The apothecary shop of prose. Remedies for unsettled Souls.

Some Poems to heal the Soul. As every Soul requires a different remedy I have put some remedies on the shelf. 

Our newest remedy.

 

Some Poems to heal the Soul. As every Soul requires a different remedy I have put some remedies on the shelf. 

Bread and Wine by Fredrick Holderlin. We can only carry divine water only sometimes.

The wind one brilliant day, balm for the Soul. Antion Machado. A reminder of things lost that may be recovered.

 

I am not a mechanism, The realisation of life’s mistake. D.H. Lawrence.  We are not machines, we are Souls that have lost our way.

 

The Well of Grief   By David Whyte & a reply by Sam Sleeman.

Those who will not slip beneath

the still surface on the well of grief,

turning down through its black water

to the place we cannot breathe,

will never know the source from which we drink,

the secret water, cold and clear,

nor find in the darkness glimmering,

     the small round coins,

thrown by those who wished for something else.

~David H. Whyte

 

Sam’s response.

The well of grief

What I found at the bottom of this well.

As I slipped below the surface,

Treading water, finally exhausted, letting go. Dying today for a new tomorrow.

No air down here to speak clever distracting words. Magicians all silent now

I see those coins now, the coins of wishful thinking, that I threw into the wishing well in my hubris of knowing. They glint and shine with the promise, with the surety and expectation of Ego’s desire. They do a little dance now synchronously turning and weaving so, in the slow currents of deep reflection.

Janus that two-faced God. I see now in stark contrast, the other side of those shiny coins.

Accusations, guilt, and the cost of theories, opinions, and beliefs on lives. So shiny on one side, so pointless now on the other side. How did they serve my son in his descent?

I have questions for these coins now.

Did I listen but not hear? Between here and CT. so much lost in translation.

Words not spoken, spaces between words not picked up on.

In my haste for my child to fly did I loose that arrow too soon.

Was he ready? Did he need more time in the quiver?

What could, should I have done differently? Eternal questions.

I should have listened more deeply, asked more questions, made less assumptions.

Even that may not have changed the outcome. Kicking now for the surface I need that fresh air my body is demanding. For Sarah, Alex, Peter, and Ananda still need that loving and fathering however inadequate but given freely.

I love a little deeper now with less surety but a deeper conviction.

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