Thursday, October 7, 2010

The Veil is Getting Thinner

"As I went out walking this fall afternoon,

I heard a whisper whispering.
I heard a whisper whispering,
Upon this fine fall day...
As I went out walking this fall afternoon,
I heard a laugh a' laughing.
I heard a laugh a' laughing,
Upon this fine fall day...
I heard this whisper and I wondered,
I heard this laugh and then I knew.
The time is getting near my friends,
The time that I hold dear my friends,
The veil is getting thin my friends,
And strange things will pass through."

~The Veil is Getting Thinner

Friday, August 6, 2010

The Angel of Death

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
-Kahlil Gibran-

The Angel of Death, 1897
Evelyn De Morgan

Monday, July 26, 2010

The Death Bed

We watch’d her breathing thro’ the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
But when the morn came dim and sad
And chill with early shower,
Her quiet eyelids closed―she had
Another morn than ours.
-Thomas Hood-

-Edvard Munch. The Death Bed. 1895-

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Rest in Peace Celinda...

And ever has it been
that love knows not its own depth
until the hour of separation.
Kahlil Gibran

In loving memory of
Celinda Louise Allyn Lockwood

Monday, April 12, 2010

Midnight Wisdom

The cover was detected
Somehow it came through unspoken,
Misconception burns to be set right.
Attitudes were concealed, like the shining
Sent from Empyrean for those who could understand it.
In the long standing custom everything changed,
Breaking forbidden rules questions unanswered remain
About the drills taught in the dark
Alone to oneself, on the isolation shelf.
Few are worthless, though many had to be repeated,
What was not expressed must be forgotten
Since famous last words all appear rotten.
If only memories would vanish
But we know, don’t we,
That they will come alive again.
Years ago, “mine own” was born under Northern Lights
With difficulty the wisdom was shared
Laced in bitterness and derision.
All this came with the Mentor
Who put the school in order,
But when anxious words were finally whispered,
The lessons were pulled in and held tight
Like a vacuum, then turned off altogether
Dropping like flies into the chalk outlines
On the broken classroom floor.
He would possess me if I fold -
Close the door once more,
Oh why I did not see the signs while dashing
Through the luminous city at night
I shall never know.
It was too late for sunset, too early for dawn,
So I stand like the Emu
Dreaming of flight
Under the stellated power of my keeper.

Photograph:  "Jacob wrestling with the Angel"
Gustave Dore, 1865, engraving from "The Holy Bible".
"Midnight Wisdom", ©1980, Janice Stiles-Boults

Monday, March 15, 2010


Incoming calls were not permissible
Within the walls of that mountain side park.
Proper channels required messages
Relayed to me. Responsibilities
Were mine to choose to answer or ignore.
Dialing the number for the sorrow,
I knew then, the very moment of death.
I heard the whispered story
Felt sympathy once again,
It stole into my fragile mind and burnt
Away the questions I would someday ask,
Searching for the truth, lost
Along that gulf coast.
Pieces of life were lifted afar
Strength shattered and left me trembling,
Hope fell apart, fragments of yesterday
Pierced my soul with pain and tainted blood
That pooled at my feet as I cried out loud
Has the world truly gone unloved?
Those around me took my heart, strange inmates
In our prisons of self-inflicted crimes
Where we stumble over demons inside,
Momentarily they could move the focus
To let me cry into their rain
Where my pain was sliced open so the sorrow could flow.
Fifteen hundred miles apart, no where near his side
Days were spent in tears with all that is bizarre,
Years it would take to understand and say goodbye
I wonder if I have been forgiven, never did I lie
When telling the truth of a dying man.
The soulful moaning is fresh in flesh
I would cut veins if it would flush out the hurt
Wash clean the spoken words that haunt
The earthly presence, the Godly word
My God, I survived you!
But not the part
Of being angry and alone
Without you.

Poetry by Janice Stiles-Boults ©1988, All Rights Reserved
Photograph courtesy of Google Images:
Edvard Munch, Weeping Nude, 1913.

Monday, November 2, 2009

A Parable of Immortality

I am standing upon the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze
and starts for the blue ocean.

She is an object of beauty and strength,
and I stand and watch until at last she hangs
like a speck of white cloud
just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other.
Then someone at my side says,
" There she goes! "

Gone where?

Gone from my sight . . . that is all.

She is just as large in mast and hull and spar
as she was when she left my side
and just as able to bear her load of living freight
to the place of destination.

Her diminished size is in me, not in her.

And just at the moment
when someone at my side says,
" There she goes! "
there are other eyes watching her coming . . .
and other voices ready to take up the glad shout . . .

" Here she comes! "

~Henry Van Dyke