Sunday, September 28, 2014

Inspired

Inspired by two young women 
who at less than half my age 
already understand and articulate 
twice as much wisdom and knowledge
of the heart, 
and how we are all connected – 
or not —
to our own pain 
and the pain of others, 
to our goodness 
and the goodness of others, 
to the spirit within 
and to and from and back 
to us. 
Inspired by two young women 
whose words of poetry 
flow like song, 
assuring me, 
and starting somehow 
the continuing process 
of my own healing.
Even at more than twice their age. 
I take still small steps 
and gently peek beyond 
the curtain of my soul, 
once again daring
to look deep 
and connect — with 
God, 
self, 
and others;
allowing my pain to be expressed, 
knowing the peace that comes
with letting go and opening up
to be 
inspired by God.


© Anne Cressin, 2014


Jona Noelle and Flora Lark
"The Fire Tigers"

Monday, September 8, 2014

Praise Song

I praise the West Wind that blows down off the mountain
Whipping up waves and currents
On our back yard lake.
I praise the Sun as he reflects and shimmers
Bright diamonds moving across the water.
I praise the weeping willow as she
Waves her hair wildly in the wind
While the perfume scents of the blooming trees     
And flowers waft our way.
I praise the Seasons – turning on the wheel of time –
Each becoming more precious the longer I walk
This earthly journey.
Though darkness gathers and day draws to a close,
I Thank the Sun setting in all his revelry and
Bless the promise of another sunrise yet to come.


© Diane Harner, 2014

Sunset
Photo by NOAA from Wikimedia Commons

Monday, September 1, 2014

If Only They Knew

Who are we to think that we’re any more alive than the stars,
Who spend their days burning, exploding, screaming their innermost selves to one another across the mute emptiness of day to day void,
Livers of a continuous present,
Residents of an oceanic nothingness with the bigness to hold them, now and forevermore, face to face in an unyielding embrace,
Dancers of a billion years’ dance,
Runners of an eternal race,
Giving birth with their final act of death,
Legions of celestial mothers patrolling heavenly haunts?

And we, spectral sparks cast carelessly from the surface of our tumbling ember,
Have the audacity to name them.


© Axel Cooper, 2014

Van Gogh's The Starry Night
from Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

On My Way to My Muse

On my way to my Muse
I must clean off the kitchen table
And put the dishes in the dishwasher
And load clothes in the washing machine.
On my way to my Muse
I must get my favorite pen
And find a special journal
And finish writing out the bills
And pick up my messages
So I can have silence.
On my way to my Muse
I must get rid of all my doubts
And my share of not being good enough
And not being organized
And not being ready for success.
And so on my way to my Muse
I must call for a session to remove my doubts
And get a massage to relieve my tensions
So I know that I am the best I can be.
Then I reach out again to my Muse
And I find my hands aren’t quite clean enough
And my space isn’t clear
And I haven’t finished my chores,
And so I write her a letter
And ask her to forgive me
And to come again when I am ready.


© Hilda Ward, 2014

The Muse of Poetry by Konsantin Makovsky
from Wikimedia Commons

Monday, August 11, 2014

THOREAU’S BELIEF (REALLY!): A SONG (HE SAID, “WHY SHOULD NOT A POET’S CAT AS WELL AS HIS HORSE HAVE WINGS?”)


Winged cats exist.
Must exist!
Sublimely promiscuous,
They can’t not exist!
They don’t regard difference
Between earth, air, and light.
Borne up by silliness,
By faith, by similitude,
By their analogy to any shape,
They are lazily limitless
And may further their fur
Into petal or wings
Pluming through fable.
If winged cats don’t exist,
Clouds won’t blossom,
Grass won’t be kissed,
Water won’t be gardened,
And rocks, once curvaceous,
Will refuse affection.
Fire won’t be sinuous
If winged cats can’t exist.
Thoreau thoroughly knows
Winged cats must exist,
Uplifted by the hybrid
Serene weddings of wildness.
Furry wings are allowed
A unique perfume:
Earth, air and light insist
This trespass is wisdom.

© Stephen Margulies, 2014

Cat Graffiti in Prishtina
Photo by WikiPri
from Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Seeb Road by Night


Not far from the sea
In the north of Oman
A dreary two-lane road
Winds through the gravelled sand flats
Dark and heavily trafficked
Lined by a few scraggly dusty palms
A scene unworthy of a painter’s brush
And yet
And yet
Each night on this darkened stage
A tiny drama worthy of our time

Two boys, all of eight years old
Fan a makeshift charcoal grill
With a piece of cardboard
Grease-laced smoke rises from the grill 
And flames sometimes hover
Above the glowing gray-black coals
Lighting up their earnest faces

Cheap cuts of skewered lamb
Darken and sizzle on the grill
And cars pass by
This little stand
Between two palms
So dark it isn’t seen
So cars pass by

For more than one hour 
I watched them brown the lamb 
And set it aside
Waiting and hoping
Their obscure labor
Would cause a car or two to stop
Their expectations low

Sent out by their parents
Who knows how much they count on 
This hopeless, little stand
Who does their marketing?
Their advertising? 

© Bill Sypher, 2014

"Street Urchins"
oil on canvas
by Karl Witkowski
from Wikimedia Commons


Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Minesweeping


Picking through now: my
god I was running so fast then, leaving behind time bombs and land mines as I fled
to make sure I would never look back or slow down or god forbid turn around and try to walk sanely again through this madwoman's minefield, now grown over with goldenrod and meadowsweet. 

I ran a slick path toward other choices, to hide in the city, to pretend among fumes and pavements that I was fresh and ready, that there was nothing behind me but the wide ocean... 
That there was no home waiting... 

Within a day I missed soft green under foot and soft eyes of family, so I soon returned to them,
but stayed apart from this field, walked only the perimeter, monitoring, until I trusted my eyes and my footing. 

Picking through now: in my treacherous meadow of old mines,
I am stepping, guessing, testing disturbed spots one by one. 
Slow work, careful work, through thick sedge that shadows and tangles my feet, that hides the triggers and trip lines. 
I am fearless, though, and slow.
As I find each snare I choose my fate, knowing that blowing everything open is the only way to be whole. 

© Laura Seale, 2014

Click link below to watch brief video of land mine explosion:

Land mine from World War II
from Wikimedia Commons