A Poem: Kneeling

What are our knees for?
Walking, running?
Kneeling, falling?

And our hands?
For caressing, holding?
Releasing, shielding?

What is the body for,
but moving, loving?

For serving and mahi?
And in the moments
Heaven breaks through,

for the joy
and the dancing?

Is there an end
to all our being and doing?

An ending,
like the night’s curtain.

An ending,
not unlike the body’s relinquishing
under strain.

An ending to our vain attempts,
as athletes fainting
before a finish line.

Or mothers kneeling to pray,
workers releasing their worn tools,
priests their service implements,

stopping now
for rest and recuperation.

Yes, what if our body
were a holy vessel,
a pan flute,

which,
when not being used for joy and purpose,
need or benefit,

lay still,
polished and sacred
upon a shelf.

Restoring to its heart
its intrinsic melody,
that it not be lost to itself.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
February 2022

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)
You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.
Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.
—E. E. Cummings

And some beautiful words below from my late friend Jenny Hawke:

‘Picture the scene. Its Sunday and we are in the Hundred Acre Wood with Tigger and friends. Tigger is a bit wet because he’s fallen the river and he’s being questioned by well meaning friends. It appears that someone thinks he bounced himself into the river. His bouncing is the thing that mostly gets him into trouble. But no, he has a different explanation.
“I didn’t bounce, I coughed,” said Tigger crossly.
“Bouncy or coffy, it’s all the same at the bottom of the river.”
― A.A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner

And he’s so right. We are where we are and how we got there isn’t always that relevant. As Tigger says, it’s all the same at the bottom of the river. How we get out is perhaps much more important. Tigger did it with the help of his friends so we will too. We only have to ask.’
~ Jenny Hawke