Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

All Souls

Did someone say that there would be an end,
An end, Oh, an end, to love and mourning?
Such voices speak when sleep and waking blend,
The cold bleak voices of the early morning
When all the birds are dumb in dark November -
Remember and forget, forget, remember.

After the false night, warm true voices, wake!
Voice of the dead that touches the cold living,
Through the pale sunlight once more gravely speak.
Tell me again, while the last leaves are falling:
“Dear child, what has been once so interwoven
Cannot be raveled, nor the gift ungiven.”

Now the dead move through all of us still glowing,
Mother and child, lover and lover mated,
Are wound and bound together and enflowing.
What has been plaited cannot be unplaited—
Only the strands grow richer with each loss
And memory makes kings and queens of us.

Dark into light, light into darkness, spin.
When all the birds have flown to some real haven,
We who find shelter in the warmth within,
Listen, and feel new-cherished, new-forgiven,
As the lost human voices speak through us and blend
Our complex love, our mourning without end.

- May Sarton

All That is Gold Does Not Glitter

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

- JRR Tolkien

Truth

And if sun comes
How shall we greet him?
Shall we not dread him,
Shall we not fear him
After so lengthy a
Session with shade?

Though we have wept for him,
Though we have prayed
All through the night-years—
What if we wake one shimmering morning to
Hear the fierce hammering
Of his firm knuckles
Hard on the door?

Shall we not shudder?—
Shall we not flee
Into the shelter, the dear thick shelter
Of the familiar
Propitious haze?

Sweet is it, sweet is it
To sleep in the coolness
Of snug unawareness.

The dark hangs heavily
Over the eyes.

- Gwendolyn Brooks

The Dream

I cried a lot today,
in a way I wish we all could cry.
I cried because
I am part of something
that is dangerously
out of control,
something that started so long ago
none of us can remember.

It seems we have come apart, Beloved.
We have named the distance
between us
and so have given it meaning.

We have turned our backs
on one another
and pretend we just can't help it.

We have fallen asleep in the midst
of such incredible beauty
that even the angels
are crying
for the tragedy of our blindness.

Wake up, Beloved, wake up to the soulful
energy that rises within you right now,
this very moment.

Wake up to the dream we all share.

- Rabon Saip

The Wolves

At my gate, I'll always greet you

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luI3F8_CgaA

At my door, you’re welcome in
There can be no transgression
As a means to an end
On the wind, the wolves are howling
Open arms are closed in fear
Helping hands are clenched in anger
Broken hearts beyond repair
Everything's so great, can't get better, makes me wanna cry
That I’ll go out howling at the moon tonight

There she stands, so tall and mighty
With her keen and watchful eye
And the heart of a mother
Holding out her guiding light
Well, it's a hard road to travel
Solid rock from end to end
The sun, it rises on her brow
And sets upon the great expanse
Everything's so great, can't get better, makes me wanna cry
That I'll go out howling at the moon tonight

There she stands, so tall and mighty
Her gaze facing the east
At her back, our doors are closing
As we grin and bare our teeth
On the wind the wolves are howling
She cries to draw him near
Well, turn around, turn around my darling
Oh, the wolves are here
Everything's so great, can't get better, makes me wanna cry
That I'll go out howling at the moon tonight
Yeah, I’ll go out howling at the moon tonight

- Mandolin Orange

Walking by Stolen Creek


the meaning of its name forgotten,

the word remembered.

Whatever happened here

is recalled

in another time and it’s remembered

inside the stolen self

that my blood river passes through

in thin and beautiful veins, not gold

but only a mere human heartbeat,

a circle of people

standing, talking, making their plans

as water passes by.

Something, someone is still alive, telling.

They think these are only stories

not what holds the world together

in its balance.



- Linda Hogan

Anasazi

How can we die when we're already
prone to leaving the table mid-meal
like Ancient Ones gone to breathe
elsewhere. Salt sits still, but pepper's gone
rolled off in a rush. We've practiced dying
for a long time: when we skip dance or town,
when we chew. We've rounded out
like dining room walls in a canyon, eaten
through by wind—Sorry we rushed off;
the food wasn't ours. Sorry the grease sits
white on our plates, and the jam that didn't set—
use it as syrup to cover every theory of us.

- Tacey M. Atsitty

As Fall Approaches


As fall approaches.
The distillation of summer’s sun
Overflows like golden syrup
Down the mountainside

Insects suck the last sustenance,
Now turned to molasses
Before inevitable cooling winds interrupt their busyness
And make way for thunder and rain

Colors of autumn burst forth,
Transition visible to the human eye
And always, change, the only constant.

