Tag Archives: poetry

Where Does Your Voice Find Refuge?

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The news remains bleak. World peace feels elusive. History echoes with the clang of wars waged by those who crave land, power, control, dominance. Consensus crumbles beneath the weight of age-old conflicts, each side fighting to shape the world in its own image. I’ve wrestled with these heavy thoughts, searching for a flicker of hope in what often feels like overwhelming darkness. The struggle feels relentless.

Where Does Your Voice Find Refuge?
by Louise Gallagher

It is easy to stand for freedom 
when there’s no cost to stand 
blowin’ in the wind 
with the prevailing view.   

It’s easy to voice your disagreement 
with someone else’s opinion 
when there’s no consequence to your safety
for holding a different view.

But where does your voice find refuge 
when dissent is weaponized?   

What do you do when your words become 
the tool others employ 
to vilify and demonize you as ‘other’?   

Can free speech find its truth
in a world where only those opinions
acceptable to some 
are deemed worthy?

Can anyone be free
in a world where some voices are tolerated
and others are obliterated?

Can freedom survive 
when only the few use their power
to grant it to the voices who stand
singing their tune?

Perhaps there is no clear-cut answer, 
no easy path to save freedom from demise. 
But dreamers dream of freedom
leading us to hope 
that our voices rising up, 
our hands reaching across 
the words that divide us, 
will reclaim the truth: 
We are one humanity, 
no matter where we stand
or what song we sing.

Dances in the Wind (a poem)

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This morning a beautiful friend from the poetry circle I wrote with for several years and then had to miss out on most of last year because of a competing Monday night commitment, sent a poem to our group, ‘Acceptance‘, by Kerry Hardie. (Thank you Lilli Ann)

One of the images caught my imagination. Still January.

The muse whispered, “Write it out.” So I did.

DANCES WITH THE WIND
by Louise Gallagher

Still January 
yesterday, 
I walked the shoreline 
morning calm stretched across grey water
lapping, gentle, muted sounds
caressing, rocks

slick and slippery
seaweed a blanket of vivid green
I step, 
slowly, carefully, 
remembering

there was a time 
I leapt 
rock to rock, 
arms flung wide 
head tilted back to catch 
the salt-laced breeze 
effortless

those were the days my friend 

we danced ‘til dawn 
and slept fast 
fell in and out of love faster

Who can tame the wind? 
A weathered branch creaks 
memory slips 
against the jagged 
edges of daybreak whispering 
only time can stifle age

Still January 
today, I walk along the road 
hugging the shoreline, close
mist hangs low 
steel grey waves frothy, rolling 
in and out, in and out 
trees sway, leaves rustle,
dances with the wind

On solid ground I walk, 
confident 
an eagle soars above 
time is on the wing.

The Evidence of Time

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The muse has a delightful way of weaving her magic throughout my being, even when I’m not paying attention.

Whether I’m walking along the shore, immersed in the quiet of the forest, or kneading dough for bread, her whispers find me. Like tendrils of smoke, these fleeting thoughts curl into my mind, each one vanishing as quickly as the next.

Yet, when I finally return to the page, fingers poised over the keyboard, a torrent of inspiration flows forth, like a stream rushing down a mountainside, seeking the boundless freedom of the river that will lead it to the sea.

I cannot see its source. I cannot feel its pulse. I can only respond to its urgings to let the muse flow free. Surrendering, consonants and vowls, letters and words tumble out seeking form unhindered by my manipulations. As phrases form and coalesce, and I dive beneath the surface meaning like a pearl diver seeking treasure, my creative essence transforms from a thought into reality.

Immersed in the long exhale of creative expression, my thoughts find space and air to breathe on the page; naked, exposed, vulnerable.

And in that vulnerability, I find my heart soaring, my spirits lifting and my voice rising up to sing out loud, “This is Life and I am so grateful for every moment. No matter how I label them, good, bad or indifferent, every moment is full of life teeming with possibility, adventure, hope and Love.”

What a gift!

The Evidence of Time
by Louise Gallagher

To age and not fear, 
to grow older, unburdened by worry, 
free from the whispers of wrinkles and lines, 
the creaks and aches, 
the evidence of time passing. 

