It is our listening 

that keeps Goddess playing.

our attuning

that re-weaves the world.

The question: “What am I hearing?”
a prayer for understanding;

a benediction to the curious,

ever-opening, pulsing divine,

that lives in our listening

to the space between 

wood and ears,

between thoughts and breaths,

between the sparkling of our tears:

that lives in the sound.



Her existing a reflection

of our ongoing attention.

Retention of the essence of life

found through remembering the rhythm,

the rhythm, the rhythm, the rhythm,

the churning vibration

pulsing our resonant heart strings,

that is the sound what lifts our wings:

sound is what lifts our wings.


If we could hear the symphony our blood makes in its pumping,

the wonder found in a baby’s birth, in a baby’s first breath,

how rivers sound to each other,

we would know

Goddess lives.

She lives in the sound.



(listen to the audio recording of Niema speaking this on soundcloud)

I am that rock on the river bottom,

rendered rotund by countless days of rushing water.


I was not always smooth.

Once I had crags and crevices.

Gnarly places,

where things got stuck.

Debris of old lives

hiding in my skin.

Became more than I could bare,

carrying all the broken bits,

rubbing myself raw with my own roughness,

overwhelmed by my own heaviness.

No one was brave enough to risk the scratches and rendings

of holding my sharp edges.

So I fell to the bottom.

Where there was nothing but darkness and moistness.

Water, ceaselessly rushing over me.

Tumbling me just enough to reach all of my places,

but mostly just letting me be in it.

I lost track of time, shape, or anything else seemingly certain.


Vanity melted in the gently relentless reshaping.

Who knew I was so attached to my untouchability.

no more

no more

I am not identifiable by any obvious means,

indistinguishable from the other stones polished by patience. 

I am just that rock on the river bottom,


sitting at the ground of being as it all rushes by above me.

Curious enough to watch it go by, 

let it rouse me enough to travel a bit further downstream,

but mostly just let it be.

Though it will take more time than I care to count,

eventually, eventually,

there will be no more substance here.

Just as there are no longer edges on my cool grey skin,

there will be no leaves or logs or bits of bird's nests,

and there will be no stone.

Just the water, 

carrying it all away.

Please reload

© 2018 by Medicinal Poetry