As you gaze around
Pay attention!
Savor these halcyon days
And all those you’re gifted to encounter

Stand still in wonder,
Notice what stirs within
Welcome the coruscation of your senses

Vibrant life will surely reemerge from death’s compost
Now pungent with the rotting of summer flora.
Decay’s elemental richness will infuse
The roots of trees for branches yet to be born

For now, the copper haze of this shortened afternoon
Clutches briefly at the warmth of a sleeveless day
Having lived this long, you know the sudden evening cooling
Waits to enfold you with promise of darkened months

You are a part of the vicissitudes
One season to the next
Within this very moment,
The persistence of change cries out to be known within you.

- Lynn Robinson

Carrying Our Words


We travel carrying our words.
We arrive at the ocean.
With our words we are able to speak
of the sounds of thunderous waves.
We speak of how majestic it is,
of the ocean power that gifts us songs.
We sing of our respect
and call it our relative.

- Ofelia Zepeda
(Translated into English from O’odham by the poet.)



’U’a g T-ñi’okı˘


T-ñi’okı˘ ’att ’an o ’u’akc o hihi
Am ka:ck wui dada.
S-ap ‘am o ’a: mo has ma:s g kiod.
mat ’am ’ed.a betank ’i-gei.
’Am o ’a: mo he’es ’i-ge’ej,
mo hascu wud. i:da gewkdagaj
mac ’ab amjed. behě g ñe’i.
Hemhoa s-ap ‘am o ’a: mac si has elid, mo d. ’i:mig.

- Ofelia Zepeda

José Dominguez, the First Latino in Outer Space

In that very first episode
the transmission is received on the starship Enterprise
that Space Commander Dominguez urgently needs his supplies.
Kirk tells Uhura to assure him
that the peppers are “prime Mexican reds
but he won’t die if he goes a few more days without ’em.”
Calm down Mexican.
You can wait a few more days to get your chile peppers.

In the corner of my eye I see Uhura’s back hand twitch
and though I never see him on the screen
I image José giving Kirk a soplamoco to the face.

But this is the year 2266 and there are Latinos in Outer Space!
We never see them, but they’ve survived with their surnames
and their desire, deep in the farthest interplanetary reaches,
for a little heat to warm the bland food on the starbase at Corinth 4.
As it is on earth so it shall be in heaven.

Ricardo Montalbán will show up 21 episodes later
to play a crazy mutant Indio,
superhuman and supersmart
who survived two centuries
to slap Kirk around and take over his ship.

- Dan Vera

Body of Rags, International Bridge Between the U.S. and Mexico


Is it alive?
—neither a head,
legs nor arms!
...................
... torpid against
the flange of the supporting girder . ?
an inhuman shapelessness,
knees hugged tight up into the belly
Egg-shaped!
—William Carlos Williams, 1950 visit to El Paso, from “Desert Music”

---

Yes, I am a body of rags lying
here on the bridge waiting for

a hot rain to wash me open,
dissolve me off the bridge

because this border is closed.
I rot on the boundary line

and can’t enter Juarez,
pennies thrown at me

when a drunk El Pasoan
returns in the darkness

and sees my shape that
makes him hurry across.

No head, decades ago they threw
it in the river without my screams.

My arms were the first to go
when I couldn’t climb the wall.

I can never leave this bridge.
I live on the pure line that divides

countries and grabs my hunger
from sliding into Mexico with

my outstretched hands.
I still have my knees.

I used to be sold in Juarez and
smuggled into El Paso, the egg

that floated down the Rio Grande
to break hundreds of miles away

before being thrown back.
I stay on the bridge and can’t move.

Do not cross to El Paso without wiping
your shoes of me, one foot on US

concrete, the other scraping away
at my Mexican rags.

When I struggle against the wire fence,
I make sure I salute two flags.

- Ray Gonzalez

The Well


Every Day
We drop our biggest buckets down
On the strongest ropes we have,
Hoist up as much cool and soothing water as we can lift.


We love,
So the water level never falls.


It’s not that we don’t get enough to drink and keep our lives clean.
It’s not that the water is bad.


It is knowing about the existence of the deeper liquid:
Most, pure, clear, mysterious.
Dark, actually, it is so rarely seen (though it is not rare itself).


I want THAT.
It can only be retrieved by the many,
And only when you drink together
Does it change all of you,
Sending you down the swiftest rivers
To the sea
That is connected
To all seas.


- BSue Stephenson

November

From the sky in the form of snow
comes the great forgiveness.
Rain grown soft, the flakes descend
and rest; they nestle close, each one
arrived, welcomed and then at home.


If the sky lets go some day and I'm
requested for such volunteering
toward so clean a message, I’ll come.
The world goes on and while friends touch down
beside me, I too will come.


- William Stafford

Gratitude Goulash


Take down your biggest pot,
bigger than you think you need.
Slice, dice or cut into manageable pieces
the desiccated remains
of all your life's
calamitous events.


Look around for missed ingredients.
Add clean water, local honey and vinegar.
Bring this mess to a rolling boil then
simmer on a back burner for several days.


When your kitchen smells good,
Ask a close friend to come over.
Get out two old bowls,
they need not match.
Just before serving add a dollop of success
and a smidgen of failure.
Then be very liberal with paprika.


