SINGING MY SELF HOME

The selected poems of Maria J. Andrade span a period of over four decades.They reflect a spiritual journey through love, nature and the crisis of our times.

 


If some image, word or line in this book touches you,

if it reminds you to honor the uniqueness of your own

story, the nobility of its struggles and its meaning, then

the spirit of celebration will have moved between us.



Huayna Picchu Mountain, overlooking Machu Picchu



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                       Of Dreams


Dreams lead you by the neck

to face shadows that pursue you,

past fearful mirrors of illusion

and on to a calm land.


Dreams hold your hand,

through tunnels of darkness

into light galleries of the infinite,

where you are impregnated with wonder.


Kitchen walls fall away

before endless space and stars,

to the vastness of yourself.


In dreams, shadows walk slowly,

revealing the moving limbs of trees.

Earth worms, insects and your dog and cat

speak and are divine.


Words as sweet as fruit or bitter as vinegar

are woven together in the dream.

They become music and follow poets

like restless children,

until they are sent to play on the clean page.


The kiss which finds your lips today,

was first born in a dream.

The outer world of light and shadows,

you collect from your pillow as your rise

in a web of jewels,

is one fabric, from the inner cloth - the dream.




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Blessed Waters of the Deep


Blessed waters of the deep,

my first home where I did sleep,

within the darkness of my mother's womb.


Bless my body, mind and soul,

of the all the troubles I may hold,

and cleanse my sight that I may see,

the world of love surrounding me.


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Love Song to an Orphan



Once upon a starless vigil,

a wanderer came to me,

who walked in darkness

down the path,

where other homeless, orphans

such as he, had walked,

in silent nights now passed.


The wind abrasive, unforeseen,

tore at his coat,

opposed his every way.

And I observed his hunger,

lack of rest, as of my own.

And what he lacked

became my test.


I walked with him in sorrow,

and the unjust deeds none

would confess,

were buried in his body,

in the language of his step,

in the hollow of his breast.


I walked with him in longing,

through the hours of neglect.

In those sunny hours,

when I and all the living did forget,

a part of me still walked with him,

a witness to distress,

a needed arbor for a weary guest,

a mother with her child.


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