Friday, January 23, 2015

Night Winds

It's a pretty heavy
cold wind whipping
around the house
trees bending
leaves tossed about
bringing the songs
of unknown ghosts and
misremembered dreams
from the edges of awareness.
What new destinations
await my traveling soul?

(c) January 22, 3015

Photo from;

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Straddling Time

This memory.
Old pantry shelves, stacked with cans,
Boxes of crackers, graham and saltine
Clean pitcher, upside down
Cups and saucers

Bright red and white checkered
Tablecloths, folded neatly
Breathe in the old, and
Recall the past
Grandma and Grandpa's restaurant
Green bottle of 7Up on
The table before me
Grandma's homemade doughnuts,
Plain, crunchy, soft inside
Melt in my mouth, warm
Candy under glass:
Charleston Chew, Baby Ruth,
Chuckles, Bottle Caps
Necco Wafers
Pots and pans and kitchen
Smells, walking through
To the door down
Landing before steps
This is what the old pantry
Brings back; not unpleasant
Smell of old, of wooden shelves
And stairs, and the dark
Unknown of yesterdays lives
Old buildings, old memories,
Old family ties, recalled
When just for a moment, the
Veil between now and then
Shimmers, and I straddle
The boundaries of time

(c) 25 November 2014
by Suzy Jacobson Cherry

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Poem: Autumn Love Song

Listen to the winds, as
They blow in, laughing
Calling to the hearts
Of wandering spirits
Listen!  Whose Voice
Sings in the wind?
To whom does it call?

What secrets shared
In the song of morning breeze?
Sun warms the face of
Listener, bright rising
Day, followed by cool
Melody of whispering

Smile! this Autumn
Love song, ballad of hope
A long awaited promise
Listen!  The Singer on the wind
In tune with Om of Creation!
The Rhythmic Key to a
Heart locked against
Dangers of honest Love

Butterfly landing
Upon the lotus, awakes
The sleeping dreamer

The Song of hope
blows in, and the Listener,
Becoming One, knows
The Voice, embraces the wind
Opening mind

The Voice, the Listener,
The Butterfly
All dance upon the wind
The Song of Love

(c) 27 August 2014
Suzy Jacobson Cherry

Monday, August 4, 2014

Poem: August


One hundred degrees
And humid
Oppression, heavy
Shoulders slumped with
Summer’s weight
There is no diversion,
No distraction from the 
Sting of flies stopping for
A drink from human arm
Drenched, the itch of
Dripping perspiration
Imagine wading
Through tepid algae waters
Everglade grasses wisp
Across ankles, invisible,
Reminiscent of spiders kissing
Bare skin, clothing undesirable
While simmering, sweltering
In this desert sun, dream
Of surf-sprayed sands,
Fruited libation a silent companion
A book, a story, a love imagined
Breeze blows, wisps of hair,
Convection oven hot
Reverie broken, hope builds
Only in mountainous clouds,
Dust wall approaching,
Lightning flashing in the distant sky

© 4 August, 2014

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Poem: Lammas Offering

Photo from: Mary's Be a GoodDog Blog

Red moon waxing
Bread scattered for the Ancients
Birds will find sustenance
In tomorrow's morning light

(c) 3 August 2014

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Poem: Earth Dreams

Wind chimes are dancing
Thunder wakes the sleeping Earth
Dreams of falling rain

(c) 27 July 2014

Sunday, June 29, 2014

Article: House to Haven

House to Haven:  This original article was written in 2007 and published in an edition of the Gold Canyon Ledger.  I share it today as I consider the shift in energy and intent since the first labyrinth was started.  It was never finished.  Now, however, there is a new labyrinth underway on the property.  It's a pretty good thing.

It is just past midnight and the moon is not yet full.  I am surrounded by houses in the small Maricopa County pocket that is considered East Mesa.  It’s a corner lot, yet there is no sharp turn, as the road gently passes in a rounded curve.  In the not so far away distance, I can hear the rush of traffic on U.S. Highway 60. It is 2007, and I am but the toss of a stone away from my old modular home, yet I might as well be standing atop a Tor in ancient Briton.  I have walked to this Place – a slow, silent walk, alone with my thoughts and my God.  Time melted away; space shifted and changed.  No longer am I surrounded by squat palms and leafy ficus; rather, the trees have grown to oak and willow.  Around and around from where I began I have come to this: in the center of a great spiral, I sit and drink deep the air that no longer tastes of desert, but reminds of a long-ago summer.  This night, I wrap my arms about my knees and lean back to gaze upon the stars.  The stars are a link between the times, another reminder that I am connected by Spirit to all who have gone before and to those who will be.  From this place upon the mystical Tor I sense my present-self upon the desert stones and know that it is time to return.  Standing once more, I begin the descent from hillock to valley, from dreamtime to realtime.  Around and around I walk, taking care not to step upon a line.  The path is narrow and I do not want to traverse where I should not go.  The cool Brithonic summer breeze shifts to warm and shifts again to desert summer heat.  At the end of the path I turn to gaze upon the way I have come.  This small labyrinth is once again but a simple spiral carved into my yard.  It is a Mystery that it should have so recently been a passage between the worlds.