Solemnly bless the goulash,
and take a few bites…
Laugh together, forgive yourself,
then gratefully
go out to eat.


- Doug von Koss

Earth Your Dancing Place


Beneath heaven's vault
remember always walking
through halls of cloud
down aisles of sunlight
or through high hedges
of the green rain
walk in the world
highheeled with swirl of cape
hand at the swordhilt
of your pride
Keep a tall throat
Remain aghast at life


Enter each day
as upon a stage
lighted and waiting
for your step
Crave upward as flame
have keenness in the nostril
Give your eyes
to agony or rapture


Train your hands
as birds to be
brooding or nimble
Move your body
as the horses
sweeping on slender hooves
over crag and prairie
with fleeing manes
and aloofness of their limbs


Take earth for your own large room
and the floor of the earth
carpeted with sunlight
and hung round with silver wind
for your dancing place

- May Swenson

Grace


Thanks and blessing be
to the Sun and the Earth
for this bread and this wine,----
this fruit, this meat, this salt,
---------------this food;
thanks be and blessing to them
who prepare it, who serve it;
thanks and blessing to them
who share it
-----(and also the absent and the dead.)
Thanks and blessing to them who bring it
--------(may they not want),
to them who plant and tend it,
harvest and gather it
--------(may they not want);
thanks and blessing to them who work
--------and blessing to them who cannot;
may they not want — for their hunger
------sours the wine
----------and robs the salt of its taste.
Thanks be for the sustenance and strength
for our dance and the work of justice, of peace.

- Rafael Jesús González-



Gracias


Gracias y benditos sean
el Sol y la Tierra
por este pan y este vino,
-----esta fruta, esta carne, esta sal,
----------------este alimento;
gracias y bendiciones
a quienes lo preparan, lo sirven;
gracias y bendiciones
a quienes lo comparten
(y también a los ausentes y a los difuntos.)
Gracias y bendiciones a quienes lo traen
--------(que no les falte),
a quienes lo siembran y cultivan,
lo cosechan y lo recogen
-------(que no les falte);
gracias y bendiciones a los que trabajan
-------y bendiciones a los que no puedan;
que no les falte — su hambre
-----hace agrio el vino
-----------y le roba el gusto a la sal.
Gracias por el sustento y la fuerza
para nuestro bailar y nuestra labor
--------por la justicia y la paz.

- Rafael Jesús González

Thanksgiving

The feast of life
asks nothing of us
but our death,


our final giving back
for all the death
that feeds us

It’s only what we ask
of ourselves that makes
this day holy

only what we praise -
how brightly
the parsley gleams

only what we bless -
the hands, so many hands
that brought abundance

to our laden tables,
our warm nests of instinct
and care

only what we give -
to the hungry, the
desperate, the homeless

as winter scents
rich with coming rain
bask in the waning light

and resins nipped awake
by wind’s cold teeth
ride the quickened air

only what we revere –
as Sun hums another close
to Earth’s turning

and pulsing multitudes
of leaf and grass
shift into silence


- Cynthia Poten

Giving Thanks At The Turning Of The Seasons


At times I’ve imagined that there lived a little
man, a gnome, that having awakened from his
quarterly nap, rubbed his eyes, and from his
underground hollow festooned with oak
leaves and prayer grottos, tugged upon a rope
that shifted a huge gear and so transformed
the bewildering heat of Indian summers into
crisp fall mornings where persimmon trees
started dropping their orange leaves as they
offered us the perfect gift of their seasonal fruit.


Then I remembered the earth’s tilt, and the
predictable gambit of light and dark and our
planet’s precise distance from the star at the
center of our galaxy that sustains humans,
the curious fruits of this corner of the cosmos.
And I reflected upon the scientists revealing
these machinations and remembered that,
somehow, even those sober physicists with
skinny black ties, knew that the whirling of
moons and seasons and galaxies were a part
of some great ongoing feast, and that this
turning should be called the Milky Way.


And that gnome living under this hallowed
earth is the gatekeeper who, like us, lives
between the bewildering questions of this
world and the open arms of a great loving
mother who feeds so many, but not all of
us. So this prayer of thanksgiving comes
with a caveat.


- Bruce Silverman

Van Gogh at sunset


After the first rain storm of the season,

three days of record setting,

moderate to heavy rain,

accompanied by

a fierce north west wind,

I walked into our backyard

as the sun was sinking low

in the western sky, around five o’clock,

the giant white oak which filled

the crystalline, cloudless, azure sky,

the oak whose deep green leaves,

just weeks before had been silhouetted

against the white, smoke-filled sky

of the Eagle Creek fire,

had morphed into a Van Gogh pallet

of yellows, gold, burnt sienna and browns,

so astonishing, so breathtaking

I stood in stunned silence,

absorbing its beauty,

knowing beyond a single doubt

how precious this gift of life,

how important to steward

our small, shrinking,

beautiful planet.

