Song of the Wood Thrush, Call of the Raven

Which music sits better with me today? 

Which surrender is safer,

one that pulls my heart to the treetops

or one that sinks me down and rolls me? 

Which part of me needs to be moved today?

What's still and waits to be shaken?

Which pain am I denying

if grittiness rubs me only raw,

or softness numbs me or stings like a lie?

Which magic serves me fairly now: the golden touch? The golem's Shem?

Red fairy shoes to dance me blind, red poppies to send me dreaming? 

Music holds the alchemy and the hoodoo,

and I whirl between them, feeding 

on sounds as on honey and locusts. 

Being the smooth fluid river.

Being the flood, risen and raging. 

Being the gravelly riverbed, grinding myself back to earth. 

All this to balance tame and wild. 

All this to find my body again.

All this to remember to lose my mind. 

© Laura Seale, 2014

Folk dancers in Budapest
Photo by Wilfredor, from Wikimedia Commons

My Third Eye Is Blurry

Maybe it's a speck

of galactic dust

partially lodged

in the corner of my eye

or a seasonal allergy

from recurrent 

metaphysical storms

Possibly eye strain

from poor illumination

of a fading distant star

or damage to my hallowed retina

from gazing too long

at powerful suns afar

Can I blame diminished vision

on “End of Days”

foreseen long ago

by prescient Mayan priests

or is it just macular degeneration

from advancing old age

All seem rather likely

but if truth be told

a cosmic cataract

is blinding more each day

as golden Earth moments

inevitably slip away 

© Bill Vollrath, 2014

Mural num muro de tijolo em Aveiro

"Watching tv is like taking black spray paint to your third eye" ~ Bill Hicks

Image from Wikimedia Commons

Fugue for An Aging Grandmother

I’ve been meaning to paint you for years,

pictures stored on my phone from visits

at Christmas and weekends when the Texas

cousins visit. Your hair is more wisp than

fall now, and pixel’s impressionism can’t catch

the aura I haven’t mastered with a brush

yet either. Or how the skin of your hands

grew softer; 15 years ago you were taking

mine to cross streets. Now you don’t

remember my name but I still love the

weight of them. A body holds on too long,

but the mind in fugue is the loss. Where

do you remain in there? Musical interludes.

The burst of grapes eaten one. After another.

After the other. You haven’t known me in years

But I’ve known your smell from the beginning.

The remain of which, the refrain of which,

pulls me away from the slip of linseed and oil.

Maybe I’ll just grasp your fingers a little longer.

Put the brush away until I’ve memorized you.

Take one more picture. One more December.

One more canvas holding only the curve of a face.

Though, it wasn’t your body I was trying

to capture in the first place.  

© Sarah Fletcher, 2014

Grandmother of migratory family with sick baby
on Arizona Highway 87, south of Chandler
Photo from National Archives and Records Administration
via Wikimedia Commons

Embrace the Mystery

In the innocence of my youth, old folks were wise, 

The flow of their lives distilled into a wondrous elixir of perfect understanding.

God, being older, was wiser yet, intoxicating.

And so, though I could not comprehend, I believed that if I should die before I wake,

God would send me to a fiery furnace or a beautiful garden,

Based on His tally of my young deeds.

In the self-absorption of adolescence,

I deduced that followers of God

Were drunk on their own self- righteousness.

Words did not match deeds.

God  benefited  their own salvation.  He was their God.  

Not the God of those who questioned, or, God forbid, doubted.

Not my God.  

Then, the stunning arrogance of youth.  

Ah, then all could be as clear as Caribbean waters.  All could be understood. 

The world defined, made rational through diligent study and observation.  

Look hard enough.  One would always equal one. 

Everything had a purpose.  Everything had a place.  

Not God. That Opiate.

Then came my son and daughter,

And I began to suspect miracles.

Who fit all the intricate parts into such small packages?

What told that one tiny cell to become so many, and take on so many forms, so many functions?

And by what means did the million descendants of that single cell know 

When to crawl, to walk, to run?

To mold themselves into such delightful beings, 

I suspected miracles, but life was too busy

To track down the source of my suspicions.

