More Naming Poems!!

By Sharon Flitterman-King, Ph.D.

The Swampy Cree Indians of northeastern Canada are known for their wonderful “naming poems,” simple narratives of how people earned their names, often in childhood. Here are a few poems I composed in the tradition of the Swampy Cree.

GIFT OF ROSES

Always when she walked, the roses
followed her—
bright and fragrant,
you knew when she was near.

At the end she left
a painting, full of roses

on her easel

A gift
for us to cherish—
all of us,
forever.


CHEERFUL WITH BUNDLES

Singing he went
cheerfully
with bundles
on his back

Laughing, sometimes
chuckling. The creatures
that he met
would greet him
when they saw him.

Scampering,
they followed
as he sang.


LOVED ALL THINGS BEAUTIFUL

Morning moonstone
sky, evening sunset,
clouds ablaze
with color, flaming
gold or russet.

Always she was
capturing
the beauty with her
camera.

Walking in the woods,
a leaf. All weathers
were her friends.

That’s how we came
to name her
all things beautiful.

Sharon Flitterman-King, Ph.D., ia a writer living in Hillsdale, New York, with her husband, David King.

Buzzing Inside

Outside the sky is dripping white ice.

Inside, it’s so nice and cozy here by the fire of the words

that are steadily burning.

What a yearning I have to share this feeling that

gallops throooough me this morning.

Try this: close your eyes and focus for a moment on your fingers.

Linger there.  

The energy may come up as a buzzing

or a gentle tremble.

Keep your mind there but now stare into your toes.

And after a bit, go now to your feet.

Can you see where this is leading?

Hands. Legs. Arms. Torso. Head.

No matter how busy you are today, stay alive to your body.

Pause for a moment whenever you can and

just breathe and just feel steadily grateful for that breath.

Let the lung air wander through your body.

So when the weather outside is so much

worse than frightful

we can keep paddling along inside

finding new life in the wave of every single moment.

With thanks for inspiration in part from Eckhart Tolle, especially his book, "The New Earth." Do yourself a giant favor and read it!

Naming Poems

By Sharon Flitterman-King, Ph.D.

The Swampy Cree Indians of northeastern Canada have a rich tradition of storytelling. Some of the most wonderful stories are told in their “naming poems,” simple narratives of how people earned their names, often in childhood. Here is an example of a Swampy Cree Naming Poem:

QUIET UNTIL THE THAW

Her name tells of how
it was with her.

The truth is, she did not speak
in winter.
Everyone learned not to
ask her questions in winter,
once that was known about her.

The first winter this happened
we looked in her mouth to see
If something was frozen. Her tongue
maybe, or something else in there.

But after the thaw she spoke again
and told us it was fine for her that way.

So each spring we
looked forward to that.

And here are a few of mine:

PATIENT WITH SHADOWS

She lived 
among the shadows
which she feared.

She lived
among the shadows, loving them
for what they asked
of her.

It was dark,
and it grew darker.
She grew light

And tranquil


DREAMED GREAT THINGS

He went
out to the mountain, dreaming
of his past

adventures, bold and
love—
such tenderness.

This he leaves,
and
dreams.


Try writing your own naming poem; think of something about yourself or another person to use in creating a name—a physical characteristic, personality trait, something you like, something funny, silly or heroic you’ve done.

             “To say the name is to begin the story.”

Sharon Flitterman-King, Ph.D., is a writer who lives in Hillsdale, N.Y., with her husband, David C. King

Reference: The Wishing Bone Cycle: Narrative Poems from the Swampy Cree Indians, gathered and translated by Howard A. Norman.

PRAYING FOR ANOTHER MIRACLE, Please Help!

This morning during meditation I picked two angel cards at random.

The cards read “GRACE” and “EXPLORATION.”

At once I thought, something quite wonderful is being asked of me, but

WHAT IS IT EXACTLY? How does one explore the very core of divine mystery?

Then I looked down and realized that a third card

just happened to fall out of the box. It read

“SISTERHOOD BROTHERHOOD.”  That’s when the task became as clear as holy water.

It’s time to pray in poetry and prose and art and music for my sister Karen, who suffered

a very serious stroke last September.

She was struck on the weekend

of her 63^rdbirthday.

At the time, doctors were hardly encouragaing.

The neurosurgeon removed a clot the size of a tennis ball from the left side of her brain. It disrupted the area of her brain that controls language and motion.

So the doctors told us not to get our hopes up. They said they didn’t know if she would recover at all.

