Earthlings II

Upon your lap, my Mother Earth, 

I listen to the river's song,

of renewal and rebirth,

that calls me home where I belong.

Like a tree, my roots go down,

deeply where there is no sound,

only earthworms burrowing,

through hallowed ground.

.

Like a tree, when harsh winds blow,

 that assault me, then grow still,

the  fickle weather helps me grow,

changing me, as weather will.

Like a tree, my center lies

  where human folly is forsaken.

Your heartbeat says:

Endure. Just wait,

These earthlings one day

will awaken.

.

Collectibles

I'm collecting wolves and memories,

as I walk this earth-walk......

forest trails and long sandy beaches,

the sound of the waves

forever advancing and retreating

on the shores of my heart.

Inland, I once collected seagulls,

and longed to fly

over the mountains

to the shore.

Once there, I gave away the ceramic birds.

Walking in awe, in outtakes 

from Jonathan Livingston Seagull,

along the shore,

 I needed them no more.

I began this beach odyssey in 1972,

when I watched Jonathan fly

and understood

I belonged heart and soul

to the sea.

My life has been a series

of beginnings,

starting over with nothing,

collecting a nest around me,

then flitting to the next place,

the next refuge,

the next home.

I perch on the edge, now, waiting

for the call that will spring me

across the mountaintops

and back home to the sea.

I will take only the barest necessities

with me:

wolves and elephants and books,

and enough gratitude and joy

to keep me

flying.

for Ella's prompt at Real Toads: Collections I live in one big sunny room, its walls covered with wolves and elephants, its shelves awash with books, Tibetan singing bowls, windows decked in prisms and prayer flags. Everywhere my eyes fall, I see something I love, something that says "one who loves nature lives here". 

Days That are Holy

for Susan's prompt at Mid-Week Motif : 
holy days, and what makes them holy.

Easter Sunday, 1960

My little sister has long blonde ringlets,
a pale yellow dress with crinolines,
and a pinafore.
New shoes, hers patent leather,
mine my first Princess heels.
I have a tan fuzzy sailor hat with a wide round brim,
under which my blue eyes ask:
am I good enough?
I wear immaculate white gloves, to the wrist,
my first lipstick,
and a permanent, which transforms my hair
from straight and lanky
to something bouncier,
with curls.
I feel reborn, and hopeful;
it is a time of transformation.

We gather out front to see and be seen,

then we file through the heavy doors 

into the vestry,

dip fingertips

into the holy water font,

genuflect respectfully

towards the tabernacle,

and climb the creaking stairs to the choir loft.

The sun is shining through the stained glass
and it feels like
Resurrection morning.
All my life, it has been cloudy on Good Friday
and sunny on Easter morning.

The priest and altar boys file out,

incense in the censer 

swinging on chains,

and all is hushed reverence,

rustling, pages turning,

muffled coughs.

The Apostles Creed rings out,

and all are on bended knee

as the Agnus Dei sounds.

And then, from the choir loft,

magnificently,

our hearts swelling,

voices blending and soaring,
bass, alto, soprano,

the Hallelujah Chorus rings out,

above the bowed heads of the faithful,

hearts rise,

angels bend near to hear

the joy of Easter

rising

in all hearts.

That Easter, we were housed in the small old Church like the one in the picture above. A bigger, newer church was built soon after. But I preferred the old one, which felt holy with all of the years of prayers, of praise and supplication,  that had been uttered there.

Blessings to all who celebrate, whatever your beliefs, the great wonder of this time of renewal.

Blessings

(check out the second little guy under the feeder)

Hummingbirds at the feeder,

horses in the field,

spring blossoms

scenting the air 

as twilight falls......

stepping out my door,

I am bathed

in blessings.

Diversions on the Path

shutterstock.com

Diversions, distractions, on the path?

Traveler, diversions are the path. 

We take the offshoot, circle back, resume the trek again.

The journey loops and backtracks to make necessary gain.

Traveler diversions are the path.

There is no way made straight from here to there.

The journey loops and backtracks to make necessary gain.

You have to circle to get anywhere.

There is no way made straight from here to there.

Seek here, seek there, for it is all The Way.

You have to circle to get anywhere.

And when you weary, Traveler, stop and pray.

Seek here, seek there, for it is all The Way.

We take the offshoot, circle back, resume the trek again.

And if you weary, Traveler, stop and pray,

when you encounter those diversions on the path.

Susan at Poets United's Mid-Week Motif, asks us to ponder distractions, or stops along the way. Hmmmm.......as my path has been long.....one would think there must be some material back there somewhere......I decided to try a pantoum, just to make it more interesting.

April

Beau

April is.....

horses in the bare winter paddock,

looking longingly over the fence,

willing the grass to grow.

for Words Count with Mama Zen, over at Real Toads

(Buried) Treasure

I carry my heart

in solidarity 

with a small sister in Afghanistan,
in Nepal, in Brazil,
in Haiti, in Africa,

who wants to go to school,

but who may not,

since she is not a boy,

who must cover herSelf and serve,

yet in whose heart

a dream of More still burns.

Each small girl, 

surviving in servitude,

each girl devalued,

set aside, married young

to serve her youth away....

each girl, a treasure,

so often unclaimed,

one day,

on her journey,

will discover her true worth

lies not in how she is seen,

or in the life she is forced to endure,

but in the qualities that

lie within her heart and mind:

courage, fortitude, strength,

her soul a temple

of inner light.

Wayfarer, watch closely,  for,

before your eyes,

one day, 

against all odds,

 this girl will

Rise.

"A girl is not defined by what her society sees.
A girl is defined by what she sees inside herself".
from the documentary Girl Rising

Kids, I watched Girl Rising yesterday and it is a wonderful documentary, by Richard Robbins, poetically showing the lives of girls in developing countries, so many millions of whom long, but cannot afford, to go to school. They live lives of servitude and of not being valued. But those girls to whom a miracle happens, who get a helping hand, oh how they rise when they are offered a way out and grasp that moment. A fantastic film which would certainly make our privileged kids sit up and take notice of just how lucky they are.

posted for Mary's prompt at dVerse: Treasures. I do have a lot of personal treasures. But having seen this film, it made me think of the buried treasure that lies in the hearts of millions of girls all over the world.