Poem: Beloveds, Welcome to The House of Authentic Belonging and Holistic Healing for Wounded and Traumatized Souls 

Poem: Beloveds, Welcome to The House
of Authentic Belonging and Holistic Healing
for Wounded and Traumatized Souls 

The winter’s cold, icy winds
blow down the streets and alleys
where, once again, I find myself
ill-prepared for its raw sting,
wandering weary, challenged, a soul
wounded in the chaos of this world

Inundated with platitudes, hubris,
glory, triumphalism, denial
and indifference to pathos, suffering,
tragedy, lack of empathy and
compassion, relationships of
personality and raw oppressive power

Disengaging, taking absence,
seeking solitude with the soul and self
and its shadows, alternating  searing self
inventory and quiet contemplation of the soul,
hoping to glean some kernel, dredge up some small
grain, salvage a bit of flotsam, discover lost treasure

This self work in solitude, now alien in
our society of doing and having it all,
being always engaged and on the run for more,
one risk being viewed as anti-social, odd, abnormal,
mad, untrustworthy, an outsider, weird, undependable,
at risk for loneliness and social isolation

Yet, of course, no one deserves to be forgotten,
the outsider only wants to be accepted for themselves,
we must all return back to the community, periodically,
in our truth to further the healing
begun deep within, the community which help
define us through relationship in our wholeness

Beloveds, let us welcome one another home,
to the House of Authentic Belonging and Holistic
Healing for Wounded and Traumatized Souls
where we all share one another’s presence
and absence in our truth with no threat of  exile
and the righteous promise of being and belonging

Herb Stone
here & now working poetry
December 23, 2019

Image: Moose Creek Cabin in Alaska, unattributed

Poem: An Advent Morn on Winter Solstice Eve

An Advent Morn On Winter Solstice Eve

On Winter Solstice eve
in the bleak mid-winter
darkness and cold grip the earth

Soon the Light of the Son
come down to a broken world
on a dirty stable floor

Emmanuel, God with us,
the Cosmic Christ come down
a babe, humble, weak, and vulnerable

Escaping from authorities, a refuge,
resisting the oppressive empire’s domination
with his message of authentic life and radical love

On this Advent morn
anticipating this coming,
healing Light of our shipwrecked souls

The Fire of the Spirit is kindled
the Light of the world returns
healing through New Life Eternally

Herb Stone
here&now working poetry
December 20, 2019

Photo by Herb Stone


Poem: Where the Wasteland Ends (a beginning)

Where the Wasteland Ends
a beginning)

The distractions of the ten million things
the chaotic consumer’s life
dominant systems oppressing
sufferings of this world
dark nights of the soul

No wonder we lose our bearings
our self and our very being
lost in the wastelands of post-modern society
quagmired in ideology, isolationism, technocracy
longing for our truth, authenticity, belonging

Where does the wasteland end
but right here and right  now
in our very breath, our very bones
in our center and our grounding
doing the work, self transformation

Our beginning, our Breath, our Life Force
mindfully aware isolate the breath
rising, falling, filling, flowing
slowly, deeply, focused concentration
the diaphragm, lungs, nostrils expanding, contracting  

Within our Body, our core
standing, planting our feet on the Earth
tilting pelvis forward, opening sacrum,  lengthening
through the core, opening chest, stacking bones
aligning coccyx, sacrum, vertebrae, neck, head, crown

Centering our being with the Universe
one with the Great Cosmos of
eternal time and space, energy flows
wholeness of Body, Mind, and Spirit
Creation, Creating, Creator

Grounding with our Earth Home
the Body electric, conducing
sharing our myths and stories
beings of community, authentically belonging
true to our Self, walking one another Home

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih Shantih Shantih
Tat Tvam Asi

here and now we begin

Herb Stone 
here&now working poetry
December 16, 2019

Notes: the poem title is from a book by the same
name by Theodore Roszak; the first two lines of the
last stanza are from The Wasteland by T.S.
Elliot and are Sanskirt; the last stanza translates
as ‘giving, compassionate, self aware; peace, peace,
peace; thou art that’


Photo by Herb Stone