Category Archives: Reverence

11th Trip to the Redwoods

When you come here,
you may be reminded of movies you’ve seen,
books you’ve read.
You may take impressive selfies.

While you are thinking,
your body will feel the weight
of the skyscraper-sized,
living beings who tower over you.
Your body will register the silence,
will sense the profundity.

You may want to run to your car and turn on some music.

You may see faces in the trees that make you laugh.
Dragons, hags, old men, spindly fingers pointing, goofy grins, drippy noses, penises and vaginas bigger than life.

You may silence yourself,
feel peace pour through you.
You may sit and wonder, why?
Why did my life come to where it is now?

You may see a shape in the web of patterns that surround you
and it reminds you of something important,
something you always knew, finally surfaced.

With every few steps there will be another, another.
You will want to fill yourself with all of them
but the wisdom here is infinite.
It cannot be done.

We are mere humans,
so small,
so small.

Sea Hag

ancient crone of the sea,
inexplicable dark silence.
Skies breathe above her.

Near the shore,
she boils over,
white foam spewing on black rock,

black rock which itself spewed
eons ago
hot, coursing deep from the Mother herself.

This Ancient does not use words.
She growls and foams and pounds.

The hill rumbles.
No one offers explanation.

She takes
in the flash of a sneaker wave,

and then under the morning sun
she floods the rocks
again and again
this time with frivolity.
Rivulets sing, streaming in unison
from every crevice.

Down the beach her moods gentle,
force turns to caresses,
ceaseless smoothing,
whispers, whispers.

And in town, she lies docile
appearing domesticated
plain as day
in a way

as we forget.

Bow Down to the Power Within You

“Ah, yes. This one,” I said as I bent over the wide rim of my cauldron, bubbling in cool, thick liquid.

For months, I’d been charging myself with intention,
reaching into the goop, and pulling out instruments of power,
with voices of the age, crying, “Find your power!” at my back.

I took a good look at the fiery sword of righteous anger,
remembering the times we’d spent together.
My stomach felt dead. I couldn’t even pick it up.

For a few days, I held a sacred feather. It smelled of elder wisdom but eventually, I let it slip back under the surface. It wasn’t meant to invoke power. Wisdom doesn’t work that way.

I pulled out a full loom, so familiar! I gazed at the threads of community which stretched across the beams– but there was something missing in it. And then I saw something I had been entangled in, so I let the loom go too, and watched it dissolve into a primordial state.

The sword of charismatic ego rose out of the liquid,
hilt towering over the bubbling surface.
It was infused with a power of societal expectation.
It was sparkling and it hummed.

But I wasn’t moved.
Time stood between us, me and charisma – a desert of isolation and contemplation.

I told it, “I am no longer tempted or even angry with your presence, you old saber.”

I was safe. I have ridden the storms that raged inside me. I have turned my back on battles and building, to cultivate the precious seeds of goodness.

How will I be called to serve next?
What will it be?
What kind of power is my song calling for?

Finding the answer elusive, I passed my hand into the cool and felt something brush against it, falling towards the bottom of the cauldron. Instinctively, I reached and caught a strong humming thing, a rod, a staff, a wand covered in pearl sheen.

Yes, of course it would be pearl.

Subtle, permeated with a gentle power,
quick to shift if I grasped too hard,
or slip if I held too loose,
this benign quiet force.

My heart ached with need-fire.
How can I feel passion for a power that will not be mastered?

Because there is no other power, no other path.
I can learn to hold my spirit just so,
not let kindness fall through a grip too tight or too loose.

To Enter the Power of Kindness.

There are many teachers,
mountains to listen to.

We span these distances together.

Tasara Jen Stone

The White Bird Rising

I am the white bird rising, she who rose in the sky over my body when my back was broken, whose feathery gust sent grace into my life.

I have listened to the cackling of crows.

I have risen from the cauldron with the white raven,

and now, I am told, it is time to be these things I so love,

to fly,

to bless,

to spread grace.

Raven II


The Raven, she embodies the hollow night.
She sits in the blindness next to you, quiet, yet unspeakably noticed.

She peers into the spaces between your bones, and she sees everything about you. She sees it all, and then she envelops you with great comfort.

A glow escapes her feathers, whose crevices are unable to keep back her infinite soft light, this compassion, this grace, this calm.

Both powers held in her shape
of daunting yawn of night
of complete and quiet acceptance.

You are known here. You are loved here.
In the silence.

by Tasara