- Bill Denham

In the Art Gallery After the 2017 Fires

Inside the gallery bright color is everywhere
as a medicine of happiness or as
a uniquely distilled garden.

Outside evening streetlights start
to come on. Safe in here
we remember together the fierce
walls of fire that can, and have
taken so much, from friends.

Not like the golden flowers of light,
in the twilight streets, warm like stars,
but closer, like tiny camp fires
warming nearby hands and hearts
warming the darkness and
making it friendly and soft as velvet.

A knowing fortune teller thinks it best
to let this moment be. Next winter’s
flooding will come soon enough, and
make a lake of these streets. Children
in kayaks will float by like water lilies.
This gallery and all its gardens of color
will be exiled in rising water.


- Judith Stone

Dusting


Thank you for these tiny
particles of ocean salt,
pearl-necklace viruses,
winged protozoans:
for the infinite,
intricate shapes
of submicroscopic
living things.


For algae spores
and fungus spores,
bonded by vital
mutual genetic cooperation,
spreading their
inseparable lives
from equator to pole.


My hand, my arm,
make sweeping circles.
Dust climbs the ladder of light.
For this infernal, endless chore,
for these eternal seeds of rain:
Thank you. For dust.


- Marilyn Nelson

I Live in Town Now


We heard
the rains were coming.


Around midnight a slow drizzle
and that wonderful new-rain smell,
and then, by 3,
a steady, hard rain,
continuous,
a deluge.


We lay in bed listening.


Silvia worried
about the sump-pump screen
in the driveway,
and we were up,
rain jackets,
hats and boots,
flashlights in our mouths.


I turned the power off,
Silvia held the corners
of the hardware cloth,
I lifted the two sections of grate,
leaned them against the house.


It was pouring.
We were getting wet.


Silvia cleaned the screen
with the hose.


I rolled the right arm of my jacket
as far up as I could,
reached down into the sump,
and swung the pump out.


Cold water ran past my shoulder
into my underarm
and down onto my chest.


I pulled twigs, leaves
and a crush of privet berries
from the intake,
and reached back down into
the sump.


I pulled more leaves from the water.
A dozen screen scoops
of silt below that.


Rain running under my jacket.


I swung the pump
back into place.


Silvia held the corners
of the cloth,
while I refitted the heavy grates.


We swept the nearby concrete
clear of leaves, berries, and dirt.


We were soaked.


I remembered the years
I’d lived at Slide,
and before that
below Windmill Pasture:
a flashlight or a head-lamp,
patrolling all night
with a long pole
and a McLeod,
following the rain’s
unequivocal demand:
keep the culverts clear,
or you’ll get a washout.


And one long afternoon
standing waist deep in
a redwood water tank,
completely drenched by rain,
reaching again and again
into the cold water
to fix a clogged valve.


Finally done,
Boissesvain
and I looked at each other
with huge grins,
and agreed that this work,
uncomfortable to the bone,
doing what has to be done,
and getting it done,
was somehow
the best.


I live in town now.


Silvia and I smiled
as we turned from the driveway
and climbed the back stairs
into our home.


- Trout Black

Alina Candeleria



I.
I thought it was an incantation, her name,
the way she said it in the singsong voice of a proud 5 year old.
alinaramondiazamorosacalenderia


Or a jingle, the way her lips pursed
perfectly in a subtle smile, vowels accentuated.


She waits in the salon while mother gets her hair cut.
Shows me her leopard print vinyl coat with bubble gum pink polyester lining.
Crosses her ankles, feet in ballet slippers.
Hair, a cape down her back. Quizzical brown eyes.
alinaramondiazamorosacalenderia


II.
Alina tells me her brother, Hector is in 4th grade and he’s 16.
Her father, Ernesto is 16 too. Alina says,“They are very old.”
She tells me a story.


Once upon a time there was a little girl named Alina. Her mother, Silvia, is having her hair cut so Alina has to wait in the salon. Her mother cooks. Her father builds fences. Her brother eats pizza and tacos.


I ask her to draw a picture.
Square lines create a house.
Windows radiate light.
Stick figure of Alina waving.
Figure of Hector eating a taco.


III.
But the house is sinking.
Glass on the ground.
Broken door.
Tacos are burning.
Stick figures disappear.


IV.
Will Alina know about the deep rivers
and that her mother had to learn to swim
right then and there, never falter?
Clothes on her back like skin.
Father in detention camp on floor cold as fear.
Alina Ramon Diaz Amorosa Calenderia




- Pamela Stone Singer

Enemies


If you are not to become a monster,
you must care what they think.
If you care what they think,


how will you not hate them,
and so become a monster
of the opposite kind? From where then


is love to come—love for your enemy
that is the way of liberty?
From forgiveness. Forgiven, they go


free of you, and you of them;
they are to you as sunlight
on a green branch. You must not


think of them again, except
as monsters like yourself,
pitiable because unforgiving.


