Good Apple – A poem for my mother

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Tree of LifeGood Apple – A Poem for my mother

 

My mother takes her place

beneath the branches of the tree of life.

She is sheltered there from sun and rain.

She nurtured me from the roots

she fed me from abundant fruits

she showed me the beauty in the blossom

she guided me to trace the bark with my fingers.

She taught me to stand with my back against this tree.

That I may be supported in the days of prophecy.

I am a grown woman now

who has taken my own place here

sheltered by the branches of the tree.

The prettiest one, my mother gave to me, apple.

I stand here beside my mother, see I am near.

Green gold light patterning on our faces, dappled.

We look back through the garden gate wistfully

wondering when us sinners will be allowed to return

with our first mother Eve, to our rightful places.

 

My mother, she told me something the other day.

She said when she lays down to sleep

she lies perfectly straight to align her spine

to the tree of life. Oh with words, she has such a way!

Even her pajama seams are perfectly aligned!

Fingers and toes and sacrum and mind!

She is a body prayer, breathing the name of God.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. God’s true name is spoken

as my mother aligns her spine to complete the day.

 

Now I too align myself with that great wisdom tree.

The one promised to me. The one connected

to the very truth root that sets us free.

I don’t know the name of God my mother knows.

I just imagine her, breathing it for me. Inhale. Exhale.

Mothers do that you know, moderating our life flow.

Breathe for their babies in their red womb home.

Lady Mary did it for her itty bitty baby tree.

Born to help the blind to see. But do we?

 

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Oh! How I wish that was more true for me,

because my mother is the wisest woman on earth.

According to me. She is so very kind to me.

She is dynamic combination of delight and severity

teaching me the view from the fence, or the tree.

With her camel bags packed with the Holy Word

and ancient remedy and the kabalah of our mothers

she leads our flock to safety.

 

I praise you and thank you my

Good Mother and Good Father Creator,

for a good mother, a poet! Blessed Be!

She heeds the call of the Master in naming me

for what she hoped I would become.

I pray for her sake alone, that I be a good apple!

Thy will be done!

Perhaps if I am good, even an apple of your eye!

I shall do my best to serve you

as my mother taught me, I’ll try!

 

Shiloh Sophia, September 4, 2015

For my mother Caron McCloud

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She is a tree of life to those that embrace her ~ Proverbs

Dear One,

I feel so happy to share some of my mama love with you today. These photos were taken two years ago by Jonathan and were during a day of creativity that we shared researching and sharing the medicine of our mother Eve.

This poem was inspired by a conversation I had with my mother a few days ago. We work with so many big images, like God and Trees and Prophecy, but when she told me about the seam on her pajamas being all aligned, that was when the poem began. Poems are like that – sneaking in on simple seams, the most mundane of things can spark the creative process. They catch you by surprise out of the corner of your eye instead of what you are looking at directly. It took a few days to form and grow and finally it came out. When I started I didn’t know what it would be about, beside the tree, and the seams, it is in the writing of it, the writing itself that the poem is born. And for me my Mother was the entry point to a prayer of gratitude to Creator that wanted to come through me. When I read it out loud the first time like my mother taught me, I actually cried. You know it’s th real deal when you cry at your own poem. This is a kind of laboring – in which you don’t know what will work will be born. But you listen. Slow down. Allow the spirit to move, and She does.


Regarding the creative process, the seams are what inspired the poem – but most importantly, the poem started to light up in my mind at that time and begin its weaving process. I see it a web being woven when I am not looking simply because I put my mother’s pajama seams into the field to be woven. I began to hold it gently in a place I call alchemical consciousness which holds all my stories and paintings and poems in process. They wait for me to make the time. This is an invitation to listen LIKE THAT to the little words or phrases that light you up. Here’s my evidence of the importance of time for your creative process – on your calendar, a promises day to yourself and your muse, or an hour. I had declared today a day dedicated to poetry. That I would be editing my poems from dawn until the lighting of the Sabbath candle. And so my MUSE knew I had the space and it was her time to move through me, accompanied by the Holy Spirit in this case. The space to create, on the calendar allows for your creative process to move towards a specific bracketed time in which you can reveal the shimmering parts you have been noticing light up in your mind.

 

Poetry – the language of the soul that stirs us into deep seeing and, because of that, the deepest being possible.

~ Shiloh Sophia