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Sharing Through My Eyes

Sharing Through My Eyes
by Cindi Friedman

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Sunday, August 29, 2010

by Rick Silver


I went to church this morning in the garden.

I went to look at the bees,
Maybe touch them as they danced,
Intent at their work,
Wriggling deep into the flower’s narrow neck,
Never knowing that a human hand caressed their backs –
A man’s hand,
But moved by the wonder of a boy,
Who could believe that these tiny creatures
Wanted him to know
Their intimate sweet world.


Perhaps it was my stillness
Near the bright red and orange zinnias
That brought the hummingbird
Buzzing over my head,
His tiny body finally resting
Only feet away
On the exposed wire of a trellis.

He watched me,
I know that for sure,
This intruder in his garden,
This mysterious presence,
Maybe a threat,
Posted next to the flowers he hungered for.

But this morning,
Caution trumped
Filling his belly with sweet nectar,
And he flashed upwards,
Gone in a whirl.


The stillness of the wind chime
Held its music like a cocoon,
Until I,
Leaning backwards on my bench,
Stirred it awake.

A tinkling burst
Emerged from its chrysalis
Like a giant orange butterfly
That swirled twice about my head
And flew gently
Into the morning air.


Everything in the world
Bears God’s fingerprint,
A unique stamp
Where She rested
Her great celestial hand
Before running off to play
In some other corner
Of the universe.
by Rick Silver

This is a poem about community and tribe, about how we are shaped by life as individuals, and how those experiences flow first into the creations of our work and then, as we join together, are merged into something greater – an expression of God. I imagine how this process might have occurred for our ancestors – in the bustle and energy of the marketplace.

When the bittersweet song of our hearts --
Formed of the aching and longing
Of moment upon moment --
Guided our hands

(Into the stitching of a garment
The gathering of purple grapes from the vine
The press of our fingers upon plump olives
The caress of a lamb’s fur
The prodding of the fire under the sizzling meat
The skilled dance of fingers in a skein of yarn
The pouring of crystal water from an earthen vessel)

We gathered our offerings
And came with them
To the marketplace,
A cacophony of life,
A great mingling and mixing
Of words and worlds
Cultures and currents.

In its womb,
Fertile and dense,
We opened and merged
With one another,
So the goodness of our creations
Could pour lovingly
Into the waiting mouths eyes ears and souls
Of our brothers sisters cousins friends.

An abundance of spirit
Entered the world,
Joining us as one,
Holding us
In the cracked and calloused
Human hands of God.
by Rick Silver
September 20, 2009

The true foundation
Of what you long to create
Lies not in the endless
Ticking off
Of checklist boxes
Or in hours spent
Shaking hands
And delivering words
That are mere shadows
Of your soul’s most potent yearning.

Not that these are bad
Or even unnecessary,
These steps in a dance
With a world beyond your inner stage.

Every movement, carefully chosen,
Shapes your becoming,
Guides your unfolding
To its ultimate form.

But take a moment
To breathe into the fire
of your heart
The one word
That you alone
Must find
The courage to speak.

What rises from the flames
Are the sinew and muscle
Of your new body,
Carrying you powerfully
And gracefully
Through every dance
That you and the world will imagine
by Rick Silver
Rev 8-28-2010

I imagine you came to this life
Like your daughter Arianna,
Drawing breath from two worlds,
The river of your many mothers
Coursing through your soul,
Urging new life into your tiny body.

And as your mother’s belly
Emptied itself,
Your journey began again,
Cycle upon endless cycle
Of gathering and letting go.

The raw dust of your experience
Drawn together, shaped and turned
And made manifest,
Spirit woven into cloth and flesh and word:

These are the bricks of your house.

In this lifetime of gatherings and emptyings,
The hands of your many mothers
Guide the loving dance of your hands,
Their voices softly echoing
In this House of Life.
by Rick Silver

What was it like
When love came to her
At last?

Sweetness in her bones,
Cool liquid inside her broken shell
And her heart knocking hard
From passion, not fear.
Her small animal uncurled,
To the insistent rhythm of their flesh.

The memory
Of one man’s cruel hand
Echoed for a moment.

But the bright leaf of her body
Turned from anger,
Swept by a tender current
Into the deepening dark
That enfolded her,
Lowered her,
Till she rested at last
In the still, fertile earth
Of his love.

Thursday, August 26, 2010


Rick Silver

Go ahead.
Cross the ledge you fear the most.
Quake with doubt.
Your heart
Leads you into danger.
You crumble in pain
In the wake of its boldness.
Your heart can change everything
In the slip of one moment
Into the next.

Your heart can change everything.

Listen carefully
To its urgent whisper.
Open your eyes
And see at last
The vision of a thousand dreams.
Slide effortlessly
Into the yawning chasm.
Become drunk with possibility.
Let go. Risk soaring like a bird.
Your heart holds you aloft,
As a feather.


by cynthia matsakis

Was there ever, in your family,
a case of madness? An aunt perhaps,
who wore the insides of her dresses out,
and spoke as if her thoughts were objects?

This was a woman who could travel farther
on a discarded kitchen chair than anyone you know
would care to think about…

Irrelevant in splendor she arrives
to take her place at the family table.
And true to form, when all the rest sit down
she stands to make a toast, tilting her glass
sword-like at shadows, the red wine
like a wheel of light reeling off center.
Then drinks the thing half empty.

And only if you looked her way,
and only then by chance, would you see
her face was luminous, as it rose
above the faces of the others.

And wasn’t it just like the moon on water,
the way you took her kiss straight through you
as if you had no skin? Not death itself, perhaps,
but that same thrill of accidents.