Scheherazade and Her Master

He had power,
but no soul;
though he was surrounded by wealth,
he believed in nothing and no one;
when his wife found consolation
in the arms of a servant,
in his fury, he dispatched them both.

From that time,
he felt nothing;
people were mere objects
for him to command—
he alone had power over life and death;
the trail of blood
leading out of his courtyard
to the pit of lifeless virgins
provided ample evidence.

Then She came
—what does it matter where She came from?

What happened next made him so dizzy,
he almost swooned:
She opened her mouth and began to speak.

At the sound of Her voice,

he could feel,
and he knew at once:
he was not worthy to lurk in Her shadow,
all his power and erudition meant nothing;
he was but a thin shell, filled only with shame
at his past thoughts, words and deeds.

Her sound looked like sunlight cutting through clouds,
in order to dance on the distant waves of the limitless ocean;
Her voice tasted like berries drizzled in honey;
it intoxicated like wine.

He was mesmerized by Her voice,
yet he was convinced She was no sorceress.

While Her voice rumbled, purred, caressed and sang,
the sun rose,
the mighty waters parted
and land emerged
now before him,
as at the dawn of creation.

The sound that came from Her lips,
it was unlike any other;
ah, it was life itself!

He somehow knew
if he could live within the tone of Her voice,
there was redemption for his soul,
his life would have meaning,
he would be worth something.

To grant Her rest each night,
to nourish Her body,
to bathe Her in rosewater,
to clothe Her in silk
and adorn Her with gold and jewels,
to let Her rule his kingdom
with equity and peace—
this was but the smallest price to pay
for that heavenly, life-giving music.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

In the Garden of Delights: V. Perfect Storm

By faulty thinking and vision,
having achieved imbalance irrevocable,
there seemed nothing for it
but to throw a party.

Invitations addressed and sent,
an invisible feast was prepared,
a metaphorical table set.

Nothing left
but to await
the coming
of the guests.

First a gathering of winds,
from east and west,
from north and south;
well met were they in song
over a scarred and ravaged land.

The great whirling howl
stood time and travel still;
even the oceans stood in their tracks.

A quiver of lightning arrows
signaled volleys of hail and fireballs;
such foundations as remained
were shaken to the core
and submitted to a tired earth in defeat.

The seas and rivers walked upright,
dancing to the music of the wind,
joining a rhythmic patter of rain,
purifying all places low and plain,
in a symphony of lyrical wetness.

Into the deafening roar, I cried out:
“Save me, O Divine One, save me!
The water is wide upon the earth;
there is no place to stand,
and I drown in my own tears!”

“Save me from the drink!
Don’t let me sink!
Awaken me to think
beyond this gaping pit
of watery depths!”

My Dear,
this rising brew
comes to renew,
to save and sew.

These rivers of water,
walls and sheets of water,
with the leaky clouds and springs,
come by invitation to celebrate!
They come to wash, to heal, renew.

Allow your heart to be opened by your tears,
open your eyes and ears;
a way shall arise
beyond the rubble of former years,
a way of peace and wellness.

These watery guardians shall eventually recede,
their dancing shall give way to pure land;
in the places where monsters tormented,
sweet grasses and herbs shall rise.

Through the merry waving thickets,
a highway shall verily appear,
bidding you welcome
to a new journey.

O Daughter of Zion,
cast off the lameness
that paralyzes you!
Open your voice
to the dawn of day
with the new song
that all life is a celebration!

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

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We are too rational to realize that weather is a wild party. All the natural forces are our neighbors who we might wish would party in a quieter and less destructive fashion. The destruction wrought at such times is an invitation to build anew, with better plans, better materials and better intentions.

Luke 14:16-23; Psalm 107: 29; Psalm 18:13-15; Psalm 69:14-15; Isaiah 41:18; Isaiah 35; Zephaniah 3:14

Gathering Whit

Waves froth and foam,

crashing against the beaches,
wordless cries from the silent depths:
listen! listen!
hear what cannot be voiced,
hear through the numb frustration
of all that must go unspoken.

Winds wail and whip,
wreaking and wrecking all in their path:
hear them! hear them!
a series of moanings and mournings
for all that goes unheeded, unheard,
unsaid, uncontemplated, unwritten,
of what passes understanding in the undone.

Confusions and generation gaps
obscure the presence story of all that is—
that love is and life is and all I am!
feel it! feel it!
the winds and the waves weave,
braiding into fiery tongues,
so words need no voice to speak,

But words are, that breathe life,
while unfolding wholly and fully from within
the birth and culmination of the blossom
whose song the wind carries,
whose invisible body glows in the sun,
whose object embraces subject
in perfect and timeless unity.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Placid Pool

           ~about singing and life

Placid pool,

font of being;
here, there is surface tension,
but there is no holding back.

Depths and heights,
aboves and belows,
all vividness reflected here
is a perfect and lively counterpoint;

Nothing that rises or falls
is ever disconnected,
nor even far-flung—
there is nothing beyond
this teeming now,
this moment,
this.

Fish, rising softly
toward sparkling light,
kiss this moment
and are quenched in air.

Birds, descending lightly
toward darkling sheen,
kiss this moment
and are quenched in water.

The rising and the falling are one,
the light and the dark are one,
highs, lows and all the in-betweens are one,
tempered to clarity and density
in this place of being
that quenches all being,
in this teeming now,
this moment,
this.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen