Poetry
I don’t consider myself a poet. There have been times, however, when poems have come to me. All of the following writings came to me fairly quickly during gatherings, retreats or workshops.
Destiny
For many years, you waited quietly for me
Just below everything that is recognized as real
And just beyond my imagination’s capacity to picture your face.
And yet, when you appeared during times
when I least expected,
Nothing else in my world felt as real or true.
You would sweep me up and carry me along
In the embrace of a river so wide and deep
I could not imagine ever living beyond your banks.
And then, you would disappear as quickly as you came.
And soon I’d find myself wandering aimlessly in the desert
Searching for you, and whispering your name.
How is it that no one could tell me how or where to find you again?
I’ve traveled the world in search of you.
From the ashrams of India, to the rainforests of Ecuador.
From the concrete canyons of NYC, to the corridors of power in corporate America
Only to have you appear during chance encounters
At the corner café, during a walk in the woods, or in last nights’ dream.
I have sought you out through psychics and past life therapists,
Mediation and prayer, fasting and renunciation,
Illegal substances and love addictions,
Work-a-holism and service to a dying world,
Only to discover that faith and surrender
Is the only language that will bring you close.
Walking that pathway, I soon discover you at my side
Almost every day.
You show up in the faces of those I meet everywhere.
In the words of silly country songs on the radio.
In books that fall open at my feet
To passages that appear written just for me.
What used to be a solitary, lonely adventure
That could never be spoken to others
Is now an endeavor shared with an emerging tide of kindreds.
We travel great distances to tell stories of our journey with you
And discover that our separate paths are joining now
As notes in one great and growing song.
Oh destiny, how grateful I am for this song!
I listen for it now, not only as an act of communion with you,
But also as an act of community with all my relations.
Together our gathering chorus is now finding its ring of truth
And building to awaken everything that yearns to be free.
All together now, in celebration and joy, we are re-singing the world.
~ Tom Callanan, June 14, 2000, while attending the Destiny Circle, Costanoa, California
Winter Geese
As the November rains turn to sleet and then to snow
Increasingly beleaguered flocks of geese stop for the night
At our small mid-western lake surrounded by forest and corn field.
By mid-December all have fled south except for one lone goose
Who takes up station over a small spring in the cattails and marsh
At the northernmost tip of Mosquito Island.
Just after Christmas, nighttime temperatures drop to twenty below
For a week solid and the lake freezes hard and black as asphalt.
All except for a small patch of water near Mosquito Island
Where that goose swims in tighter and tighter circles.
By New Years the goose is joined by another and then a third.
Soon they are working an area no bigger than a bathtub filled with slush.
The ice on the rest of the lake is now thick enough that the ice fishermen
Drive their pickups out to their shanties in the middle of the lake
And set up generators to watch the Super Bowl.
By the time of the hunger moon at the end of February
Even though the days are now getting noticeably longer and warmer
The geese are looking gaunt and bedraggled and are barely moving.
In early-March, when the youngest and strongest scouts
Of the spring migration arrive at the still ice-covered lake,
They find a small patch of open water to stop and rest.
With the help of these new recruits, the geese, now seven strong
Work an increasingly larger and larger patch of water.
In a few weeks time, when the ice break-up begins, it begins there.
After living on this lake for 11 winters,
I’ve seen this drama repeated year after year.
Long enough, certainly, to imagine the weary relief
That those geese must feel when help arrives.
Just as I do now,
Sharing this small but growing circle with you.
~ Tom Callanan, Feb. 22, 2005. Kalamazoo, MI. Transforming Philanthropy planning gathering
The Call-of-the-Time
Hello, it’s good to see you again.
And you, and you, and you. And you too.
Do you remember me?
Yes, yes, I know, I look different this time-around. And so do you.
Do you remember when we were monks together, a long, long time ago?
You and I we were brothers, and sisters, lovers, father and daughter, mother and son, business partners, friends, enemies.
I recognize you by the particular way you square your shoulders and brush your hair behind your ear.
And you by your sad smile that is so full of remorse, and your bright eyes that are so full of joy, and your quiet voice that is so full of wisdom, yet you speak nary a word.
And you by your off-color jokes, which haven’t gotten much better over time, but it hasn’t stopped you or me from laughing ‘till our faces hurt.
And you by the way you clasp your hands behind your back and bow your head in thought as we walk side-by-side through the garden.
And you by your stubborn pride and your opinions that always seem to contradict mine, and by the way you still continue to talk at meals when your mouth is full.
And all of you by the irrepressible sparkle in your eyes, signaling love, acceptance, longing, devotion, rebelliousness, patience, joy, sadness, and compassion, all at the same time.
We’ve chosen different circumstances this time around, haven’t we?
This time you’re wearing the turban, and I’ve got the tie.
