Deutsch: Die Meisterin des Lebens. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
merciful goddess
such compassionate goodness
(womanly essence)
embodies your soul
melds eastern and western worlds
cherry blossoms rain
Today, over at dVerse Poetics, Kelvin invites us to write of things Asian. I chose Quan Yin, the goddess of compassion who, as I see it, mirrors the Virgin Mary in Western Culture. Both figures capture the essence of feminine beauty.
Sun invades water droplets on the sago palm,
transforms them into kaleidoscopic riots of color.
Desert springtime tears apart expectations, time travels
us to summer before our neighbors to the North think thaw.
Last Thursday the finches abandoned our feeder, silenced
their morning prayers, turned Northward toward home, fledglings in tow.
Soon shall we follow—encountering yet again the flourish of rebirth
or, perhaps, another freeze before nature makes up her mind.
Written in Response to Claudia’s prompt for Poetics, but linked to OLN. Looking forward to visiting in a few hours.
How nature’s wonders haunt my daytime dreams,
ensnare my thoughts in utter timelessness.
They weave a web that captivates my soul,
a harsh reminder of life’s transience.
Our days are few, earth’s beauty delicate.
Creation holds the promise of demise.
A hawk swoops in, ensuring swift demise,
awakens morning from her sultry dreams.
soon feathers fly, then cries so delicate,
the world stands still, enwrapped in timelessness.
A fledgling dies—once more its transience,
a piecing wound emerging in my soul.
I look to nature to caress my soul,
to find an answer in the bird’s demise,
to understand this brutal transience,
her need to shatter hopes born of my dreams.
A full moon whispers silent timelessness,
breezes sifting sand-thoughts, delicate.
A meadow boasting colors, delicate;
her flowers wave their greetings to my soul.
Year after year they speak of timelessness,
return to face, once more, a quick demise.
Within earth’s womb, do seedlings dare to dream,
accept their fate, their fragile transience?
All life is brief, a cruel transience,
the thread that holds me here, so delicate
almost as though I am, myself, a dream,
a mere illusion that contains a soul.
I can’t ignore my soon-to-be demise,
would I could float in blissful timelessness.
The truth imparts ecstatic timelessness,
enduring words that trump mere transience
and thus outweigh the harshness of demise,
imparting strength to spirits delicate.
Though understanding little of the soul,
I dare to touch eternity, to dream.
My nighttime dreams give way to timelessness,
delivering my soul from transience.
This beauty, delicate, knows no demise.
Photo credit: Wikipedia Commons
Linking to dVerse Open Link Night. I encourage you to stop by and bring a poem of your own, and take some time to read and comment on your fellow poets.
Photo: Source Unknown
glaring, blaring, sirens, horns
death–sudden, metal crashing
crashing metal—sudden death
horns, sirens, blaring, glaring
texting, drinking—tragic choices
choices, tragic–drinking, texting
end lives—lives end
stop to think
think to STOP!
This challenging form, the PALINDROME is thoroughly explained by poetess Gayle Walters Rose who is our hostess tonight over at dVerse Poets’ Pub. Stop by, if you will and sip some poetry–and hopefully bring one of your own.
Farkleberries–yes, there is such a thing!
Fiddlehead ferns and farkleberries,
frolicking fun in dictionaries.
Farcical foodie festivity,
flagrantly fragrant felicity.
Rutabagas, rotund, rakish,
rollicking words like razorfish,
ravishing romance, ranuculi—
learn what they mean, or how to lie.
Artichokes, albacore, aperitifs.
Anisette, aubergine, tomato aspic,
Apple pan dowdy, ambrosia divine,
chill out and enjoy with a glass of fine wine.
If you’re a word addict such as I
finding new words gives you a high.
Webster invites you to grab his book.
Find something new—don’t be a schnook!
Written to NaPoWriMo’sDay 4’s prompt. I ran across the word farkleberries in the dictionary a while back and knew that someday I had to use it in a poem.
I’m getting a head start on dVerse Open Link Night. The bar opens Tuesday, 3:00 PM EST. Come by for a shot of poetry.
Photo: Wikipedia Commons
In the morning the blue heron is busy.
To all appearances still, beside deep water
he contemplates.
Appearances deceive.
A rush, a feathery flurry, flash of silver
dripping rainbows,
then they’re gone.
And such is life—
a moment’s pause before climactic endings,
while from a distant branch a mockingbird
sings praise.
The first line of this poem is taken from the work of Mary Oliver–NaPoWriMo’s Day 2 Prompt. While my goal is to write a poem daily during April, I may lag behind and most likely will not post all of them.
The previous post is my poem for dVerse Meeting the Bar on Irony.
The leaves of an elm splash
dappled sunlight on the forest
floor. A chill lingers in the
air so we share hot chocolate
from a thermos, pour the creamy
liquid into insulated mugs.
Age does not prevent her
from sprawling on the earth
she loves so passionately.
She leans against the tree’s
stout trunk, says, “I’m yours.”
My mouth is dry like when
the dentist stuffs it full of
cotton rolls. Disbelief numbs
me till she laughs—a sound
as real as songs of her beloved
birds that sing their prayers
in unison from the surrounding
branches and marshy meadows.
“I’m yours,” she says again,
reminding me I’m here to do
the interview I’ve wished for,
nurtured in my imagination
since I discovered her.
“Your life,” I coax, knowing
that but a single word suffices.