To live a life where age 
holds no sway over worth, 
where spirit soars 
beyond the measure of years.

This is the defiance of our days, 
as time's river flows ever forward, 
calendar pages turning
 with quickening pace.

These are the reminders 
of the inevitable truth: 
One day, the final page will turn, 
the heart's rhythm will cease its beat, 
the last breath will softly fade, 
and the echoes
 of "I love you" will fall silent.

No magic potion halts the passage of time,
no secret formula holds back the years.

Yet, the choice remains ours: 
To live each day fearlessly, boldly, bravely, 
passionately alive, 
with wonder and awe, 
celebrating every heartbeat, 
every breath, 
every whispered "I love you," 
as precious gifts 
weaving the grand tapestry of our days
into a life well loved.
A life well lived.

Dancing with Shadows: Finding Light in the Depths of Our Stories

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Dive into your own story,” my novel-writing workplan instructs. I hesitate, a knot tightening in my stomach. I get it, truly, but the past has a way of clinging to shadows, doesn’t it?

It reminds me of writing The Dandelion Spirit, the story of my descent and eventual ascent out of the hell of an abusive relationship that almost killed me. Back then, I wanted to skip the messy bits and the downward spiral along with the heartbreak that led to my eventual blooming. But my publisher, wise soul that he is, insisted on context. “Show them the broken pieces,” he urged, “so they can marvel at how you put yourself back together.”

And so I did. Tears flowed, old wounds ached, but through the writing, a strange alchemy occurred. The past, once a monster lurking in the corners of my mind, became a tapestry woven with threads of resilience and hope.

“That was then,” I whispered to myself, my mantra for survival. “This is now. I am safe. I am loved. I am enough.”

Now, facing this new story, the echoes of that past resistance return. My novel, you see, dances with the shadows of my own relationship with my mother – a dance that continued long after she was gone.

To breathe life into my heroine’s journey, to illuminate her triumphs, I must first descend into the darkness of her past, a past mirrored in my own.

It’s a daunting task, this excavation of memory. But perhaps, like those ancient cave paintings, our stories – the light and the shadow – are meant to be shared, to illuminate not just our own paths, but the paths of others who yearn for healing and wholeness.

And so, I dive in. Not to dwell in the pain, but to find the glimmers of resilience, the whispers of hope that have always been there, waiting to be unearthed. Because maybe, just maybe, in the telling of our stories, we find not just healing, but a way to truly live beyond the grief and sorrow, and step into the radiant light of who we were always meant to be.

I’d love to hear from you. What stories are you working to bring to life? How are you navigating the delicate dance between past, present, and future? Share your thoughts and experiences in the comments below – let’s support each other on this journey of storytelling and self-discovery.

By sharing your story, you not only heal yourself but also offer a beacon of hope and inspiration to others. Every story matters. Like a pebble tossed into still water,
our stories of courage and triupmph create ripples that expand outwards, merging into waves of shared experience, washing over the world with love, healing, and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

Namaste

In the River of Time

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In the River of Time
by Louise Gallagher

Time flows in one direction
slow and steady 
it moves forward 
carrying us always 
closer and closer 
to the heart’s last beat
where the earth waits patiently
to claim us as its own.

The river winds its way through valleys and plains, 
carrying the scent of earth and rain, 
its waters overflowing
with stories of the places it’s been
as it pours itself into the deep 
vast waters of the ocean
waiting patiently
for its gift to become one
with the endless song 
of its ebb and flow.

The heart, blood red 
beats its own rhythm
as we live out our stories
along the banks we call our own
moving always with time’s
journey moving us along
until the beat is gone
and we return
to the earth waiting patiently
to claim us as its own. 

Time, like the river, 
refuses no heartbeat. 
Why then do we believe 
one heart's story, 
lived out in time’s passing days
on the banks of a river 
we've never known 
is worth valuing more 
than another?

In the language of trees (a poem)

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I walked with the trees yesterday. Listened to their leaves rustling in the breeze that blew in off the water. Felt their roots buried deep within the earth stirring the mysteries only my heart can hear.

And as I walked, I imagined I could hear the wind whispering its stories of far away places into the open branches stretched out across the sky – tales of wonder and awe, love and war, joy and sorrow. Stories it’s witnessed on its journey through time and space.