This time you’re a woman, and I’m a man.
This time you’re the one who’s gay, and I’m the straight one. How strange!
This time I’m the older one, and you’re the one asking me the questions
as if I knew the answers.
Yes, we’re different this time around….but we’re all still monks.
This time, at this meeting, you’re the bhakti (the devotional one), wondering why we’re sitting in silence when we could instead be singing and chanting praises to the lord.
And this time you’re the contemplative, wondering what all this talk is about when we could be drinking again from the sweet, sweet nectar of silence.
And you’re the ecstatic, wondering how any silence can adequately express the volcano of energy that is God’s voice and is erupting inside your body wanting only to dance in the moonlight around a huge bonfire.
And you’re the karma yogi, the non-profit manager, the entrepreneur and business person, who during our meditations can think only of better strategies and plans for serving God by doing something tangible for those still in need.
And you’re the tantrika, longing, not just to talk about love but to actually take each one of us within your ecstatic embrace.
And you’re the celibate, the brahmacharia, who has surrendered yourself to a life-long love affair with that which has no name or no face but is everywhere.
And you’re the pagan, wondering why we’re still sitting in this room when we could be outside– barefoot on the grass, under a tree, seeking the company of and direction from all our relations.
Yes, we’re different this time round, but we’re all still monks.
And for the first time, at least that I can remember,
we’ve been brought together under one roof, as one family, as one collective
Monks from different tribes who are talking together, eating together, meditating together, dreaming together
About what is the Call of the Time asking from us now?
In this blessed place,
At this blessed time.
~ Tom Callanan May, 2010 Call-of-the-Time gathering, Oxford, UK
Shiva Shakti Androgyny
A love poem to my feminine soul
I am the wind, and you are a field of wheat.
I move above you, below you, and around you,
bending you effortlessly with my gentle, sweet, persistent caress.
And you are the wind, and I am a field of wheat.
I undulate to the unseen rhythm of your every living thought and desire.
You are a goddess, and I, your humble devotee.
My every thought, dream, prayer, dance and song,
I sing them only for you.
And I am a goddess, and you, my devotee.
I listen to your praises and shower you in even greater measure
With unconditional love flowing through me from our common source.
You are a mother bird, and I, your baby.
Helpless, blind, and hungry, I cry out for you again and again.
My mouth open impossibly wide, I wait and yearn for whatever you might bring me.
I am the mother bird, and you, my baby.
I fly tirelessly out and back, finding and carrying food, day after day,
Taking only for myself that which you cannot eat.
I am a bee, and you, a flower.
I search you out, my every sense attuned to your scent.
I part your petals and crawl inside to drink your sweet nectar.
I am a flower, and you, a bee.
I spread my petals wide to the sun and impregnate the air with my scent,
That you may come and tickle the innermost lining of my soul.
You are a lion, and I, your prey.
When you approach, I startle and dash, run and leap, recoil and cry out,
Fight and struggle, only to finally surrender to your insatiable appetite.
And I am a lion, and you, my prey.
I stalk you, chase you, take you down, and tare you open,
I dig into you and eat and eat and eat until I can eat no more.
And then, my face covered with your blood,
I roll around and cover my entire body with your sweet sacrifice.
I am a man,
And you, my sweet, sweet soul,
Are a woman.
For years, You and I,
we have been like the wind and the wheat field,
the goddess and the devotee,
the mother bird and her baby,
the bee and the flower,
the lion and its prey.
Shiva and Shakti. Shakti and Shiva.
In your embrace I have been free to undulate, caress, sing, cry out, yearn, open, feed, drink, tickle, pursue, devour, and surrender.
For years, I have kept you as my secret lover.
My lover that I had no name for.
For years, when I could not feel your presence,
I searched for you in the eyes and hearts of every woman
who was willing to hold the intensity of my projections and my longing.
But now, now that I have seen your face and felt your presence so clearly,
I am calling out to you and to you only.
Listen, Tom,
Can you hear me?
I am here— just around the corner.
Come, follow me.
I will take you to a special place.
A meadow high in the mountains.
Come, lie with me there and I will hold you and you will hold me.
And we will dance and sing and make love.
We will taste together that place that is beyond all ideas of right and wrong, good and evil, masculine and feminine, young and old, spiritual and sexual, sacred and profane, priestess and prostitute, melodious and discordant, light and dark, profit and loss, Democrat and Republican, liberal and conservative, Bush and Bin Laden, victim and victimizer, inner and outer, individual and collective, activist and contemplative, doing and being, you and me.
You and me.
Listen. Can you hear me?
I am here, just around the corner.
Come, follow me.
~ Tom Callanan, March, 2003, Lily Hill Farm, MI. The Soul’s Sanctuary Workshop