- Wendell Berry

Bearing Witness


Sometimes we are asked to stop and bear witness:
this, the elephants say to me in dreams
as they thunder through the passageways
of my heart, disappearing
into a blaze of stars. On the edge
of the 6th mass extinction, with species
vanishing before our eyes, we’d be a people
gone mad, if we did not grieve.

This unmet grief,
an elder tells me, is the root
of the root of the collective illness
that got us here. His people
stay current with their grief—
they see their tears as medicine—
and grief a kind of generous willingness
to simply see, to look loss in the eye,
to hold tenderly what is precious,
to let the rains of the heart fall.

In this way, they do not pass this weight on
in invisible mailbags for the next generation
to carry. In this way, the grief doesn’t build
and build like sets of waves, until,
at some point down the line—
it simply becomes an unbearable ocean.

We are so hungry when we are fleeing
our grief, when we are doing all
we can to distract ourselves
from the crushing heft of the unread
letters of our ancestors.
Hear us, they call. Hear us.

In my dreams, the elephants stampede
in herds, trumpeting, shaking the earth.
It is a kind of grand finale, a last parade
of their exquisite beauty. See us, they say.
We may not pass this way again.

What if our grief, given as a sacred offering,
is a blessing not a curse?
What if our grief, not hidden away in corners,
becomes a kind of communion where we shine?
What if our grief becomes a liberation song
that returns us to our innocence?
What if our fierce hearts
could simply bear witness?

- Laura Weaver

A Noiseless Patient Spider

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

- Walt Whitman

Speaking Tree


I had a beautiful dream I was dancing with a tree.
- Sandra Cisneros


Some things on this earth are unspeakable:
Genealogy of the broken—
A shy wind threading leaves after a massacre,
Or the smell of coffee and no one there—

Some humans say trees are not sentient beings,
But they do not understand poetry—

Nor can they hear the singing of trees when they are fed by
Wind, or water music—
Or hear their cries of anguish when they are broken and bereft—

Now I am a woman longing to be a tree, planted in a moist, dark earth
Between sunrise and sunset—

I cannot walk through all realms—
I carry a yearning I cannot bear alone in the dark—

What shall I do with all this heartache?

The deepest-rooted dream of a tree is to walk
Even just a little ways, from the place next to the doorway—
To the edge of the river of life, and drink—

I have heard trees talking, long after the sun has gone down:

Imagine what would it be like to dance close together
In this land of water and knowledge. . .

To drink deep what is undrinkable.

- Joy Harjo

Writing To Iraq


It would
take them
no trouble
to approve
your next
hour
by seconds
and minutes


with a
rag tied
over
your eyes


The next
morning
could be
put into
a rubber
hose


and used
to beat
you


When you
march
in the streets
together


when you
ask them
to give
you back
your country


And then
many
are shot /
killed
and wounded
around you


They tell you
there is
still time
to turn back
into history


But instead you
keep moving


And the streets
under your
sky
continue to
gather


to swell
with even
more voices


All pain
can be
doubled


But you
see a way
to welcome
another future
into your
hands


And that
keeps you moving forward




- Beau Beausoleil

Possibilties


I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love’s concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimms’ fairy tales to the newspapers’ front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I haven’t mentioned here
to many things I’ve also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.


- Wisława Szymborska

Everything Has a Deep Dream

I’ve spent many years learning
how to fix life, only to discover
at the end of the day
that life is not broken.

There is a hidden seed of great wholeness
in everyone and everything.
We serve life best
when we water it and befriend it.
When we listen before we act.

In befriending life,
we do not make things happen
according to our own design.
We uncover something that is already happening
in us and around us and
create conditions that enable it.

Everything is moving toward its place of wholeness,
always struggling against odds.

Everything has a deep dream of itself and its fulfillment.

- Rachel Naomi Remen

Blessings for the Tomb, the Womb, the Cocoon
(the Liminal Spaces, all)


May you surrender to the sacred gravity of your grief and loss

May you give honor and homage to that which has fallen away

May you integrate the wisdoms of your passage

May you feel the tender burden of your own life in your arms

May you treat yourself with exquisite kindness and patience

May you find peace in your cocoon . . . acceptance and surrender

May you be transformed by your own darkness and rise renewed


- Kay Crista

Beautiful, Kay! Like a personal checklist!
Every line remains alive!
A real service to a reader!
:heart:

Quote:

---

Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

Blessings for the Tomb, the Womb, the Cocoon
(the Liminal Spaces, all)


May you surrender to the sacred gravity of your grief and loss

May you give honor and homage to that which has fallen away

May you integrate the wisdoms of your passage

May you feel the tender burden of your own life in your arms

May you treat yourself with exquisite kindness and patience

May you find peace in your cocoon . . . acceptance and surrender

May you be transformed by your own darkness and rise renewed


- Kay Crista

---

How to Break a Curse


Lemon balm is for forgiveness.
Pull up from the root, steep
in boiling water. Add locusts’ wings,
salt, the dried bones of hummingbirds.
Drink when you feel ready.
Drink even if you do not.


