ECOLOGY

Waking, the world comes into focus,

slowly revealing my surroundings until,

I coalesce, yesterday’s self blending,

with night’s dreams and new day. 

 

Writing in silent early morning hours,

almost untouched, almost undisturbed,

save for the slowly growing sound,

of unquenchable hunger, approaching.

 

It grows toward me, this unease,

perhaps disease, eating all, success,

the dream of those who sell their lives to race,

to countless gain in days of thoughtless waste.

 

Consuming my life’s stories, all

their:  Untilled fields, wild flowers, clear skies,

the glowing auburn browns and greys burned bright,

on sun touched farmhouse walls in mornings light,

undivided forests, stream songs, sun’s glimmer

and silence, save for natures moods.  

 

Silence now, in blessed silent space,

where every thought is stilled and silence grace,

to nourish hearts in rest till silence breaks

and morning turned to frenzy at lifes pace.

 

The spirits and stories linger;

in ever shrinking solitude,

invisible on hilltops, with altitudes

just below notoriety, or recreation,

shaded by small groves of elder trees.

 

Life is not mocked, but missed,

lit with color like the rose,

washed in spring dew, new born,

beauty blessed, purified by courage,

into acceptance.

 

Those ever changing seasons bear its life,

and ever is it lost and then reborn,

from sun kissed spring to chill October morn.

its blood red beauty courage made its own.

 

Then like the rose, perhaps beauty may grow

Behind those abiding not the love of life

then lust for all may find no end in grief

but learn in loss to find another way.

 

Infused with beauty, my greatest gift of life: 

That like the rose my days in beauty grew

So after my October comes and goes

I leave like petals memories at your door.

 

Dried by your hand and stored, my fondest hope,

That what I leave will fill a small sachet

the morning sun, the stream, and sunlit wall

the beauty of a life stored safe away.

 

 

 

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Laughing Owl

Laughing-Owl

Some native Americans believe that the owl is sighted when a person is beginning a spiritual journey. I didn’t know that till this week. I received a name right after agreeing to go to the Rockies to sit on top of a mountain after years of refusing Natives who told me I needed to go. (what hey actually say is “it would be good for you) The name I received was Laughing owl. These are thought to be extinct.

Death On The Radio

I heard the minute I turned on the radio
the coverage, with no facts yet established,
repeated over and over again.
Without details, the story, as empty as the classrooms
after the children, eyes closed, left the building.

The police went round and round the neighborhood with dogs
seeking potential secondary threats.
The radio circled over and over again
around the story, empty of details, full of unspoken pain.

Guests and experts talked about the profiles of those who are “shooters”,
asking what has been accomplished toward  the prevention of              what has already happened… again.
As if somehow all their words might lessen the pain.
As if information, or distraction, or any sound,                                            would be somehow preferable,
to the stricken cries of parents whose children are gone.

Reporters spoke to children and parents, whose children had survived,
scaring the emptiness, pushing into secured spaces,
where tears and grief  grief and horror continued undiminished, despite their invasion.

I sent my heart, wordlessly, tearfully, silently to join them.
and cried.

ENOUGH

We condense onto the surface of the world

Like dew drops appearing on spring lawns,

a manifestation of  life’s will to continue

growing.

 

Only later to disappear

into dark loam,

the emptiness of our absence

eclipsed,

by new green grass.

 

Thus new growth is

at once our legacy and,

the beauty into which we vanish.

 

Standing between these moments,

like the ornate bridgework,

connecting Manhattan to New York,

like a visitor  watching an antique clock,

It’s giant works inside

the central edifice of a clock tower

in some elegant European square

 

Watching the dance of wheels and cogs,

levers and sections and struggling,

to understand how it could possibly work.

So have I been seeking in the patterns of motion

an understanding of myself.

 

Now I know

That I know not

What thing I am

Nor what it finally is

that I am doing.

 

Only that my movement, when I am true

Is great joy,  sending it’s chimes,

echoing,  marking the moments of my life,

and, that, it is enough.