The trees have much to teach us. 

In The Language of Trees
by Louise Gallagher

In the language of trees, 
there is no me or you, 
  only us, 
    intertwined 
with roots that grip the earth
that binds us deep to one another.

In the language of trees, 
there is no beginning, 
 no ending, 
  no in between,
  only winds of time 
   that sculpt our limbs,
  whispering through leaves 
 forever reaching out
to capture sacred stories 
of far away places.

Each dawn unfolds a tapestry of leaves, 
a fleeting masterpiece of green. 
  Every leafy tendril counts, 
   from roots that divine the mysteries
  of the dark soil below
 to the tips of branches 
that sing songs of joy
to the sky above.

We are a symphony of wood and leaf,
 earth and water
   wind and storm
    a chorus rising from the soil,
   each voice distinct, 
  each song an opus 
 a tapestry of voices, rich and deep,
woven into the story of our humanity
grounded in the language of trees.

Rain or Shine, The Watchers Watch

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One of Beau’s favourite places to sit is at the door to the deck watching the world outside. Walkers. Bikers. Cars. Dogs. Waves lapping. Trees swaying. He sits and watches. Immobile. Until the man with a walker appears.

He arrives every mid-afternoon when the skies are clear or cloudy. He walks with purpose. Slow. Steady. His progress is measured and thoughtful. His walker the helm of his personal ship, providing guidance and stability as he navigates the road along the sea.

He stops in front of our house, turns his walker to provide him a seat upon which to sit and watch the waves. Passers-by stop and chat as the man holds court at the edge of the bay.

And Beaumont watches. Sometimes, if a passer-by is walking a fellow canine, Beau barks in welcome. Sometimes, the other dog barks back. Mostly, they ignore him.

Beau is impervious to their response. He keeps watching, bearing silent witness to the endless ballet of the waves and the story of life unfolding outside.

I have not had much time for watching. Unpacking. Organzing. And re-organizing have consumed me. And still, I feel the draw of the ocean calling me to Be still. Breathe. Become.

Unpacking has become a meditation here at the edge of the sea. The salty air, the cries of the gulls, the hypnotic rhythm of the waves – it all conspires to steal my attention. Each wave is a story: some whisper secrets against the sand, while others roar their defiance against the unyielding rocks. Some roll in with the gentle caress of a lover’s kiss, while others crash against the land, a tempestuous lover determined to have the last word.

Never are the waves still.

Never do they stop rolling in and out. In and out.

Mesmerized, I forget the boxes needing my attention. I ignore the pile of books on the floor waiting for a bookcase to appear. The trinkets looking for a place to call home.

In those moments, dinner can wait. The need to organize fades as I slip effortlessly into watecher’s mode. Like the man with the walker, I must slow my pace, savour each moment and simply watch.

The sea does not hold answers. It is alive with the questions, inviting me to let go of the need to know. To surrender to the exquisite mystery of now. To fall breathlessly alive into living, like a bird taking flight into a vast and boundless sky soaring above the vast and boundless sea.

Awakening (a poem)

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Between getting the house ready for sale and the endless stream of viewings, as well as being away for almost two weeks, life’s been a whirlwind! 😅 Like a sailor waiting for the wind, or a surfer for that perfect wave, we’re patiently (and sometimes not-so-patiently!) waiting for the right buyer to walk through our door. The uncertainty is definitely challenging, but it’s the constant “viewing ready” mode that’s truly exhausting! 🤪

And here’s the thing. Amidst the packing and clearing out, the visiting family and walking on the beach and playing with my grandchildren and baking bread for my daughter and lazing on the patio sipping wine and talking late into the night, I’ve realized that stressing about every little detail just isn’t worth it.

Life is too short to worry about fingerprints on the counters or pillows not being perfectly fluffed. I’m choosing to trust the process, and focus on living each day with passion and purpose. Cooking, laughing, and enjoying my home are back on the menu! 🥳

Because, here’s the thing… In the midst of all the chaos, I realized I have not been doing the things I know nurture and sustain me. I’ve avoided being here, writing, painting and a host of other things I love to do, that de-pressurize my state of mind, and set my heart free and my spirits soaring.

it’s time to reignite the spark! 🔥 To dream and create and explore and expand.💖

It’s time to let magic happen! ✨ It’s time to begin again and let dreams unfold and spirits rise.

