Monday, June 24, 2013

Watersongline- Music, Prayer, Indigenous Sacred Songs- All Poetry

Indigenous music (including prayers and chants from many native traditions) is poetry to me.  Prayers, chants, blessings come from the heart of the creator and are presented in ceremonies with clear intentions to fill a need, to extend hope, to connect with the spirit of the land, the air and  water to uplift. They are clear sound from the yearning human soul. In this way they connect the person saying or singing them or hearing them to what is true and "real" about human need and desire, about connection and co-creation.

 Indigenous people


Sacred songs have always been away of our ancestors communing with the all above, giving gratitude, calling in the healing and renewal of self, family, friends, loved ones, communities and all our relations.
Many sacred songs are learned in ceremony. Some have been passed down for millenniums and others arise from the heart of the person. Many of the songs words may not have exact meanings, the meaning is in the intention behind the sacred sound. It is the vibration of that sound combined with the intent of the singer that holds the healing. Therefore, know that we all have sacred songs in our hearts. We can ask for them to come forward through our  prayers, meditations, and dreams. When a sacred song comes forward always remember to give gratitude to the divine source from which it sprang.
The following sacred prayer songs have been kindly shared with us. Look out as more are added."

 Read the rest and Listen....

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Tony Hoagland Poems

Reading Moby-Dick at 30,000 Feet

by Tony Hoagland

At this height, Kansas 
is just a concept, 
a checkerboard design of wheat and corn

no larger than the foldout section 
of my neighbor's travel magazine. 
At this stage of the journey

I would estimate the distance 
between myself and my own feelings 
is roughly the same as the mileage

from Seattle to New York, 
so I can lean back into the upholstered interval 
between Muzak and lunch,

a little bored, a little old and strange.
I remember, as a dreamy
backyard kind of kid,

tilting up my head to watch 
those planes engrave the sky 
in lines so steady and so straight

they implied the enormous concentration 
of good men, 
but now my eyes flicker

from the in-flight movie 
to the stewardess's pantyline, 
then back into my book,

where men throw harpoons at something 
much bigger and probably 
better than themselves,

wanting to kill it, 
wanting to see great clouds of blood erupt 
to prove that they exist.

Imagine being born and growing up, 
rushing through the world for sixty years 
at unimaginable speeds.

Imagine a century like a room so large, 
a corridor so long
you could travel for a lifetime

and never find the door, 
until you had forgotten 
that such a thing as doors exist.

Better to be on board the Pequod, 
with a mad one-legged captain 
living for revenge.

Better to feel the salt wind 
spitting in your face, 
to hold your sharpened weapon high,

to see the glisten
of the beast beneath the waves. 
What a relief it would be

to hear someone in the crew 
cry out like a gull, 
Oh Captain, Captain! 
Where are we going now?