices Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Desert Labyrinth

February 6, 2013 by 9 Comments
Desert Labyrinth

Desert Labyrinth ©2013 Bo Mackison

follow url Labyrinth, A Journey

I walk in circles, around and back, around and forth.

There is a beginning, a middle, an end.

Guided by lines of crooked rocks
and an invisible hand on my shoulder,
subtle pressure encouraging me forward.

Take one more step,
Make one more turn,
Move into the center.

And there I stand immobile, my breath fragmented.

The labyrinth’s center, a large pock-marked rock
laden with mementos and memento mori —
small stones, rings and bracelets, a dog tag, holy cards.

Center – the farthest distance from beginning or end.

And so I move on.
No longer walking a slow meditative pace.

I am anxious to leave, ready to bolt, disappear,
still
I do not disregard the worn path,
the unspoken rule of the labyrinth.

I stumble to its exit, blinded, my feet guided by the rocky lines,
and the labyrinth expels me from its sacred interior
into the other world.

The ghost keeps vigil, its eyes the eyes of the cactus wren
perched on the spire of a tree cholla.
Its whisper, low and moaning, travels in the arroyo
carried on swirling winds.

—————

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC. She explores creative photography. poetry, and emotion in a new series featuring desert lines.

Filed Under: Art of Healing, Photography Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , ,
Next Page »