“When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his experience. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses. For art establishes the basic human truths which must serve as the touchstones of our judgment. The artist. . . faithful to his personal vision of reality, becomes the last champion of the individual mind and sensibility against an intrusive society and an offensive state.”   - John F. Kennedy

“Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting with the gift of speech.”  - Simonides

My own collections of poetry are available in two self-published volumes and can be purchased at:

http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/273880  Songs of the Heart’s Longing

http://www2.xlibris.com/bookstore/bookdisplay.aspx?bookid=73138  Ecclesiastes For Sixty: Seasons in Solitude

or they can be purchased on my own website where I will absorb the cost of shipping:

http://liannelschneider.com/books-and-prints.html

My other musings…prose and poetry about life’s journey, a little down to earth philosophy and an occasional discussion of the spiritual quest can be found on my blog and I’d love to have you come visit:

Seasons, Songs and Spirit at http://liannelschneider.com/wordpress

Velveteen Rabbit

 

Only love can make us real –

a touch, a tender touch, an

intimate connection.

Not the touch of being played with

like some delightful new toy

that’s eventually outgrown.

Not the push-pull touch of

novelty or infatuation

-that makes us insomniacs

-or maniacs

but doesn’t make us really real.

Real is when you

hear me with your eyes

see me with your soul

touch me with a sigh

unspeaking heart to unspoken wish

unmet need to meeting gift –

that love has made me real.

 

© Lianne Schneider June 2008 

 

 

Desert Wanderings

 

Are the rare oases enough to

sustain the desert nomad?

And where is the desert boundary –

would the journeyman perceive

its end, or like me, see Canaan

and think it only temporary respite –

can he see beauty where I see none,

sculpture where I see sand –

has he more praise for palm trees

than I for all of Canaan’s promise?

 

Deserts are but dry expanses of the mind

the hypochondria boredom breeds,

unirrigated months, parched and barren

where there is naught to slake one’s thirst

and coolness only stones beneath one’s tongue,

monotonous thoughtscapes, uninspired

wishing for rivers, never neared mirages

and longings so undefined

that even prayer is sterile.

 

What happens to dreams that die?

Are they reborn in other minds

nourished in more fertile ground –

do the sands that cover them

windshift

reviving them again, or are they

preserved, like dried straw flowers,

still rich in color

but sapless, too fragile now to grow?

 

© Lianne Schneider June 2008

 

 

 

 

Mosaic

 

In brokenness lies an awful, accidental, beauty,

the scattered moments of life

rearranged now artfully – fragmented bits of tinted tiles -

the potsherds of learning, particles of love,

smooth shapes of longing, sharp edges of grief,

small slivers of hate, round stones of pain,

an odd bit of turquoise glass, remnant of first love felt, then lost,

the pure prism of crystal clarity of some eureka moment,

translucent mica mirrors of children’s eyes,

cracked pottery of growth and loss,

an amethyst of passion, a garnet of grace,

all mortared now with careful compassion and self-taught artistry

to make of scraps and sometimes shattered pieces some pattern

of my choosing, unique, surreal, impressionist,

the mosaic of memory almost finished now -

laid stone and shard within my mind

and displayed upon my wrinkled face.

© Lianne Schneider November 2008 

 

 

 

Mystery

 

I dance in vivid dreams

around the edges of the Mystery

of the universe unfolding

of ME unfolding, awakening

in ever widening rings of being,

stretching from my sleep,

eyes still closed to try to hold

the luminous visions that drift

between the suns, the moons,

the stars thrown out at random

like paint splatter on a blue-black canvas

across the cosmos of my mind.

 

And then at last awake,

I plunge myself into words

not to escape the dream

but to be in it and beyond it,

embrace and let go of life and

all its sorrows, joys and questions

in the very same moment.

I drown in the sacred symbol

of each creative word,

not to become a mystic

but to be immersed in the

bloody words of  suffering,

the unlimited lexicon of love,

the exquisite adjectives of joy,

and be one with all of it

so I can fully taste, savor

the grit and grain and grape of it

in my hungry, thirsty mouth.

I make the sacrifice of self

the food I bring to the table,

to the banquet of ultimate answers

where the whole of Mystery

waits to be consumed.

I offer the broken bread of my body

the aged wine of my words

as the grace I speak before the meal,

and thus give birth to god.

 

© Lianne Schneider October 2010