Now I am one of those old people. 

 I marvel at the beauty of the rose.

Sorrow at the brief moment of its life.  

 I am humbled by majesty of the mountains,

Swept away by the vastness of the universe.

 I weep at the cruelty of those who claim to love a loving God.

Yet, I am not wise.   My world still floods with questions not answered.

But I have learned to let them be, 

I seek, but do not demand, 

And failing to understand,

I lovingly embrace the mystery 

That may be my salvation.

© Carolyn Brumbaugh, 2014

Seneca Rocks ~ West Virginia
Photo by Tony Russell

Love Poem

I.

When asked if I have a date

for Valentine’s Day, I say

Yes--February 14th.

II.

It’s Go Ahead And Buy Myself The Freaking Chocolate Day

and I’m celebrating this one.

Don’t you just love those chalky hearts

with flirty witticisms

stamped on them like red badges?

“Be mine”--

for an imperative mood;

“Love Bug”--

insect or influenza, it’s unclear;

“U R a 10”--

apt apex of numerical affirmation;

“Hug Me”--

No;

“Let’s kiss”--

well, that’s one remedy for boredom;

“Page me”--

leftover box from 1996?

III.

The candles are lit--

O sanguine celebration

of sweatpants and zinfandel,

Godiva and Netflix, here’s to you.

Chet Baker is crooning

Your looks are laughable

Unphotographable

and in this untamable afro,

these coke-bottled spectacles

and plushy red bathrobe,

who am I to disagree?

© Natasha Oladokun, 2014

Butterfly Valentine, circa 1940 - 1950
Wikimedia Commons

If My Grief Were Liquid

If my grief were liquid, 

it would fill and flow 

in all of the channels of the Mother Waters.

It would fall as rain 

and there would be no drought.

It would bubble up

from the deepest springs,

being purified as it passes

through the layers of the earth.

It would tumble

from the tallest waterfalls

creating mists and rainbows

and swimming and bathing pools.

If my grief were liquid,

it would cleanse my Soul

and ease its pain and longing:

  the pain of separation - the longing for union

  the pain of loss - the longing for fulfillment

  the pain of not belonging - the longing for community

  the pain of not feeling at home - the longing for home

  the pain of not having children or brothers or sisters – the longing for family and a         

  legacy.

If my grief were liquid,

it would heal my fractured heart

and allow me to fill the longing for connection

  to the sacred core of my being

  to the goddess within

  to Nature and its diversity

  to the wild part of me

  to my passion.

If my grief were liquid,

it would allow me to

re-member

and to love again!

© Beverly Diane Harner, 2003

Waterfall near Flam, Norway
Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Little Messy Beauty

small thing

seed-like feather-waif

intricately spun

like her hand-made ornament

beaded and embroidered 

with richest red hues fading 

into gentle pink glow. 

she works and sews,

and you, small thing, 

inside her take your place. 

tiny fairy spine,

spindly limbs with the suggestion

of itsy hands and feet

reaching out to meet the day. 

and on that day the light is harsh,

and will not meet you nicely,

nor wrap you tightly

as where you now lie

swaddled in the secret place. 

stark, clean light and chilly,

indifferent air bombards and breaks

your sleepy lids.

but though the light and air be cold

i will greet you warmly on your first day

as do the arms of trees 

spring’s sun-debut

and let you wrap your perfect baby-five 

around my world weary one.

even your shriveled nose,

which shrivels smaller 

at each bewildered shriek 

will be a wonder to me,

a twinkly star 

on the sky of your small face.

and when the world darkens on me

and threats loom near,

i will marvel at the glory 

of your seashell feet

and pretty pearl toes,

and begging to be so new again,
I will see that I am still a child

and need but to remember 

the wonder of a web

or a frothy swirl in the sky,

and all will be new again.

welcome, small thing, 

to this so-called stage,

and when you too grow weary,

do as i will do-

look upon beauty 

as I will look on you

and the dark will reside for a minute

to let you catch your breath. 

© Emily Brown, 2014 

Newborn baby
Photo by Bonnie U. Gruenberg
from Wikimedia Commons