As for myself
I swung the door open and there was
The wordless singing world. And I ran for my life.
“You ran to it?”
“Yes, immersed myself in beauty.”
While on and on the sparrow sings.
“And aging? If you don’t mind, that is.”
In the deep fall, don’t you imagine the leaves think
how comfortable it will be to touch
the earth…?”
…and what shall I wish for myself but,
being so struck by the lightning of years
to live with what is left, loving.
“Any regrets?”
There wasn’t
time enough for all the wonderful things
I could think of to do
In a single day…
“If you could choreograph your death?”
…Maybe on a midsummer night’s eve,
And without fanfare.
“About death?”
So it is
if the heart has devoted itself to love, there is
not a single inch of emptiness. Gladness gleams
all the way to the grave.
“And after?”
If there’s a temple, I haven’t found it yet,
I simply go on drifting, in the heaven of grass
and the weeds.
She takes her leave.
I watch her walk across the fields,
stopping to listen
or to follow the flight of a heron.
She’s alone now
with Percy her dog
and memories of having lived well.
I would do just about anything to spend an hour with Mary Oliver, a poet who has touched my life and my writing so deeply. This is an imagined interview. The responses in italics are all snippets of her poetry chosen from the Volume “New and Selected Poems, Volume Two.” I wrote this in response to Claudia’s prompt on Saturday but didn’t have time to develop it beyond an idea. So here it is, linked to dVerse Poets Open Link Night. The mics are open Tuesday, 3:00 EST. Check it out!
Photo Credit: William Carter
Even the rich are hungry for love, for being cared for, for being wanted, for having someone to call their own. Mother Teresa
You are so small,
much like a tiny wren
or finch. To all
appearances, broken,
used and oh-so-wrinkly.
Your voice diminutive,
but words you choose
thunder through the nave,
strike like lightning
in the soul.
The church is dark
and cold as winter
in Detroit is wont to be.
Throngs of people
gather in the pews,
stand in aisles
to hear you speak
of love and compassion.
Not a sound except
your message.
We are here
for those in need.
The comfort you impart
is warmer than coffee.
Enough to last a lifetime.
To remind me.
You’ve moved on
but you are here.
About 1979 I was in Detroit when Mother Teresa opened a home there. After she spoke in a packed church, some of us had the opportunity to meet her. I count her hug as one I will never forget.
Posted to Claudia’s wonderful prompt over at dVerse Poetics. Have a cup of coffee and a friendly chat with someone you admire, whether from ages past or still with us today.
Should you hold doubt, hear my request:
investigate. USGS data confirms these facts
that I put forth based on experience.
Earthquakes visit my valley like a lover his mistress
nestled as she is in the arms of two faults.
Substantial temblors came this week alone—
magnificent displays of power, Earth’s climax.
Just before she peaks, a moan fans out
announces slamming forces built up within
her core—the accoustics of rapture.
When opposites conjoin, damaged surfaces
spawn newfound beauty, realign nature,
bless us with unsuspecting serendipity.
Revel in uncertainty, in danger, in new growth.
I challenge you.
Coachella Valley, home to Palm Desert and the better known Palm Springs lies between two significant fault lines: the San Andreas and the San Jacinto. While they don’t really come together, it seems that action on one often invites activity on the other. Coachella Valley, like all of California, is home to frequent earthquakes. We had two this past week—not huge ones, but big enough to catch your attention. Scientists and doomsayers predict we are overdue to have “The Big One.” Over the years we’ve already experienced a few over 7.0 which seem to wait for us to visit to occur.
This week, fellow blogger Justin (Tino), asked me to give him some random words to use in a poem. So I asked him to reciprocate. The words (serendipitously) were: acoustics, earthquake, challenge, investigate, request, magnificent, damaged, substantial, serendipity, opposite. I’m submitting this for dVerse OLN. The pub opens tomorrow at 3:00 PM EST. Hope, as always, to see you there.
Today at dVerse Poetics, Karin Gustafson invites us to write about the color green. This is a very rough draft of a poem I’d started years ago and never knew what to do with it. The rhyme and scansion are atrocious, but I submit it as is, for now, for the message. “Annie” is a composite of two patients I cared for in a nursing facility–both named Annie. There is some truth, some fiction to the story. If you are so inclined, let me know in comments what you see as the underlying message.
Annie
Annie—her name, as I recall.
Trouble dogged her through life.
A sad life, on the streets,
they whispered in the hall.
Her son wasn’t “normal,”
or so they reported.
Who knows who’s his daddy?
an old wag retorted.
She spoke not a word,
only stared out the window;
took meals in her room
so we nurses conferred.
Couldn’t get her to change,
to emerge from the hurt
of a life of abuse,
from her choices so strange.
Then one day in November
she made this request,
“My green bathrobe,” she begged,
“It will help me remember.”
I searched through her closet,
found nothing resembling
the color she wanted,
on hangers, in boxes.
That night after work
I stopped by the mall,
found just one jade-green robe
that I took to the clerk.
In the morning, her eyes
lit the room, and her smile—
made it all so worthwhile,
a delightful surprise.
Late that night, she expired,
they called me to see,
her hands held the fabric
the green she required.
That robe was her shroud
and a photo I’d found
in her fingers I placed
of a woman so proud.
A green robe she wore,
in her arms was a baby,
That one thing she cherished,
the child she bore.
No one knows the story
of the life that she chose,
but the wearing of green
was her peace and her glory.