Armageddon’s Wings

Armageddon’s Wings

 

The world comes slowly into focus,

revealing my surroundings until,

I return, yesterday’s self, mixing,

with night dreams and the new day.

 

Doubt greets me peddling fear,

worn words, mocking reviews

of past choices, and future fears,

now powerless to possess me.

 

Though still at times, my thoughts

move across these, trying each,

like a tongue worrying sore teeth,

testing each for the origin,

or absence of pain, and moving on.

 

Writing now in silent morning hours,

almost; alone, untouched, and undisturbed,

save by the world’s insistence I attend

as its unending hungers make demands.

 

The gnawing lack, all feel, none speak,

insistent absence unassuaged,

silenced like awkward questions,

knowing bent in hoping knowing wrong.

 

Silence’s spell contrives it so

that all amiss, unspoken and unseen,

cannot then break the chrysalis of fear,

free endless pain on Armageddon’s wings.

 

It grows heavier this unease, perhaps disease,

swallowing; untilled fields, stream songs,

undivided forest, silent space,

memories of sun on farmhouse walls’

flaming auburn lighted browns and greys.

 

None will abide beyond our hearts last call

when every thought is stilled and silenced, grace,

replaced by progress, those who sell their lives,

count countless gain in days of thoughtless waste.

 

I live unbroken, not untouched

I’ve shared the pallid lives and empty days

passing in cul-de-sacs and unaware,

of laughter, insults, the elegant alias,

“at the bottom of an empty bag”.

 

Now I write, my morning free of fear,

creating spaces untroubled,

untouched by hunger’s pain,

empty of emptiness.

 

With me spirits, and stories linger,

lifted from the shoulders of indigenous ancients

to lie with me in shrinking solitude,

on hilltops, with altitudes, just below notoriety,

shaded by small groves of elder trees.

 

Now I accept, for the first time,

an aging with the passing days.

as if I have let go of immortality

to grieve in ending, an imperfect life.

 

Unfinished without love’s completion.

though we wept or laughed no difference,

though we never met, still undiminished.

now all is all, and grace, to know it true,

I’ve lived in love and missed my love of you.

 

Let fate exact whatever price it will

and if the world is withered, as it might

Before my light lit spirit travels on

Let me but write my flesh and bone away.

 

I swear my anger never served me well

nor judgments ever softened any pain,

my heart was broken many, many times,

my anguish never softened by disdain.

 

So freed my spirit lives in every line

To hold the fields and trees, the weathered frame

of every farmhouse, rill and wind swept hill

Strong still, enough to show the changing sky,

in trust for any traveler passing by.

The Patient Wolf – Symbol of individuality and pack loyalty, fierce and nurturing.

More People get lost than you would expect. Most have never been taught and so don’t know what’s right. I have people ask me questions like: how do I know if I’m happy, can you teach me how to feel my sadness, I don’t understand why I’m always angry, can you tell me anything that will help.

Wolves don’t talk, they act. They guard and guide the pack to keep it safe and well fed.  They are connected to life by their nature. Contrary to the distorted images presented to people to justify slaughtering wolves who occasionally ate livestock as their free range became crowded by settlers, wolves are not aggressive towards people unless compelled to protect themselves or starving.

In this blog poetry is the whisper of meaning and beauty that has touched my life.  My hope is that it will move you into a place where you will feel more fully, more connected, and more fulfilled.  I hope something you read will help you learn things that lead you to grow in new ways.

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Death is no Lover I Would Have Chosen

Death is no lover I would have chosen,

insistent, unyielding, wound-raw.

Embracing grief over and over again,

defiant, as if to make death wait, while

I burn the reality of presence, not absence,

into my blood and tissue beyond removing.

 

Later, and somehow more welcome

A last touch, now remembered less often

Leaves me watching for memories

The way I once watched the open door

waiting to see her coming in.

 

Over and over again it washes through me

this warm flushed birthing of loves return

making grief suddenly, unbearably passionate

as the water of tears replaces sweat

in our embrace.

 

My muscles tighten and then

loosen again when I cry.

Finally I will clutch my tears to me

holding her alive in my body

my eyes closed, passion warming

the last living chapter in our loving
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