Wednesday, August 20, 2014

In Holy Tongues

web.uri.edu

"There can be no peace without social justice."
Benjamin Creme

Under corporate rule,
only the rich are well fed,
for corporations have no conscience
and only one motivation: profit.

When anger rules the streets,
hearts are broken and hopelessness is born
as the same old cycle
follows its same old futile path.

Time for one million Gandhi-jis to arise.
Time for the trees to preach interconnectedness.
Time for the refugee's bowl to be filled.
Time for the lion to lie down with the lamb.

Time for humanity to raise its vision
from survival to transcendence.
Time for the meek to veer off the path of submission
and begin to speak in holy tongues.


for Susan's Mid Week Motif prompt at Poets United: exploring our own idea of social good in 160 words or less. Mine is 103. Ha.




We Come From Starlight



Sister Tree, breathe me your peace.
When you breathe out, I breathe in.
We are connected.
The genetic code, in trees and humans,
is the same.
In Woman, 
the design of membranes in the placenta, 
nurturer of human life,
is the same as the Tree of Life. 

This fills me with awe.

How can we be so busy, so distracted, 
so disconnected,
so claimed by the worldly,
that we forget
we come from starlight? 
How can we busy ourselves with technology
and forget it is our bare feet upon the ground,
our eyes raised to the sky,
the image of sunset imprinted on our soul
that gives life meaning?

I turn off the tv, the computer, the phone.
I turn on birdsong, daybreak, Cloud Art
and stardreaming.

I place my hand upon your trunk.
My Sister.
In this moment,
it is only you and I,
breathing.

Mother Earth,
I love you.

Saturday, August 16, 2014

House of Sand



I spun my house from sea sand 
and early morning mist,
wrapped it around me  like a foggy cloak 
to the joyous sussuration of the waves,
filled it with daybreak and evensong,
used beach glass for all the windows.

And there I lived, driftwood walls
open to the sky, a ceiling full 
of  stars and windsong,
 seabirds on the wing,
ever-changing clouds 
  and refracted  light.

Like the sand dollar, I wove my home
from the sand around me, used its grit
to polish the bones of my dwelling,
carried it with me when I left,
sea song swelling,
ebbing, flowing, 
ceaselessly and forever,
in my heart.



Thursday, August 14, 2014

Happiness

The Black Dog of Joy


I.
After the thunderstorm,
the welcome rain.
The parched purple peonies
revive gratefully
in their pot.


II.
Happiness is.....


no bombs dropping

cool water coming from the tap
a deep green river, dappled with sunshine
a big black laughing dog, running in and out of the surf

memories of other times, other years
gratitude for blessings
sunsets and early morning skies
the trusting brown eyes of horses and dogs

a five year old with a dripping ice cream cone
a new spin-mop for getting into corners
an elephant picture on the wall , making me smile
every time I walk past

the beauty of the world,
in every possible instance
and circumstance,
and the spirit in humanity,
which may live in discord,
but which longs for peace

two snippets for Susan's prompt at Mid Week Motif: Happiness - there are some wonderful offerings there this week. Do check them out.

Monday, August 11, 2014

In the Dreamtime

Beautiful photo art by Steve, The Unknown Gnome


Swimming in dreamtime,
she follows the songlines of the ancestors
across the bare brown desert of the heart
towards the mountains.

On the other side, where the ley lines meet,
all green and golden,
a power place,
lies the great sea, silver and shimmering,
and singing with ten thousand voices
of the ten thousand things
that comprise the dharma path.

In this dream,
there are the haunted cries of wolves, of owls,
of ancient spirits,
and the deep green forest is alive, awake, 
and talking in tongues.
It whispers to her soul
where are you?
why are you not here?
Trees reach out their arms for her,
and she is drawn there
as surely as a murrelet is drawn back to its nest
from across the shining water.

Wild Woman rides the winds of hope
in this dream,
looking down on all that she loves:
 green bearded old Grandfather Cedar,
the roar of the waves,
the caw of the raven,
imperious piercing eagle-cry,
the long white beaches
stretching to Forever,
and her, above, exulting,
in the tangy salt sea air
flying along the shore.

So many impediments between her 
and her heart's home,
in the real time. 
But in the dreamtime, one is always There,
cradled by the sleepy forest,
curled in the rootbed of an ancient cedar,
beside a small tender wolf-pup
with shining eyes
and joyous yipping heart,
mist wrapping softly around them
in the fresh new morning,
and the sound of the soft waves, 
lapping, forever,
forever,
endless and eternal,
in her heart.

Saturday, August 9, 2014

The Pain Body



The skeleton stiffens and teeters with age,
becomes tentative, 
unlike youth's carefree, unthinking steps,
learns to place its feet carefully,
feels the ache and snap of over-stepping,
houses the heart in its rib cage protectively,
holds the head precariously 
on its fragile, so breakable stem,
head spinning precariously, 
bones helpless to stabilize
the swirling mass of neurons.

Slowly, I have become aware of my bones,
clinking and clanking ponderously
within my sagging skin.
I transport my bulk across streets 
filled with impatient, idling cars,
drivers revving their engines,
glaring at my portentous, impeding passage.

I picture this same body, these same bones,
years back, standing on a beach at sunset,
arms raised,  exulting,
corporal outline in shadow, edged with amber light,
never dreaming of a time
when I'd be living in a pain body,
the beaches and the sunset and the exultation
shining golden
only in memory.

for Margaret's prompt at Real Toads: Skeleton Poetry

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Owl Woman




Owl Woman has soft gray chicks
nestled at her breast.
In her brain lives the spacious sky,
dappled silver, shining.
Through her feathers, 
Sister Wind woos her towards flight,
beckoning from
  the Four Directions,
for when she soars, she is free, joyous,
safe from harm.

She will teach these chicks
to fly.

Down her throat runs clear river water,
life-giving, replenishing.
The forest lives in her eyes,
green and golden,
and full of talking trees.

Her journeys 
are the flight-paths of the ancestors,
imprinted within her being.
The spirits fly with her
and whisper to her
the way that she must go.

Owl Woman is earth-bound,
for a time,
but dreaming of
the sky.