It has long been a dream of mine to have a home of my own, where I could create a space that is both homely and holy, both spiritual and mundane. Finally, with a little help from my church community, I was able to purchase my own home.  The day I moved in, I was struck by the way it was situated on the property. Smack in the middle of my little quarter-acre lot, this 1980’s modular home has been expanded to 1800 square feet and has a nice porch and two “out buildings.”  To me, it has an old farmhouse or cottage feel to it.  Standing in the dining area, I noticed that the kitchen window faced almost directly west – the master bedroom at the other end, directly east.  This placed the front and back doors – almost exactly parallel – at the north and south, respectively.  The center of the home falls somewhere between the dining room table and my private office; placing the axis mundi, the sacred center or heart, in perfect alignment with the place where we gather to share in good food and discussion as well as with my personal refuge for deep thought and written expression.  In honor of this sacred center, I planted my walking stick, along with its cronies of cane and broom, palm and branch, upright in their green urn against the wall between these two rooms. Wind chimes hang at the windows and doors in each direction: bright winged faerie to the east; iron sun to the south; dolphins to the west and dream-catchers to the North.  Above the table hangs OM, the eastern symbol of the Word of Creation.  At the entry to the hallway hangs a tiny birdhouse chime.  This is the indoors, and no matter how messy the mundane, Spirit can still be felt and heard, for we have prayed it be so.

Outdoors, Spirit is discernable even in the broad of daylight, despite the normalcy of a neighborhood founded on the retirement dreams of the not-quite wealthy.  A huge tree in an adjacent garden-yard plays host to a multitude of birds.  Citrus in other yards make fragrant boundary-markers.  Upon my own land, we are surrounded by short palms planted along the street.  One tall palm stands near the home, three shade trees thought to be ficus rustle leaves in the breeze, providing home for hummingbirds and other small flying creatures.  Small palmettos and ironwoods of varying age and size grace the yard.  Two huge agave stand guardian to my front door, and all about the land are planted various things.  Each season, I have discovered a new surprise.  This March I discovered along the north wall of my home an Iris.  One night I breathed deep and discovered the scent of incense– it brought to mind deep green forests, rich dark soil and golden amber.  That night I wandered my yard and found the exact spot to place my labyrinth.

The labyrinth is a most profound path to that which we seek.  A deliberate, silent walk to the center of a labyrinth is a sublime experience.  The seeker of meaning can look deep within from the center and find his or her place in the universe.  For the religious mystic, it is a corridor to the Presence of God.  Since the first time I walked a labyrinth, I’ve wanted my own.  I wanted one that was organic, carved out and stamped into the ground, surrounded by trees, open to the full moon and the scattered stars.  My labyrinth has finally come to be “under construction.”   It is a simple spiral.  Between the ficus and the cactus, there is room enough for a comfortable five-cycle walkway to a center just large enough for one or two to sit zazen, should they wish.  Three or five could gather, standing, should they plan an arm-in-arm meditational hug.

The circle has been cast, the lines drawn with staff and hoe.  I have walked it, meditated in the heart of it, yet there is much to do be done.  I have yet to acquire the rocks or scalloped garden edging I wish to use to mark the path.  Rains and watering overflow have added greenery and rocks where there should be hard desert dirt.  I will need to clear the land completely on bended-knee.  Like a woman who has taken vows, I will make it a prayerful process.  Zen-like, I will ask the invading plants their forgiveness as I tear them away.  I will take hoe to ground and scrape free the loose dirt and the small river-rock.  Once again, I will walk the spiral calling forth the path that has begun to diminish just a bit.  When it is finished, we will be able to walk the path barefoot and when we reach the center, we shall be able to throw hands to the sky and declare our part in the Infinite.

Until then, there is a faintness of path, yet I know it intimately and privately.  I walk it beneath both the moonlit sky and the dark-time.  I listen to the night-birds as they call, and hear the almost silent movements of rabbits and other small desert creatures as they go about their nightly lives, whatever they may be.  About the yard, I have scattered playful things: garden gnomes, faeries and angels.  Each new item I add to the yard, each basil or rosemary, each wildflower or vine, each gnome, butterfly or tacky pink flamingo is a declaration that this is not only home to a small community of humans, but that it is also Sacred Space.  It is a Haven.  With the completion of the tiny labyrinth, it will be so much more.

© May 2007 by Suzanne B. Jacobson

The original "House to Haven" Labyrinth