Mystical Poetry

Welcome to my poetry page.  I have been writing poetry since i was seven – with very long intervals when life was too turbulent for creativity!  After my unexpected emergence as a healer – which had been heralded by powerful mystical experiences in the preceding weeks – I began to “receive” a lot of mystical poetry and stories, which eventually i put together into a collection called “The Spirit Sings”.  In due course I will do something with that, but meanwhile I will post here some of those that have already been published.


In ceaseless waves
We ebb and flow
From spirit into matter,
From density into Light,
If only we could remember.
Rising just a little higher each time…

Until at last there is no time…
There is no need to remember,
There is no need at all,
Only being
Pure love
And peace.

(c) Monica Walsh 1992

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From sunny fields of silken grass
Where cheerful daisies nod their heads
To soothing, shallow mountain streams
That gurgle over polished stones
And on up well-worn paths that climb
To snowy summits far above
While down below the world still weaves
A tapestry of mysteries
Whose slow unravelling depends
On many interwoven threads.
Take flight and land where’er you choose
And open doors you’ve never seen,
Explore the labyrinth of the mind
And call on friends who may reveal
The meaning of the path you take
And show you beautiful designs
Of rivers leading to the sea
Where crystal icebergs float like isles
Whose history sleeps deep inside
And ancient cities rise from sand
With minarets and domes of gold
Where riches unimagined lie
Awaiting the explorer.

(c) Monica Walsh, received 20.1.91.  First published in the internationally-circulated “Healing Review“, 1993

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The following poem is not “mystical” but it is indirectly about healing… letting go of what has not served our highest good and stepping into our own power.  I was invited recently to provide poetry of a healing or inspirational nature to Sibella International Poetry Magazine, and this one was published in their Winter 2013-14 issue.


Snow falls silently on the dusk-dimmed path
Blanketing your departing footsteps
In pure white forgetfulness.
The house is quiet now, as is my mind,
The only echoes memories
Whose power to stir me is long gone.
Soon the sun will shine again
And melt away the snow that cloaks
This barrenness in beauty,
Revealing renewed fertility.
But just for tomorrow, at first light
I’ll don that coat you never liked,
Throw the front door open wide
And make new footprints in the snow.

(c) monica walsh, 1991

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This next poem records a true experience of mine, and was published by Sibella International Poetry Magazine in their June-July 2014 issue:

Midnight Journey

One night through the midnight window
Of my ever-whirling mind
I flew to a space of freedom,
Star-spangled, velvet, kind…
Danced with the joy of lightness,
Hovered like a bird
And looked far down below me
At this Earth we call The World…
Found my hands on a silver bicycle
That ran on silver rails,
Leapt astride and was carried into
A place fit for fairy-tales…
Inside a globe-like structure,
A womb-like silver cave,
Ethereal figures floated
Within white and silver waves…
Now I do not remember
Whatever happened next,
Except for a sense of melting
And peace, and calm, and rest…
I woke in my moonlit bedroom,
Turned towards the sky and blinked,
The moon hung right over my garden…
And I swear I saw her wink

(c) monica walsh, 2006

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I wrote the next poem at the request of SIBYL (“For the Spirit and Soul of Woman”) Magazine (USA) for publication in their Autumn 2014 edition:


Memories drift through the forest of her mind
Carried in the scent of wood-smoke
Or the mists that curl around the trees
Whose leaves of bronze and red and gold
Swish and swirl around her feet
Like fragments of ancient love-letters
Scattered to the wind.

The old ones have all gone now.
The spiritual touchstones of her wandering soul
Whisper but faintly as she sleeps,
And loss was painful for a time.
But in the embers of the past
Still glow the sparks of future fire,
New passion, hopes and dreams.

A bonfire flares, the flames rise high.
She feeds it with her broken dreams,
Lost loves, tired scripts, out-dated maps
And from its blazing heart she feels
Her spirit soar on powerful wings
Reclaiming life, and light, and joy -
Like a phoenix, born anew.

(c) monica walsh 2014







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