Awakening

Awakening
by Louise Gallagher

Moments of sudden clarity, 
like waking from a dreamless sleep
after days spent sleepwalking, 
blind and deaf to the beauty all around.

Dark thoughts cloud the mind, 
a heavy fog obscuring the light 
beneath inertia's suffocating blanket. 
Unannounced,
a crack appears, sunlight floods in.

Warmth chases away the shadows,
fear retreats, slithering back into the darkness.
Hope blossoms in the open space,
a fragile flower pushing through the concrete.

The prison of stagnation crumbles,
the chains of self-doubt fall away.
Dreams reawaken, vibrant and alive.
No longer afraid of falling,
I rise. 
Sails full of promise, 
I soar.

One Seed. One Life. One Being.

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One Seed. One Life. One Being.
by Louise Gallagher

Awe
-a one in a million seed planted
one sacred womb nurturing life into becoming
an infant’s first cry announcing their existence.

Humility
-a heart broken open in love
one life becoming the all of life evolving
joy awakening with a child’s first laugh.

Trust
-a tiny hand grasping a finger extended, holding on
one lifeline extended across generations
a tapestry woven with golden threads of Love.

Truth
-a bridge of love spanning all humanity. 
one seed connecting life again and again
divinely orchestrated.

What will you plant with your one seed?

Awakening before the sun, a tendril of a dream drifts through my mind. I lay in bed sensing the wonder and awe of life. It’s ineffable beauty. Luminiscent presence.

Images of my daughters. First cries. First laughs. First steps. So many first leading to lifetimes of joy, love, laughter and possibility.

I lay in bed and felt the poignancy and fleeting nature of life envelop me.

And gratitude awakened.

And Love consumed me.

And the muse whispered, “Write of awe.”

This poem began with 4:00am stirrings of awe and wonder.

I have learned it’s best not to ignore the early morning whispered flutterings of the muse. She is persistent in her flowing nature and does not condone well my resistance to her urgings.

Knowing well the ephemeral nature of her visits, I arise, pad barefoot to my desk and begin to scribble in my journal.

Morning has broken.

I may just go back to bed for a nap.

Which Path Will You Choose?

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Perhaps one day, you’ll stand at a crossroads, faced with a choice of which path to take. To the left, the road less travelled, obscured by mist and mystery. To the right, the well-worn path, visible with its straight lines and predictability. You see its potholes and debris, but you know you can navigate them. You’ve done it before. Why would tomorrow be any different?

As you stand at this crossroads, you glance back at the road behind and see all you’ve been through to get here: trials, tribulations, and traumas. So many hardships. They weigh heavy on your heart, but like the road, they are familiar, so you hold onto them.

Standing at the crossroads, staring at the past, you tally up the years behind, noting they outnumber the years ahead. Dare you choose a different path?

You gaze into the distance of the unknown path to the left, shrouded in mist, and then to the one you know so well to the right. Both will lead to the end of the road. But which to choose? The path to the left, full of adventure, mystery, and wonder, or the right, where predictability offers the ease you tell yourself you deserve.

Perhaps, in your indecision, you’ll look again at the path behind you. Instead of trials and tribulations, you’ll see mountains climbed, stumbles and falls over which you triumphed, and lessons learned that enriched your journey. You’ve traveled this road, falling and rising, again and again, until you arrived at this moment where you must choose: to carry the burdens of the past that weigh you down but feel so familiar, or to stand in your brilliance and celebrate your strength hard-won, courage earned, and resilience gathered on the journey.

Which will you choose?

I hope you honour your brilliance. I hope you recognize that through every hardship and triumph, you have grown stronger, more powerful, more vibrant, and magnificent. It is this truth that has brought you to this moment, where you stand at the crossroads of the future, deciding which path to take.

Which will you choose? The road most travelled? Or the unknown path, where your heart dances and your soul sings the songs of the wild. Which will you choose?

art and words by Louise Gallagher ©2024