Blessed Vessel

Each time a woman delivers a baby, she has taken part in the sacred act of birthing forth the Divine; i.e., giving rise to the Beloved in human form. We are the weavers of the fabric of life. 

Happy Mother’s Day to all the beautiful mothers throughout the world! ❤
Love and blessings, 

*All words are my own. 
*Beautiful goddess mother artwork found on Pinterest. Artist unknown.

Benediction: A Lament of the Chronically Ill 

Benediction: A Lament of the Chronically Ill

by Carolyn Glackin
*Dedicated to those of us who struggle each day within the confines of a body plagued with illness.* 
This prison of skin and bone

Is my captor

Death my only hope of absolution 

Why have I done this to myself?

Who will help me seek my restitution?
Each new day arrives with aching horrors

An atrocity that never should unfold

These maladies that run all through my body 

A nightmare that’s perhaps best left untold
And how I long so badly to fly freely

So far beyond this dreaded mortal coil

And yet this is the very thing that’s needed 

To allow me to be with you for a while 
But never in this lifetime did I fathom

That I could conjure horrors such as this

And oh but if I could forsake it

Perhaps then I shall know eternal bliss 
The shackles of this vestige seem to taunt me

Remind me of a freedom I once knew 

In spirit form devoid of painful burdens

But then I couldn’t be here now with you
The song upon my lips a benediction 

As I beg my higher powers to set me free

To somehow let me live here in this body

With the peace that’s as of yet unknown to me
Each night as I am faced with each new morrow 

My body racked with weariness and pain

I tell myself the next day will be better

While knowing that my hopes are all in vain
But I know that there’s a lesson in this burden 

A wisdom meant to be revealed to me

And I hope that on the day I come to know it

That truth shall finally set this body free. 
Photo: Maren Kemp

He Wasn’t a Poet 

He Wasn’t a Poet 

by Carolyn Glackin

He wasn’t a poet, no
Nor was he a writer
In fact, he was known to be
A man of very few words
But he was kind and gentle
Loving and patient
Handsome and noble…
And, he had the bluest eyes
She’d ever seen…
She was the talker and the writer
He showed her his love in quieter ways
Flowers for no reason
Her favorite treats when she hadn’t asked
And all sorts of other little gestures
In his arms, she felt safe and adored
Gazing into his eyes, she glimpsed eternity
And no matter how much time passed between them
When he kissed her, an internal fire was ignited
A fiery passion was kindled
And their spirits soared
Floating into the ethers
Melding into oneness
Joining in the most sacred of ways
And so it was between them
She the talker and writer
He the thinker and doer
Doing their own thing
BEing fully themselves
Appreciating their differences
Two integral parts of a whole
Each complete in their own right
Living, loving, and laughing
For all time.

*Artwork by Freydoon Rassouli  



by Carolyn Glackin 
My beloved, 

I cannot speak to you 

With words of my own

For you know not of them

Nor can I speak to you 

With your words 

For I know not any

So I shall speak to you 

In the language of love

For those words we both know 

And my heart has plenty. 
*Radha Krishna artwork found on Pinterest.*


This thought popped into my head very early yesterday morning. What’s interesting about it is that it can be interpreted in two ways: 1) A person who is authentic and stands strong in their personal truths and convictions will be beautiful because the light of their soul is shining through for all to see; and 2) We are what we think and believe. So, it’s important to be mindful of our truths and convictions because ultimately, we become them and embody them.



Words are my own. 

Marilyn Monroe image found on Google.