Pepper seeds are for courage.
Sprinkle them on your tongue.
Sprinkle in the doorway and along
the windowsill. Mix pepper and water
to a thick paste. Spackle the cracks
in the concrete, anoint the part
in your hair. You need as much
courage as you can get.


Water is for healing.
Leave a jar open beneath the full moon.
Let it rest. Water your plants.
Wash your face. Drink.


The sharpened blade is for memory.
Metal lives long, never grows weary
of our comings and goings. Wrap this blade
in newspaper. Keep beneath your bed.
Be patient, daughter.
Be patient.


- Danielle Boodoo-Fortuné

What Flies


Time flies when we’re having fun
and when we’re not it crawls.


Flies – get stuck in the honey
and honey distracts
just about everyone
but my honey
distracts me the most
hm, hm, hmm, the delight
of that sweetness
and the explosion in my brain.


Later I’ll deal with the pain
but while time ticks
I get so involved in my addictions
there are no predictions
of when I’ll stop
or when I’ll succumb
to the realities that I
have broken the rules
and Now it’s time for the dues.


So I must pay while the days
tick away – and sunsets come
and moonlights smile
watching us revel in this life
we want to keep forever
but forever is always here
for there is no tomorrow
remember? All we have is Now.


Boy does Now fly – and how
when waves form
and cats meow
and lions roar
and the streams gurgle
and humans cry and pray
and laugh and wonder what’s next.


And the only thing that’s next
is Now – flying in our face.


- Jayro Dyer

One Child



Born lucky born lost
born touched born tossed
born brown born bite
- one child’s meek
another child’s might


Born wail born wall
born fly born fall
born fierce born fright
- one child’s strong
another child’s slight


Born loved born late
born howl born hate
born want born white
- one child’s privilege
another child’s plight


Born gone born gifted
born lack born lifted
born noose born night
-one child’s freedom
another child’s fight


Born calm born cage
born rigged born rage
born boy born blight
- one child’s wrong
another child’s right


Born girl born good
born shackle born should
born black born bright
- one child’s loss
another child’s light


Born fraught born freed
born glory born greed
born neglect born need
- One child’s plead
we better take heed


I say
One child’s plead
- everyone’s need


I say
One child’s plead
we better take heed.




- Kristy Hellum

American Tune


Many's the time I've been mistaken and many times
confused.

Yes, and often felt forsaken and certainly misused.

But I'm all right, I'm all right, I'm just weary to my
bones.

Still, you don’t expect to be bright and bon vivant so
far away from home, so far away from home.

And I don't know a soul who's not been battered I
don't have a friend who feels at ease.

I don't know a dream that's not been shattered or
driven to its knees.

But it's all right, it's all right, for we've lived so
well so long.

Still, when I think of the road we're traveling on, I
wonder what went wrong, I can't help but wonder what
went wrong.

And I dreamed I was dying.

I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly and looking
back down at me smiled reassuringly, and I dreamed I
was flying.

And high above my eyes could clearly see the Statue of
Liberty sailing away to sea, and I dreamed I was
flying.

And we come on the ship they call the Mayflower, we
come on the ship that sailed the moon.

We come in the age's most uncertain hour and sing an
American tune

oh, but it’s all right, it's all right, it's all
right, you can't be forever blessed.

Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day and
I'm trying to get some rest, that's all I'm trying is
to get some rest.

- Paul Simon

Twas the Night before Yuletide

Twas the night before Yuletide and all through the glen
Not a creature was stirring, not a fox, not a hen.
A mantle of snow shone brightly that night
As it lay on the ground, reflecting moonlight.


The faeries were nestled all snug in their trees,
Unmindful of flurries and a chilly north breeze.
The elves and the gnomes were down in their burrows,
Sleeping like babes in their soft earthen furrows.


When low! The earth moved with a thunderous quake,
Causing chairs to fall over and dishes to break.
The Little Folk scrambled to get on their feet
Then raced to the river where they usually meet.


“What happened?” they wondered, they questioned, they probed,
As they shivered in night clothes, some bare-armed, some robed.
“What caused the earth’s shudder? What caused her to shiver?”
They all spoke at once as they stood by the river.


Then what to their wondering eyes should appear
But a shining gold light in the shape of a sphere.
It blinked and it twinkled, it winked like an eye,
Then it flew straight up and was lost in the sky.


Before they could murmur, before they could bustle,
There emerged from the crowd, with a swish and a rustle,
A stately old crone with her hand on a cane,
Resplendent in green with a flowing white mane.


As she passed by them the old crone’s perfume,
Smelling of meadows and flowers abloom,
Made each of the fey folk think of the spring
When the earth wakes from slumber and the birds start to sing.


