Poem from the Past

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These days, kids, I am busy archiving a rather large body of work, in hopes it will be preserved after I am gone....(we live in hope!)  This morning I came across one of my early poems, written in 1961, when I was 15. Thought I would share it with you today.

1961
We walk in half-steps.
Let my kindred spirit
(submerged within the masked 

and groping present)
Grasp hands; as giants 

fleeing before the wind,
Let us find Truth: 

the depth of life’s real beauty;

Or wander into spring 

on trembling willow-whispers;
Or waft with summer’s 

mellow tranquility.
Let us claim stark beauty 

unadorned: a naked tree
Pointing a time-bent bough, 

a rain-wet street and, after dark, 

a Haunting melody that softly fades
And dies away.

Considerable angst, given my age. But I am happy to note nature had caught my eye, even then.

Walking Here With You

Tell me about Heaven,

you asked me in my dream,

your eyes and smile so kind.

With such relief I nestled in your arms,

so long have I been alone,
and without comfort.

Heaven.....

some would say celestial music,

glorious colors, perfect peace,

streets of gold,

beauty, happiness and song.....

Angel choirs, drifting on a cloud,

wings, palaces and puppies,
dancing among the stars with

 one hundred golden moons.

But, for me,

Heaven would be

simply walking here,

with you.

If you are in need of Wonder.......

I saw this on facebook and wanted to make sure none of you missed it. This was filmed over the course of seven days at El Teide, Spain's highest mountain, said to be one of the best places in the world for photographing stars.

The photographer is listed as Terje Sargjerd, a landscape photographer and filmmaker from Norway. You can find him at facebook.com/TSOPhotography and at tesophotography.com

My Heart is a Fiddlehead Fern

google image

My heart is a wild fiddlehead fern,

unraveling its stem slowly as I raise my face 

to the sun.

My veins are sap rising,

sending nourishment to my leafy arms

waving at the sky.

My feet are planted deeply

in Mother Earth,

loving the warm dark underworld,

so rich with life and nourishment,

so sustaining,

that encourages my unfolding.

My heart is a wild fiddlehead fern,

that needs an intact forest

to survive.

We think that we are apart from nature, when in truth, we are just another of nature's creatures, neither less nor more important. We are systems, intricately designed, by a Master Engineer, to give us - each human, each worm, each fiddlehead fern - exactly what we need to survive, as long as we understand our interconnection with all things. And even when we don't, so generous is Mother Earth to her creatures.

Grace  (Heaven) gave us the most wonderful prompt at Real Toads: Making a Heart Out of Wild Plants, a prompt that speaks directly to my heart. I was in need of inspiration, as I am in one of my reclusive phases, so thank you, Grace, for this inspired and inspiring prompt.

For the Trees

Whispers before dawn as, one by one, 

we emerge from the morning mist

and gather at the Kennedy River Bridge.

Around the small fire, young men in dreads 

and warm woollen sweaters, beat softly on their drums, 

in tune with the heartbeat of Mother Earth.

Children with rainbow-painted faces and serious eyes,

gray haired grannies with big smiles,

young and old and in-between, we gather,

for the trees,

for the trees,

for our necessary sisters, the trees, 
as the big trucks roll in

and the officer reads out the injunction,

we stand.

We will not be moved.

We are Protectors, 
standing for the trees.

I was thinking about this week's  Mid Week Motiff prompt: Public Protest, all day, as I cleaned my room and set it back in order. Thinking that it does not matter if you are one lone man, standing in front of a row of tanks, a grandmother being hauled off to jail for trying to protect the forest, or a consumer refusing to buy any food or clothing item that involves the suffering of an animal or human to produce it. It only matters that we care, and do whatever speaks to us, one small act at a time.

We are seven billion strong. Several billion aware "small acts" a day would have enormous impact.

Brave Heart

AP photo

Brave heart,

who stopped

a row of tanks,

did you escape, or

were you apprehended,

swiftly silenced,

killed, disappeared?

Nobody knows,

which tells me

your shining moment

may have been your last.

Whatever your fate,

today you still stand,

in my mind's eye,

forever young and brave,

in that moment where freedom

and human rights

are non-negotiable,

whatever the cost.

Brave heart,

that row of tanks

forever stands, halted,

before you:

one small man

with a mighty heart

and a shopping bag,

whose moment 

had arrived.

for Susan's Mid Week Motif prompt: Public Protest. I had written a ho-hum one, For the Trees. But, truly, the image of this man on the tv screen, in 1989, is engraved on my heart forever. 

MOON OVER GOMBE

photo by Bill Wallauer - janegoodall.org

There is a rustling in the forest tonight,

creatures moving stealthily.

 One can hear the sleepy call

of families of chimpanzees,

as last stragglers 

join the huddled mound

of elbows, heads and knees.

Night pulls

its curtain of darkness

across the wooded slopes.

Creatures lying down with danger

pray to rise at dawn with hope.

The lion padding softly

parts the grasses,

side to side.

Regal, he is the only one

who doesnt have to hide.

In the distance,

at the edge of dusk,

elephants  circle, tail to tusk.

The grandmothers will not sleep tonight,

because the babies must.

Wildebeeste passing earlier

saw the lion, and took flight;

all creatures  seeking safety

in which to pass the night.

A big old watchful tangerine  moon

slowly rises over Gombe,

every creature struck with wonder,

outlined in its amber rays.

And my heart yearns across the sea,

my only wish that I

were there, too, under the starry, 

breathing, benevolent African sky.

posted for Alan's prompt at Poetry Jam: the moon