Sing With The Power

What if, while waiting for hummingbirds we
noted the young oak leaf blown apropos
of a theme this grandma teaches simply:
nature gives what is needed, even though

it may not be what you want. Compensate
for limited vision. Look with your heart.
Blooming rainbows, singing flights, we create
with Gaia. Now I’m leaving out these parts:

butterflies, clouds, the trees and the ground, birds
and the cars on the street, this easel-art
celebrations of bugs. Fumbling words
to convey the moan of that train: a start.

Inspired by: what if, theme, apropos, compensate and a curious four-year-old grandson who insisted on including all the parts I’d left out of my morning poem. As I write this, he is singing, “Sing with me, sing with me!”

Dream The New

Our future calls us into now where we create miracles.

My grandson wants to build a spaceship; he’s
dictated a list of supplies for ease
in construction. He’s been talking all week
about his newly inspired desire. Bring
me your impossible ideas, please
create the improbable. Run and seek
the stars to illuminate the slime, green
and glowing, meaning zilch to what’s been seen.
It costs a pittance in the world that’s been
to shine with power and imagine when
the world’s aflame. We’re asked to honor dreams.
Remember, none of this is what it seems.

Inspired by Slime, Zilch, Newly and Pittance.

Nature’s Privilege

Birdsong glory-listening this morning
front porch, choosing love, calling to mourning
doves, our hearts aflame and voices tender
soft–magic–daily practice aborning

it’s like a wizards’ school, cue each other
special powers granted by earth mother
we face our anger and our fears with light
touches and words, deep presence gifts t’other

we clean the places we call home, we send
such strong assurance, blessed by nature, mend
the broken bridges. We cannot inure
we open to delight in the twist-end.

He’s four and powerful, his spirals drawn
and golden suns with green rays, oh, praise dawn
when with a light touch he urges me, wake,
our teachers gather, come before they’re gone!

Inspired by Golden, Inure, Twist and Privilege.

Featured image drawn by my four-year-old grandson this morning. “The Sun.”

Grandma’s Advice

East of the sun, west of the moon

close your eyes:

Who do you love?

A pot of gold?

The ring of truth?

The way we work

where the wild things are

I hope you dance!

Ahwoooooooo!

Plant intelligence and the imaginal realm

the lost words

potentiate your DNA.

Written for Björn‘s dversepoets prompt to write a book spine poem with these simple rules: 

1. Go through your collection on books, and note the titles.
2. Sort them so the titles form a poem.
3. Take a photo of the books.
4. Write down the poem.

 

 

New Moon, New Seeds

Love is everywhere. It protects the very heart of our beings. So it’s all right. Everything’s all right and always has been.~Jane Roberts

We’re trained from birth, our very words
that’s bad, that’s good, we cling, survival

seems impossible from our arrival
we gasp in poisoned air, injected

when we least expect it in a crazy
world where toxins are called medicine

we must endure misguided doctors’
incessant quackery studying separate

cells to proclaim a discovery, another
name to cloak the reaction

to the putrefaction of air and soil
and drinking water, full-scale slaughter

in the name of greed and promulgated
by the fear-porn screed.

We sit alone, we’re trained, perceive no choice
lower our voice, and even so the angry

sons shun their insane mothers
all dialogue blocked with dangerous others

the truth a sauce our diets now
prohibit, our only eyes for lies

as they exhibit the visual clues
of this unhealthy news and yet

if we can set aside our certainty
that harm is looming, dooming, carelessly

and simply quiet, presto, the tempo changes
the heart of the matter rearranges

the score and more, we realize
the love nature displays, miracles

every day in every moment we connect
to source, we laugh, we hug,

we understand, of course,
there may be malice withal

there is a greater force.
We plant the seeds, we open hearts, we call.

 

Everything was all right, always had been all right, it had only been their own anxieties and doubts that ever made it all seem wrong. They were all couched and safe, forever secure, forever jubilant at the heart of their own beings. There was never anything to be afraid of, if only they trusted the great sweet security that forever held the vitality of their beings, for they were all truly splendid, a part of a loving universe that cradled them forever in a safety and love literally beyond all comprehension.~Jane Roberts

Go Figure

The embers are cool, and I have lost
the eyes of long regard and so alone
I face my darkest corners, create
a ledge and perch watchful.