“My name is Gaia,” the old crone proclaimed
in a voice that at once was both wild and tamed,
“I’ve come to remind you, for you seem to forget,
that Yule is the time of re-birth, and yet…”


“I see no hearth fires, hear no music, no bells,
The air isn’t filled with rich fragrant smells
Of baking and roasting, and simmering stews,
Of cider that’s mulled or other hot brews.”


“There aren’t any children at play in the snow,
Or houses lit up by candles’ glow.
Have you forgotten, my children, the fun
Of celebrating the rebirth of the sun?”


She looked at the fey folk, her eyes going round,
As they shuffled their feet and stared at the ground.
Then she smiled the smile that brings light to the day,
“Come, my children,” she said, “Let’s play.”


They gathered the mistletoe, gathered the holly,
Threw off the drab and drew on the jolly.
They lit a big bonfire, and they danced and they sang.
They brought out the bells and clapped when they rang.


They strung lights on the trees, and bows, oh so merry,
In colors of cranberry, bayberry, cherry.
They built giant snowmen and adorned them with hats,
Then surrounded them with snow birds, and snow cats and bats.


Then just before dawn, at the end of their fest,
Before they went homeward to seek out their rest,
The fey folk they gathered ‘round their favorite oak tree
And welcomed the sun ‘neath the tree’s finery.


They were just reaching home when it suddenly came,
The gold light returned like an arrow-shot flame.
It lit on the tree top where they could see from afar
The golden-like sphere turned into a star.


The old crone just smiled at the beautiful sight,
“Happy Yuletide, my children,” she whispered. “Good night.”


- C.C Wiliford

Thanks again, Larry. It's definitely one of the greats.
Roland

Quote:

---

Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

American Tune


Many's the time I've been mistaken and many times
confused.

Yes, and often felt forsaken and certainly misused.

But I'm all right, I'm all right, I'm just weary to my
bones.

Still, you don’t expect to be bright and bon vivant so
far away from home, so far away from home.

And I don't know a soul who's not been battered I
don't have a friend who feels at ease.

I don't know a dream that's not been shattered or
driven to its knees.

But it's all right, it's all right, for we've lived so
well so long.

Still, when I think of the road we're traveling on, I
wonder what went wrong, I can't help but wonder what
went wrong.

And I dreamed I was dying.

I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly and looking
back down at me smiled reassuringly, and I dreamed I
was flying.

And high above my eyes could clearly see the Statue of
Liberty sailing away to sea, and I dreamed I was
flying.

And we come on the ship they call the Mayflower, we
come on the ship that sailed the moon.

We come in the age's most uncertain hour and sing an
American tune

oh, but it’s all right, it's all right, it's all
right, you can't be forever blessed.

Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day and
I'm trying to get some rest, that's all I'm trying is
to get some rest.

- Paul Simon

---

Christmas in Tucson


The Exchange

Her long black and white
hair running down her
shoulders, like a creek
with all its mysteries.
Brown eyes, kind
like a bear waking
to a new morning.
She wore a crisp white
shirt with blue jeans
and pretty light tan
cowboy boots.
You could not miss
her silver and turquoise
belt buckle with an
engraved claw, which
was an invitation to see
the fine craftsmanship
of the Tohono O'odham
and Navajo Indians,
inside a small trading post
store called The Coyote
on a dusty desolate road
not far outside of town
in the month of December.
Behind a glass counter
displayed were red clay pots
on small colorful weavings
along with friendship
baskets and hand crafted
artifacts. I was surprised
to find sweetgrass in the
region and traded with the
elder woman green frog
skin for it. In exchange she
handed me the braid with
some coins. She noticed
my Ojibwa beaded earrings.
There was really nothing
more to say. She gave
me thoughts for a life time.
I lit the sweetgrass on
Christmas day.

- Ziibinkokwe, Turtle Clan (Patricia LeBon Herb)

A Christmas Carol


Away in a manger
or a crack house
or under a bridge
or in a bombed-out village
or a refugee camp
or in the mesquite shade close to the border wall
some Mary is giving birth.


Even as you read this
a child is being born.


What if one of these were the promised one,
the beacon of hope,
the seed of a new light
in a dark time?


What if they all were?
What gifts would you bring
if you were wise?


- Larry Robinson

Christmas Bells

https://www.waccobb.net/forums/wacco...5_10-45-35.png

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

- Henry Wordsworth Longfellow

In a lighter vein:

Winter’s Cloak


This year I do not want
the dark to leave me.
I need its wrap
of silent stillness,
its cloak
of long lasting embrace.
Too much light
has pulled me away
from the chamber
of gestation.


Let the dawns
come late,
let the sunsets
arrive early,
let the evenings
extend themselves
while I lean into
the abyss of my being.


Let me lie in the cave
of my soul,
for too much light
blinds me,
steals the source
of revelation.