But then the miracles began. She found the strength  and will to recover much of the motion in her right leg, so that she can walk with assistance.

And she began talking once again in longish sentences.

Just recently, though, she has grown discouraged that she has no motion in her right arm and hand.

She carries them in a sling resting against her chest. Just a few days ago she saw a doctor (an orthopedist) who told her it was doubtful she would regain use of that arm.

NOW IT”S TIME TO EXPLORE GRACE. NOW IT’S TIME TO FACE THE PROBLEM SQUARELY. THE DOCTOR, YOU SEE, COULD BE WRONG. ACTUALLY, THE DOCTOR ABSOLUTELY WOULD BE WRONG IF WE COULD JUST WORK A MIRACLE.

Karen has already achieved several miracles in her recovery – just ask the neurosurgeon who saw her last week for the first time since the surgery.

He was amazed at her progress.

So how about we begin a campaign right here and now to achieve another miracle.

We focus our prayers on Karen regaining motion in her right arm and hand.

We picture her using the arm in all kinds of ways: throwing a ball, catching it, using a yo yo, shuffling cards, drying dishes, swimming, sewing (her favorite pastime), folding clothes, holding a baby (her daughter is pregnant), painting, planting (her other favorite pastime.)

Key to this miracle: we must get Karen on board with this visualization activity.

Maybe that too is part of the exploration of grace.  Maybe my job is to pray for a healer to appear, someone who has the power to convince my sister that she can go beyond the physical plane, that she can occupy the realm of the spirit. I am asking right here, right now for such a healer to appear. I am laying down lines of words in the hope that they are being heard in the sphere of the divine.

My sister isn’t a stranger to miracles. She came alive in October after she managed to say these two words out loud: BOUND AND DETERMINED! I wrote a whole poem about that, and about the extraordinary progress she made. She went from a feeding tube to solid food in less than three days. SHE FLABBERHASTED THE SPEECH THERAPIST!

So IT’S POSSIBLE TO INSPIRE HER.

Coming home from the rehab center, Karen has lost touch with that gung ho spirit of recovery that filled the air there.

We need a cheerleader. Somebody with credibility and somebody my sisiter respects and believes.

Please, God, I am asking for such a person to appear.

I am also asking that all the people who read these words think of my sister shrouded in love and light. THINK ABOUT HER FULLY HEALED.

Your prayers worked wonders in October and November.

So now I ask you, say another prayer, in any shape or form it comes out. Any prayer you can think of would be welcome, but make it as powerful as you can. Make yourself see my sister waving or digging or eating or doing anything else with her right hand.

And if you feel moved, write to her care of me. TELL HER HOW MUCH YOU HAVE INVESTED IN  HER RECOVERY. TELL HER HOW HAPPY YOU ARE THAT SHE HAS MADE SO MUCH PROGRESS. TELL HER TO KEEP THE FAITH. TELL HER TO GET IN TOUCH WITH THAT BOUND AND DETERMINED ENERGY ONCE MORE.

I am so grateful for your help!

Surrender

I see light flooding the meadow.
The furthest hillside is green and gold.
I am holding this beauty, and my sister, in my heart.
I start the day asking for divine guidance.
I beg the Almighty Infinite presence for a miracle,
that my sister may move her fingers.
I surrender in every moment.
I am grateful for the love of my husband.
I am grateful for this sunny day.
I am grateful for the way the sunshine falls on the meadow.
How many times can I say it before I fully surrender?

Linger

Only cool beneath these fingertips

and beneath the flesh of my hands.

Only a soft tickle of breath inside my nose

always and over and over again.

When I look up, sunlight is licking

the grey and brown trees and a pleasing

light light blue passes between the green.

I have seen this panorama every day.

Needles. Branches. Rock. Sky.

Maybe this time,

Maybe now 

I’m in the 

now

I will 

just feel it.

Air expanding my lungs.

A rainbow of prayer flags swinging

fluttering

between the saplings.

Everything is happening and

nothing

is how the now feels.

Nothing but cool

and warm air

and the less

and the less

I say the better.

Winter yard

hard cold soil

no snow.

Keep going back to the breath.

Keep landing there in your diaphragm.

BE.

Reverse your vision.

Stare into the back of your eyes.

Be here, empty.

Be here, present.

Drawing air there into my windpipe.

Cool fingers.

Linger.

Longer.

Try as I might to hold onto them,

I must lose all my beloved words

to go beyond them,

to feel what I have already heard.