Another Spring

Sproat Lake forest 

At Real Toads today, the mini challenge is to take a quote from Wordsworth and write a poem. I chose “Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.” 

We emerge from winter,

bleary-eyed as winter bears,
as famished as raccoons,
ready to chatter our joy like bluejays
to welcome the sunlight in.

We watch the buds, 
miraculously formed, just ready to open,
with the wonder of children
pondering the unfathomable
Mystery.

Shedding the weight of winter,
expanding under the spaciousness

of warmth and sky,

away from our stuffy winter rooms,
we perch ourselves on logs,
on chairs, on porches,
lazy and content,
as calm as pumpkins,
to savor the emergence
of yet another spring.

Talmud Angel

[ In looking for something to post for Poets United's Poetry Pantry, this poem, back in the archives of 2010, spoke to me this morning. Do check out the Pantry - there are always many rich offerings, of a Sunday morning!]

How do you
keep hope alive
in times when
the March wind blows
and hoarfrost forms
around the edges
of your heart?
Times when
the winter wolf
stalks your footsteps
and you doubt the sun
will ever warm
your cheeks again?

Those are the days
when my eyes
seek the first light
of morning,
receiving each day
as a new beginning
with the possibility
of new perceptions;
days when I remember
there is a
larger landscape
than the one we see;
when I know,
if I look out through
my small window,
I may only see gray clouds
over the city.
Yet if I enlarge
that window
and my vision,
I can see the whole sky,
a patch of blue
just breaking
on the horizon.

In those times
when all around me
seems to be
chaotic and dissembling,
I have come
to understand
the universe is
simply rearranging,
through times of transition,
and on the other side
there may be
something wonderful
waiting that
I can't yet see.

I remember
that every cell and seed
in the universe
has one purpose:
to grow.

Even when living
feels too hard,
I still believe in life.
It is the underlying principle
of the universe.
In the midst of war,
political imprisonment, torture
and the worst that humankind
can do to one another,
a human’s instinct
is solely to survive,
to live long enough
to arrive at
a better day.

When your soul is
sorrowing and defeated,
and resists putting
one tired foot
in front of the other,
what I see is
the hugeness
of your spirit
that survived
the trenches
of childhood,
and the heartbreak
of lost love,
to get to this place
where you feel
you are
coming up
empty.

With all of my belief,
in you, in life
and in tomorrow,
(I who have walked
through similar
barren wastelands),
until you can
believe, again,
yourself,
let me be the
Talmud angel
who bends over the
solitary blade of grass
that is your life,
and whispers to it:
“Grow! Grow!”

Flying Free

That worn, heavy body in the bed,
with tubes connected to  hidden orifices,
must be moved,
by two brisk staff members,
every two hours,
from one side to another,
must be cleaned and tended
as its processes forge steadily on,
must be powdered, 
so as not to offend.

Eyes closed, she sleeps,
deeply in coma.
She is all body now,
all process,
as slowly the systems close down,
the breathing slows.

Soon, there will be
a final breath,
then a profound silence.

Stand back
and open a window,
for that is when her spirit
will fly free.

posted for Kim's Verse First at Poets United, where the prompt is: the Body.

True Dreaming

There was a dream 

I dreamed

and made come true.

I had thought,

when it was done,

that it could never 

be renewed.

But now a tiny flicker

lights my soul.

I pray that it will

take me back

to where my life

was whole.

Talking With Trees

tumblr.com

The dead woman lived
half her lifetime,
before she woke up.
Trying to fit into too-small boxes,
she longed only for freedom.
Fulfilling roles expected of her
by others,
she sought for a corner of her life
that belonged solely to her.

Eventually,
she had to buy herself an island.
She peopled it with 
spaciousness and sky,
and communed only with 
the speaking trees.

They told her everything 
she needed to know.

Kerry, at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads, set us a wonderful challenge today: to write an existential poem that asks the question: why are we here? Or at least that makes us think. I was wracking my brain, hoping to come up with something deep, but this tapped itself out and announced it was finished.

I have always been intrigued by the dead woman poems some of my friends have written. Kerry said she wrote her wonderful example,  Notes About the Dead Woman (Self-Help), in the tone of Marvin Bell.

Other Toads have come up with incredible offerings to this theme. Do check their links out, over at Toads.

1958

freckle-face, pedal pushers and a pony tail,
pedaling her bike all over town,
twelve years old and on the cusp
just before learning how to curl her hair,
in days when she believed
"All I Have To Do is Dream"

a whistle would make her day,
a downturned, self-conscious smile
but she wouldnt look,
just pedal faster,
home to check in the mirror,
make sure her pony tail was still flying high........
almost but not quite ready to 
"Catch a Falling Star"

then hours of mooning in her room,
heart bursting with dreams and longing,
playing her small box record player
and wailing to Connie Francis:
"Where the Boys Are........"

She was waiting for her real life
to begin.

What a Wonderful World - with David Attenborough

We live in such natural splendor. 

This clip is breathtaking. 

Enjoy!