THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES

Emily Carr's Mountain Forest

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I open my window to the music of the spheres:
call of mourning dove, hoot of owl,
trees standing tall down all the years,
creek trickling over rocks, sings her morning song:

"we are all one here; we all belong."

I open my door to the beauty near at hand.
Trees are the wisdom-keepers

of truth we don't understand.
The mountains teach patience.

The river teaches joy.

The ley lines map a direction

we'd be wise to employ.

I open my soul to the expansiveness of sky,
deep mystery of the heavens,

planets swirling by,
moon and stars and clouds
each in its perfect place.
As are we, no matter what we face.

It is all here ~
everything we need, for wonder ~
starry skies above and we down under,

like candles, catching the flame and flaring,
like hearts, catching the light and sharing,
warm, like the sun coming out,
after rain.

Hopeful, like the morning comes,

again and yet again.

for my prompt at Real Toads: the Art of Emily Carr.

Sky Watching

Combers Beach

Wild Woman has walked around
her whole life,
head tipped back and
grinning at the sky.

She is in love with blue,
lover of clouds and birds.
The changing canvas
holds her captive;
it keeps her Looking Up.

Friends, there is a
Sky-Show going on
this very minute!
Look out, look up,
and cast your grateful eye:
endless wonder awaits
when you fall in love
with Sky.


for Magaly's prompt at Midweek Motif at Poets United: not-so-old-fashioned hobbies. Sky-watching is mine.

Dance Lightly on the Earth

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Dance lightly on the earth,
my friends, dance lightly,
for everywhere we place our foot
small universes are unfolding.

We tread like giants
through a microscopic world,
wipe out small insect armies
with our boot.

After we pass, the reconstructions starts:
blades of grass try to straighten
bent and broken bodies;
surviving ants  commence
the tedious gathering of sand.

The small ones meet
to survey the dissarray.
"What was that?"
"It must have been a Giant.
Did you feel the ground tremble
as he passed?"

Our footsteps cause small tsunamis
in the forest.
Let's dance lightly,
eyes open to the small lives
lived along the pathways
where we place our feet.

All Hearts Head Home at Eventide

The trees are radiant, amber,
in the brilliant glow of eventide,
time for all earth's creatures to head home.

Horses clip-clop to the barn,
the dog sits by his bowl.
All hearts start heading home at eventide.

The round, womanly mountains
along the harbour turn deep rose
as all the little boats chug in to shore.

Late afternoon is a golden time,
earth blazing beauty before the dark
as if the light will never come again.

The crickets sing an overture.
The stars wait in the wings.
We hold our breath, before night's curtains part.

Life hangs suspended 'twixt a shadow and a dream.
We gather our loved ones closer while we can.
All hearts start heading home at eventide.

for Kim's prompt at Real Toads: to write a pastoral poem after the fashion of Jane Kenyon's "Let Evening Come." 

My Heart is a Fiddlehead Fern

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,  Mother Earth is so generous to her creatures.

One from 2014, this summer's day. Sharing with  the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where you will find fine reading every Sunday morning. Do join us!   

A Landscape Longing for Repose

I like for you to be still;

mindless chatter

makes my head hurt.

I prefer to listen to bees,

and the small sound the hummers make

when they dive-bomb the nasturtiums.

I like for you to be still.

At the shore, there are wave-songs,

joyously singing melodies

I need to hear.

They say, if you are quiet, and listen,

you can hear ants singing by rubbing

their back legs together.

I have been listening ever since

for their song.

In the forest, there is a symphony

of leafsong and summer breeze,

the timpani of  light raindrops on salal.

But you have to be silent

to hear the sweet sounds

of nature at her work.

One must still one's heart

to notice the sky

casting a benign, bemused glance

upon we earthlings,

as we scurry about like demented ants

on a landscape longing for repose.

for Sanaa's prompt at Real Toads: to take the title of Neruda's poem, "I Like For You to be Still" as our inspiration. 

Sufi Dancing in My Head

Small hummers

buzz around the feeder

like small Sufi dancers,

twirling

on Wild Woman's deck.

Wild Woman watches,

enchanted.

She has vertigo,

so, inside her woozy cranium,

she joins them

in their ecstatic whirling.

Her heart  swirls up and up.
Wild Woman is

Sufi dancing in her head.

The most positive spin on vertigo I can manage. LOL. One looks for the plusses. I have always marveled at Sufi dancers. Now I can imagine how they feel, with all that beautiful twirling.

for Sumana's cool prompt at Midweek Motif: Dance. Even hobbling, when John Lennon is on the cd player, Wild Woman can still sometimes manage a lick or two across her cozy room.