Radical Gratitude

how do we give back for so much beauty?

sight, and laughter, and love and dreams,

rushing river, burbling streams,

the miracle and mystery,

the beauty and the blight,

the chance to keep trying

to get it right.

give back for it all.

give thanks without ceasing,

even for the unwanted passage

that turns out to be the very portal

your soul has been seeking.

Oracle Owl calls from the forest deep:

don't go back to sleep, don't go back to sleep.

posted for Susan's timely prompt at Mid Week Motif: Gratitude

Dreamweaver

Old Shaman by Marek Hlavaty 

prasart.com

Up in the sky

there is an upside-down world

the mirror opposite of this one.

There, the shamans and dreamweavers

rule by a system of restorative justice.

The old ones make sure

that all the children are fed, and loved,

and told stories, and not one tear falls

that is not comforted.

What the trees breathe out, 

the humans breathe in,

and so trees are considered sacred.

There is no excess, no waste, no More,

in order that all may have Some.

Up in the sky

is a world peopled by my dreams.

On a clear day,

I can almost catch a whiff

of smoke from the pipes of peace.

I hear their drumbeat, always,

in my heart.

For Anthony's prompt at dVerse: to write about a place of our imagination.

A Spine Poem

The searching spirit,

the audacity of hope -

fire in the soul.

Reason for hope,

a return to Love -

paths to peace.

Being peace,

peace is every step -

the open heart.

Compassion in action,

I give you my life -

How can I help?

A spine poem in response to Izy's post at  Real Toads.

ODE TO A HERON

photo by Jon Merk

Graceful heron

swooping across

the evening sky

like a pterodactyl,

Prehistoric bird

perched

on a treetop,

my heart swoops

with you,

then stills,

standing by

the silent pond,

waiting for the night

to settle

around us both

softly

as feathers.



One from the archives, kids, as I am a bit under the weather. In need of some rest, also some inspiration. Someone throw me a prompt, LOL!!

In the Bracken

A Port Alberni back yard owl

If ever you would speak with any tree,

come walking in the forest here with me.

I'll show you the wild mushroom  and the root,

but where the ancients gather, set no boot.

If you would speak with nature spirits wild,

you must maintain the heartbeat of a child,

learn riversong and  mountain chasm deep.

You must commune with angels in your sleep.

As you step lightly on the pungent moss,

and feel the leaves the winter wind doth toss,

let your spirit fly away among the trees.

It will return upon the morrow's  breeze.

I go into the forest dark and deep,

every night after I fall asleep,

become a woodland guardian, reborn.

I do not want to leave when it is morn.

Last night my spirit fought as a black wolf,

against four brown wolves on the forest floor,

This told me that a battle lies before,

my spirit having recognized its door.

Come with me. I will show you secret groves,

moss-hung and ancient in this stand of pine.

Deep in the bracken, where the hoarfrost glows,

the Old Ones are singing Home this heart of mine.

One from the archives of late 2012, my friends. Posting it for the Poetry Pantry.

November

River Road photo by Lisa Melanie

grey sky

soft as a dove's wing,

river pock-marked with raindrops,

ripples swaying with 

the gentle current,

traveling to where

the water meets the sea

bare twiggy brush along the shore,

heron lifting heavy wings, 

skimming the surface

misty West Coast morning

grey clouds hanging low, 

heavy with tomorrow's rain

I take a mental snapshot

to forever remember

This Moment,

being perfectly

November.

Becoming Young

nextgenerationconsulting.com

I did it backwards,

came to life at 27,

turned 40 and ran away all free and wild.

I was born old,

far too scared of hell and heaven,

raised all my kids,

and then became a child.

I started rocking it at 64

(will you still need me,

and still feed me

as before?)

Stay tuned.

I trust that there are

still, of years,

some more.

With each decade

I have become

more of my Self.

It's cool (if you're me)

scary (if you're related to me)

how life has filled my cup.

I live in such a way

that every morning, next door,

I can hear them say,
with foreboding,

"Oh, God! She's up!"

I know

all of my songs

are not yet sung.

In the best of worlds,

as we age,

we become

Forever Young.

for Kerry's prompt at Toads: Youth and Age

I have limited computer access this week, kids, as am away from home. 

If I dont make it around to everyone today, I will visit you tomorrow.