In this starlit darkness, birds create bright
songs to conjure skies. Anticipate light and soon the eastern glow will lift laments and cries for those who, stuck in story, pent-
up, inveigled in the lies, cannot know
hope. The freedom codes outring cussed, old perceptions of enslavement. It’s the fourth of July. The end is nigh. To the north
the sunrise pinks this long, slow, sweet delight
unveiling mystery and now the night is over. Dawn presides, a symphony of trills and whistles colors brilliantly
my sight. I dance and open windows, doors
unlock. My heart instructed by the corps of angels, spirit messengers in flight. An owl wings over, last vestige of night.
Inspired by: Lament, Inveigle and Cussed.
Featured image: A bluebird yesterday, driving off a mealworm thief.
Bluebirds chatter-build where cheeping sparrows
forbid amid chirping hatchling swallows.
Cacophony of greed imperatives
masks grounds to seed. My male relatives
hang grimly to the dying ways to feed
a pattern we no longer need. Succeed
by cash amassing. Don’t heed as sisters,
in tune with those who bleed–resisters
who seed their fear in angry deeds–ask why
we turn away from sun, instructive sky
to count the hoard, ignore the cry. I speak
my truth in crumbling story’s pique.
Inspired by: Grounds .
Featured image: High winds knocked this perfect robin’s egg from a nest hidden and unreachable in a tangle of trees.
Your lifestream is energy–monitor where that energy flows….to the New creation, rather than the old.~Sandra Walter
In the morning, wet grass imparts wisdom
to bare feet. Dark clouds. And now smoke has come, assails. Follow scents, open dank places. Heart-song gut-led walk out of the laces
I’ve bound myself in servitude to those
conspicuous in fear rigamarole. Pitiful they seek my strength, then suck dry until imbalanced I pace under skies
promising adventure once I release
the old, create new songs with energy flowing through love. This portal is a squeeze, a birth canal. I must push through somehow.
Conspicuous, Rigamarole , Adventure and Impart.
In the awakened state, you perceive not only the physical world. You see also the spirit world, the world of potential and shimmering design.~Ken Carey
I could compose an atmospheric yarn,
I suppose, here at the old shed, a barn with clutter aplenty, attic’s rejects brimming full of treasure-to-trash prospects.
The kids finger their phones and eye the wreck.
Dumpsters await on speed dial, I suspect. Possessions own and weigh us down, they’ve learned. They’re anxious for this pile of junk to burn.
Aweigh! Sentimentality’s for fools.
No longer will it anchor here and rule. All of the pretty illusory lies are clearly just reflections in the skies.
Wisdom is shining through the cracks, the light
expanding to consume dark things in flight. And so crumble edifices of old. The new’s emerging as bright love unfolds.
Clutter, The Old Shed, Atmospheric, Aplenty and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt yarn.
In my quest for fresh air, I scare two ducks,
a great blue heron, six geese. Honking, clucks, loud scolds. A bluebird bold claims emptied box. A noisome sparrow balks. Over the rocks
the sun’s just stroking the horizon east
as warnings abound. I pierce last night’s dreams through morning sounds. Backwards, sliding on ice, the useless brakes, I steered, peering behind
as lights bore down. Survived. In neutral, paused.
This is because I’ve come back and the claws of bitter seething that consumed grandmas now come to me–gifts I’ll claim soon. The cause
is narrative, and so again I shift
from zealots defending stories I lift and celebrate. The bluebird’s rival dives. It’s time to brood. Allowing, new arrives.
Zealot, Soon and Rival and this duck, playing decoy while his mate sits on the nest near shore.
Now I finally show up in my home
town with proverbial prodigal poems –last year, they threw stones. Thin corridors to refuge in that deluge choristers
offered. There’s no excuse. The past unloosed
becomes a story I rewrite. My might –I’m warrior, accompanied by birds, grounded and balanced–is writing unheard
words to convey some of this morning’s joys
–my raft through waves. A shy green heron’s poised and dives into the bright reflective lake. Goldfinch and oriole and robin make
this trilling, clacking, whistling bustle.
Revealing now, brave, ready to hustle for deeper cover, yet nothing stops song. Singing together, praising sun, rights wrong.
Inspired by: Corridor, Excuse, Proverbial and Deluge .