Again

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Day Thirty, the End

 

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I call it big water, the ocean.

It was a year ago today I walked
near crow picking out his mussel lunch
along the bight. Sand and shell
placed gingerly inside my empty coffee cup,
my way to keep a part of him,
remember he was gone.

I discover in loss
the hole, like that black round
left by moon in night when she is new,
cannot return to full as we once were.
Hollowness must replenish slowly,
in new ways, just as moon waxes crescent.

. . .

A sand-hued box tied with gossamer ribbon,
color of the growing gibbous moon.
Inside a woman sings,
Mother River, running her
song, flowing to ocean,
reminds me of my
connection here to there,
big water.

. . .

She hands me a calcite globe,
heavy, creamy yellow
as if full of moon light.
A memory stone to place inside
the blackened cavity,
to remember, to hold
in comfort, to illumine
when all seems lost.

. . .

Today I stand under
waning moon, attempt
to grasp, hear again his laughter,
catch his smile flash where sadness rested.

. . .

Our loop around that hot
bright ball tempered with
night and glowing light
that comes and goes
and returns again,
the river that runs to
kiss ocean tide and flow
to sea once more,
a broken heart mended scarred,
a refitted life begins anew,
all the rhythm of our dance.

 

Author’s Note:

To C.J. and Michael and Lisa

3 Schoolyard Ruminations

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Day 26

 

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1.
Fallen branches on the wrong side of the fence,
a pile of crab apple blossoms detached from their source.

I wondered of my disunion, would I fare the same,
a chaotic pile left to wither without worry.

2.
“It’s half,” she reported, confusion crossing her face.
“What is half?” I inquired.
She searched for words in her urban six-year-old
awareness, desperation growing.
Finally, “Worm.” A need for rescue, not for the worm,
but her place in line where she was to sit,
sidewalk still damp from last evening’s storm.

I wondered if myself halved, all that was left after
tempest, would dissolve someone’s tranquility as well.

 

3.
They stood on guard, circled under tree shooing
away curious littles. “I bet someone shot it.”
There it lay, iridescent black feathers
tightly drawn, eyes glossed, crow fallen. The janitor
brought a box, with gloved hand lifted the cadaver.

I wondered where I will be lifted once breath
has its final escape.
I looked down the road and wondered.

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

Today I had the choice of three prompts. My writing group met and I usually write a story from the prepared prompt. But I am writing poetry this month. I did not care for the NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo prompt. I just couldn’t see my way around it. Here it is:

“And now for our (optional) prompt! Have you ever heard someone wonder what future archaeologists, whether human or from alien civilization, will make of us? Today, I’d like to challenge you to answer that question in poetic form, exploring a particular object or place from the point of view of some far-off, future scientist? The object or site of study could be anything from a “World’s Best Grandpa” coffee mug to a Pizza Hut, from a Pokemon poster to a cellphone.”

At our writing group, we had a list of words to incorporate into our writing. Those did not sit well either. I’m usually up for the challenge, but not tonight:

benevolent, eclipse,  asshole,  magnanimous, hide”

Then came the prompt from the blind pile:

“92. Within the last five minutes, he’d seen three people die and had looked down the road toward his own death. The question was – how would he go?”

That was it, along with three events from the past few months.

Simply…

 

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You are ordained by your creation
from our Holy Singularity,
cosmos infused with
each microscopic particle,
each microscopic particle
of You that is part of me
and you and you and you
and every…thing

Under sun’s brilliant rays,
heat warms, gives life,
we burn with passion

By moon’s radiant glow
we rest, we must rest without
fully knowing, releasing to all

With song of owl, wisdom
fills our empty space as
each sorrow is liberated

Along wolf’s path
patience learned,
faith in oneself
and strength in pack

On our bellies slide with
snake closest to Earth,
bendable, lithe to protuberance

Abreast of fox who plays in grasses
yet hears, knows one must be
aware of that which no longer serves

Crow glistens black
against crystalline blue,
we honor, hold one another deeply,
mourn our losses, never forget

Flowing with water
we make our way
silver threads encircle
Earth with life

Stand with preeminent tree,
together roots dig
into Earth entwined

And gaze above,
see our infinite selves,
stars, galaxies boundless,
yet bound to one another

We are ordained, simply by our Creation.

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Author’s Note:

Full Moon blessings.

Munay,

Lexanne

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Slip

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Spring awakens a childish impatience.
Cool moist soil calls for roots
to grow deeply, nourish
stem and vine.

