From March 2022


"The Devil's Lair," watercolor and ink on paper by Bea Garth, copyright Oct 2017

By Bea Garth, copyright March 13, 2022

I wonder to myself “When will we rise?”
But the news says no, we will just burn, as we were always meant to.
There is no escape. It is clear the world
has forgotten its vision, we are told,
and we have come to believe it.
It makes us rattle our bones with worry.
How can we hope, how can we love? Must we only hate?
My heart burns to rebut those masters of greater events
that stir the flames; the news drones on,
while the great gods make sport of us
on the altar of media, politics and commerce,
we and those like us lie piled high like stacked kindling
no one to ask or wonder what we want, what is right
or what is wrong for us or our children
while our future simply evaporates.

Unable to sleep, I toss obsessing.
The image of the Wounded Healer rises,
how he must have been afraid,
is afraid to let anyone know of his whereabouts
not to speak of finally sharing his healing knowledge.
Suddenly I realize he is me and you,
we are the ones in caves, afraid,
hiding deep behind huge rocks if we can,
realizing our devouring Mother finally left long ago
only to be replaced by the Father
who wants to use us as kindling
simply because he can,
our ability to trust lost in those shadows of fear.
Meanwhile the Father continues to pile our bodies up high
on this deep night lit only by the stars,
the moon having disappeared long ago
while we wait to be lit into a blaze soon to turn into ash.

But then, like an itch, our bellies and toes start wiggling and our eyes start to open,
we breathe, unable to hold our breath any longer, we touch, begin to feel,
we notice our rhythm,
feeling each other tangled amongst this pile.
Suddenly a knowing sparks: together we Are.
Love and hope stretches out like wings as we rise
like the Phoenix brilliant, on fire,
like the Bird of Peace
holding the world
dangling in our precious beak.