Let me seek solace
in the empty places
of winter’s passage,
those vast dark nights
that never fail to shelter me.


- Joyce Rupp and Macrina Wiederkehr

The Need That Can Only Be Met


You’ve probably heard, as have I,
That humans are essentially religious.
That deep in our souls, if not in our minds,
We find communion with things divine.


You’ve probably felt, as have I,
An essential longing, an open heart,
A want and need which, they say,
Can only be met by perfect divine love.


And you’ve probably been told, as have I,
This somehow proves that God exists.
That we are his or her created children.
And that the universe itself loves us.


I’ve no problem that our souls are religious,
Most especially when I play my guitar.
I am perfectly convinced this yearning exists,
And it needs, in fact, a perfect divine love.


But, my friends, this is the human condition.
Our predicament. We have this perfect need
That can only be met by such a love.
When, in fact, no such love exists at all.


And this is why, and I mean this,
There is no opting out. It comes down to us!
It’s up to us to live love and caring,
To refuse hate, to stand against cruelty.


It’s all human nature, after all.
The Holocaust was not an aberration.
But neither is love and beauty.
Where do you stand, my friend?


We must create the We.
We must stay open to our pain.
We must create our bold community.
Not perfect. Not divine. Together.


Because it’s true, so very much the case.
You can have faith in this.
It can and will only come from us.
We have a need that can only be met.


- Jon Jackson

The Pompoms of St. Moritz


One of our dogs ate the piles I swept,
another loved popcorn so much
I left the lid off so fluffy kernels
flew to her rummage on the floor.


I don’t ski.
My trick knee steers me off rocky slopes
to sprung floors, yoga mats and tatami.
I love sparkle and quiet,
qualities of snow,
the blurry edges of dream.


Today I hooked a rubber band to
a necklace so the chrysocolla beads,
colors of the river she swam daily,
hang over my heart and I feel my friend.
I’m a better woman with her close.


Penelope—her name means thread—and I
cross the snow glittering in the dark,
laughing so hard the pompoms on our hats
explode and the strands scatter to ice and stars.


I go a long way to feel the dead.
I do without, or see it fresh. Harder
alone. When someone tromps through the blizzard
with a stretcher, I stop begging childhood Jesus,
clasp my arms around their neck—her neck—
and pin my heart to theirs.


- Gwynn O'Gara

Yes. God is a 'we'...not a he, she, it, or what. And I have the proof. Look for me at the Farmers Mrkt on Sundays down by the gazebo. Writers on the Loose. I got it writ down.
Michael
[email protected]

i believe

in myself
light rain
sudden storms
the moon
polenta and sausage
good sex
red sunsets
a perfect martini
the stars
true love
Monet's garden
cracked crab
long baths
soft jazz
a walk on the beach
and root beer floats

i believe
in quiet mornings
the ocean
slow dancing
the back of a man's neck
Fred Astaire tapping across the screen
the magic of the Sacramento delta
stone angels in Italian cemeteries
growing your own tomatoes
Paul Newman's eyes
That writing poetry is telling the truth
doing crafts is in my blood
ironing is therapy
kissing is an art
and dusting is a waste of time

- Geri Digiorno

I LOVE the specificity of your poem! Yes! It's in the concrete things we love, that we are saved! :heart:

AND: I wrote a whole poem about Paul Newman's eyes (etc), after he died, and it was in the NY TIMES (ok, the Letters section, but it got a lot of notice there) and was one of Larry's poem-a-day picks! Ta-daaa! Here it is! :wink:


PAUL NEWMAN

https://www.waccobb.net/forums/wacco...9_13-29-41.png

If Paul Newman is dead,
then where now are the rest of us
whose mid-world lives were quickened by
that vital glance and pulse?


How can the sun
go on rising,
when every morning it came
out of those blue eyes?


Eternal youth has succumbed:
All men are mortal, after all,
and the streams that refresh the living realms
must now go searching for a new darling.

:waccosun:

Monet Refuses the Operation


Doctor, you say that there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolve
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and changes our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.


- Lisel Mueller

Beautifully expressed~ and a wonderful picture of him.

Quote:

---

Posted in reply to the post by REALnothings:

I LOVE the specificity of your poem! Yes! It's in the concrete things we love, that we are saved! :heart:

AND: I wrote a whole poem about Paul Newman's eyes (etc), after he died, and it was in the NY TIMES (ok, the Letters section, but it got a lot of notice there) and was one of Larry's poem-a-day picks! Ta-daaa! Here it is! :wink:


PAUL NEWMAN

https://www.waccobb.net/forums/wacco...9_13-29-41.png

If Paul Newman is dead,
then where now are the rest of us
whose mid-world lives were quickened by
that vital glance and pulse?


How can the sun
go on rising,
when every morning it came
out of those blue eyes?


Eternal youth has succumbed:
All men are mortal, after all,
and the streams that refresh the living realms
must now go searching for a new darling.

:waccosun:

---