My thoughts focus forward
on that first luscious bite,
a juicy veneer down my chin,
the cardinal tomato chaw.

I am revived each harvest
after officiating the seeding.
But it doesn’t start with seed
or harvest’s nosh.

It is not the action, movements
I repeat presupposing I create.
I step back, return within,
Earth issues the design.

Roots compelled to dig deeply,
take hold and fill themselves
to thicken stem to tenure leaves
to pop sweet buds where bloom
will ensue to offer fruit
to fill my belly.

It begins where I cannot see,
but where I yield.

The work is compulsory
not for product, but benevolence
for season of bird and insect,
tree and star – each morsel magnified
by one rooted slip.

I cannot propagate, help or heal
unless I have cultivated Me.

It is not what I do for the world to
see, ego pressing me on.
It is not bold and righteous
indignations, ego standing tall.

It is my small quivering voice
answering Your call that I
may fall in love with Me,
the one You created,
deeply and passionately.

In consummation ego will abandon
its lien and You will outbloom
my tender.

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Author’s Note:

I am beginning to understand that it is not what I do but how deeply I love that will attend the shift. It does no good to step out armed with ego’s chatter to change the world. Too many are injured when ego is in control.

It is hard to quiet ego, keep it at bay. But when it can be wrangled into a bit of rest, leaving it aside, there is room for roots to take hold. Roots that will grow deeply and thrive in Love.

Even more difficult is where I have to start. That place can only be with learning to love myself. For if I am vessel for the Divine, there is only one way for me to honor that. I must love myself first, as I am loved. Then the Divine flows from me, not in my way, but in full compassion for all – even to those who are formidable. I must remember, they are containers, too.

Lexanne

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Today’s photos, the crow and the seashell, don’t seem kindred to the text. They are. My trip to Seattle a few weeks ago gave me a freedom to discover much in myself. Crow flew by me as I drove to beaches and along lush roadways, sat by me as I rested on driftwood, walked with me in small town harbors. I was alone for two days on this journey, yet crow was there at each turn.

The shell and tiny flowers sat at the edge of a forested area near a harbor on a handrail. It was a Sunday and the altar was set by someone, it seemed just for me and my ceremony.

There I confirmed my call to nature is the ocean, not mountain. Surprising since I am a Denver “native.” I will head the call.

Aho.

Almanac Questionnaire.3

Day Eighteen
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Sunday worship, a custom

child with hat and white gloves, black patent shoes
kneeling, hands folded, head bowed in supplication

guitars, women nearer the altar, kiss of peace

a pause, a long time gone

new words for old prayers, re-imaging Christ

no longer defined by Sunday or its tired form

In reverence of Redwood architecture
joining air to earth to that which lies beneath
I stand in awe of your strength
pay homage to your constancy

Three minutes down the city banded
alleyway, a wall to halt my vagrancy,
you press me to change my viewpoint,
look up instead of down, past high rise windows
my eyes ascend to glimpse a peek of sky where
buildings join air to earth
to that which lies beneath
In observance I discover
You are also here

Outside my glazed glass frame
a tree bows in reverence under snow,
crow, owl and squirrel, bees and spiders
await their spring ritual
Tree, oh Tree, you brush my face
in morning hello
tap my window in icy storm
wear that which I cannot control,
innocent release to what Is,
you welcome me to journey
enraptured I bow to You

To be continued…

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Author’s Note:

Click for explanation of this growing poem!

What I’ve used so far…
Almanac Questionnaire
Weather:
Flora:
Architecture: Redwoods
Customs: Sunday Worship
Mammals/reptiles/fish:
Childhood dream:
Found on the Street:
Export:
Graffiti:
Lover:
Conspiracy:
Dress:
Hometown memory:
Notable person:
Outside your window, you find: my tree
Today’s news headline:
Scrap from a letter:
Animal from a myth:
Story read to children at night:
You walk three minutes down an alley and you find: Wall
You walk to the border and hear:
What you fear:
Picture on your city’s postcard:

Signs

Day Seven
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Signs

a crow
two ducks
a fallen rose
some would inform me signs are silly

but as a crow flies above
into a blazing sunset
a message from a loved one passed
all is well

my mom and dad
both now gone
quatered nesting ducks in their planter
two visitors in my yard today
all is well

a fallen rose
St. Theresa’s calling
she kept him company
consoled him in his fear
all is well

Spirit comes to me in signs
not every one can see them