Author: Ian Trimnell

On a dark night by St. John of the Cross   On a dark night, Kindled in love with yearnings –oh, happy chance!– I went forth without being observed, My house being now at rest. In darkness and secure, By the secret ladder, disguised –oh, happy chance!– In darkness and in concealment, My house being now...

Love Doesn’t Need a Story By Alfred K. LaMotte  As you awaken, just before the mind of yesterday falls like a net of stones be weightless. Be presence without a story – How your soul looks in that mirror when it sees itself! What gets you out of bed, trembling like a wild purple iris in...

Words That Wait to Be Said By Jeanne Lohmann Having come to the place where I no longer wish to be anyone else, astonished to find I’ve traveled far enough to let the children go and put the old ladder of perfection away behind the other antiques in the barn, what needs me now is joy,...

The Waking By Theodore Roethke I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go. We think by feeling. What is there to know? I hear my being dance from ear to ear. I wake to sleep, and take...

I am not I. By Juan Ramon Jimenez I am this one walking beside me whom I do not see, whom at times I manage to visit, and whom at other times I forget; who remains calm and silent while I talk, and forgives, gently, when I hate, who walks where I am not, who will...

Words That Wait to Be Said By Jeanne Lohmann Having come to the place where I no longer wish to be anyone else, astonished to find I’ve traveled far enough to let the children go and put the old ladder of perfection away behind the other antiques in the barn, what needs me now is joy,...

Beloved is Where We Begin By Jan Richardson If you would enter into the wilderness, do not begin without a blessing. Do not leave without hearing who you are: Beloved, named by the One who has traveled this path before you. Do not go without letting it echo in your ears, and if you find it...

Derailleur of the Heart By Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer Because our conversation feels like riding a bike uphill, I think of gears. I think of how easy it is to shift lower, how a simple flick of the thumb makes the impossible possible. Where are the gears for love? There must be better ways to use our...

Walking Past the Mud Puddle By Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer  Today I feel too clean to play, but oh there was that day when you and I walked past the mud puddle, all slick and ooze, a miresome mess, and we reached our fingers into the sludge and smeared the muck onto each other’s faces— thick mud,...