This is the glitch I spy
from far below, peeking with
frightened courage. Overwhelmed
by life’s adventure, everything

strained, the ice holding
beyond the boiling water.
If I could cut a romantic
figure, I’d persuade you to

look deep into my heart
the way I do and with such calm
kindness hold the sinewy
dark cords pulling insistent.

More and more space, there’s a
crowd and I can’t catch
my breath. Sidereal Sun’s in
Aquarius. Earth quickens

toward spring. Moon flirts
with fullness. Deep in spaces
of unclaimed dreams, do you
invite the end of the world?

Do you ask if you are worthy,
do you wish someone to show
exactly how to love?
Fairytale-rescues of

powerless, bound
by magical powers unseen.
I set out to see the world
and find love. And do we all?

Is love a luxury? All these words
of course lead me astray.
I sit in quiet, greet
each moment precisely.

And when a thought proclaims,
you’re not who/what/why/where
you should be, yes, and
I learn, oh, this is love.

 

Garland

Inspired by Flexible and Wordless Wednesday.

The Leading Edge

Our vibration goes up when we serve.~Thomas Huebl

A baby won’t ask for anything
you can’t give. All you have

requested by life that wants
to live. And I’m not trash talkin’

your mama, so caught in tight
ancestral trauma that a cry

in that wailing treble lands
like a devil in those spaces

genetically disheveled.
There is no blame, the centuries

laid out clearly but we can’t see
the hidden sculpture. Life

is not as it seems. We think the
pain may become our mainstay

if we don’t struggle. Make way.
We find ourselves while running

from what’s wronging
flee the leading edge, our

most farfetched longing
arms we hold outstretched.

We’re cautious, sniff the aromatic
clues, scents enigmatic and so

problematic and yet
a child knows when it’s time

to snuggle, surrender to the
fear. So often trouble

is the gift. When we accept
unwrap, perplexed, but willing

to be still upon the lap
we’ve cried for, all that rises

in connection–the winds,
the seas, the branches bending

low to feel our wailing cease.
Finally heard, we acquiesce and be.

By All That’s Holy

By all that’s holy–
which is everything, of course,
just because we, struggling
irregular fractals fail
to see the way we all
fit together, life glimpsed
in profile while the macro-
cosm gyrates in a syncopated
song we’ll never comprehend
or always (those two words
signify the black and white
world where praise lurks
and longs to sing)–
we rock together.
Your tummy hurts.
We snuggle in fleece
since preschool insists
you cannot return until
these ills have been digested.
At grandma’s house, well-rested,
we try out anger words.
Gobbledegook, fraggle so
when you’re three and angry,
how to convey your intense
emotions and be felt,
instead of invoking ire
that your bad word ignites.
I’m with you here. I understand
more than I did at three,
and even so, you teach me
with every look and hug
by all that’s holy.

Inspired by: Profile, Macro and Holy.

Today I’ll Buy No Sorrows

Imagination sets in. Pretty soon I’m singin’ doo, doo, doo, lookin’ out my back door.~John Fogerty

An hour before dawn, a helicopter’s
clear symbol of inquiry–this is News,
not an austere government’s spy
machination, yet the chuntering counter-
beat creates unease, even
in my embraced-silence. Deep
indigo shrugs off thin appeals
searching spotlight can’t penetrate
the dark composing receptive pulsing.
Beyond the houselights, the lake
surely gleams whitely, all the snow
caught and held glistening–
I swear, I saw this yesterday–
now a mysterious difference in the way
light falls, received, reflected.
The noisy rotors recede.
My heart’s relieved.
I know nothing at all.
And still I watch all the windows,
tracking the way night clings
to the start of winter’s day,
alert for headlights carving
the space, bringing
my grandson at last.

Inspired by: Austere, Clear and Looking Out Of My Back Door.