On this eve of Lent what makes me beautiful
I no longer long for rules
I listen from within
I am beautiful as I see mirrored in me
an image of the Divine
I hear the call of those who have gone before
shrouded, voices dimmed
I dance the song of me
joyous, beautiful, open
I awaken to Beauty that lights the morning sky
and darkens night
I see through new eyes
You spoke to me today
morning crescent moon alight at
the foot of my bed welcoming me awake
Your voice gentle rising steam
cupped within, held in my hand
warming the early chill
I heard your laughter today
my heart beats strong and faithful
for those who make me laugh
When I listen, you are there
whispering my name
holding me near
Little poems of love – to the Creator, the Goddess, to my love, and all those I love and who love me.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
A funeral of crows arrived
under February mournful skies,
not all at once, a few at a time,
until all were present. They marched,
waivered back and forth, an acrobat’s
balance on bony branches.
They came to pay their last respects,
feathers scattered, broken neck,
our neighbor’s cat’s memento.
A murder of crows, how appropriate,
a dance of homage as they marched
along the limbs, bobbing gently.
Or did they come for a lesson learned,
seeing is believing under weeping clouds.
Furious wings thrashed morning calm,
withdrawal, their ceremony complete
as the neighbor’s cat lingers
behind a gazed kitchen window.
In this story, she knows no fear.
Softness of last light crosses her cheek.
The hush of evening’s calm enters her,
spirals inward, down. An afterthought
of day’s swiftness tumbles into moist earth
beneath her bare feet. His caress tenders a longing
deep within her being, this story hers, eyes closed
to what is, inhales all that could be.
Valentine’s Day and the first line from the poem Khaleesi Says by Leah Umansky, author of Domestic Uncertainties, is my inspiration.
I chased the moon
in the morning air
one day past its full
A ghost of itself
against a too
cool blue sky
I know her sadness
staying too late
gone is her ebon field
He slipped away
when I was gone
to pray, dissolved
in sun’s rising
The glimpse of
your perfect smile
alone for me to see
under the moon
is that moment
when the moon realizes
it is not the light of the
night that guides me
Snow woke us from our slumber,
open windows to a clement January eve,
more arrived beyond the foretold flurry.
We cannot contain you in prediction
or in fact, no matter our persistence.
MotherFather, Elder Brother, Sister Bride,
you are Wild in our self,
much bigger than we plainly hold.
You do not reside in books or buildings,
altar tables, cups,
images hung encrusted in gold,
flowing robes of rules.
Those, our inventions, constructed to explain.
We compose to console
but only for the privileged who agree.
MotherFather, Elder Brother, Sister Bride
You are bigger than what we may design.
Within myself, cathedral, forest glen,
Infinitity, there you reside,
MotherFather, Elder Brother, Sister Bride.
Welcoming Brigid into my home this feast day. Acknowledging the space she can hold as Wisdom and Spirit in theThree in One. Oh, this may ruffle some feathers. But as Sophia, Brigid, also speaks to inspire us to wisdom and enlighten us to the Eternal.
And, on a different note of silliness, today two friends of mine, Michael and Kynan, responded on Facebook to our unexpected storm and made me chuckle. Our weather people this year have not been lucky in predicting the weather. We were only suppose to have a very “light flurry.”
The inspiration for my poem is Brigid’s and my friends’ honest response to our snow:
Kynan: One man’s flurry is another man’s winter blizzard Juno.
Michael: It flurried on my happy ass last night, I had fallen asleep reading and was awoken by the snow blasting in the window I left open….