Tag Archives: Grace

The Hermit

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SPACE 26 February 2020

The space of my desk holds the card
The one that keeps appearing
The one nudging me to rest, burrow,
Go within
A small yet infinite space 

Earth has acquired
a brand new moon
that’s about the size of a car

Truth, a primary pilgrimage
Lit by the simplest of Light
Discernible in dark, no obvious borders
Small enough for a few steps at a time
A time for slowing, introspection 

Our new moon is probably between
1.9 and 3.5 metres across,
making it no match for Earth’s primary moon.

I am an elliptical orbit
Swooping unbalanced
Reaching for certainty
Knowing grace is in the unknowing
Resting and going
Coming back again

It circles our planet
about once every 47 days
on a wide, oval-shaped orbit
that mostly swoops
far outside the larger moon’s path.

I am not stable here planted
Tulips rise
There will be snow and ice
Rabbits delight in buds
Old growth hides snake
All within our orbits
Bumping into one another
Our right relation

The orbit isn’t stable,
so eventually 2020 CD3
will be flung away from Earth.

Will I gently step
When the veils opens
or be flung from this crust

I think I shall choose the flinging

 

Author’s Note:

This is Day Seven of the National Poetry Writing Month/Global Poetry Writing Month challenge of writing a new poem every day.

The Hermit continues to visit me. Often. I need to heed his advice. So melding the optional prompt and his presence gives me words to share today.

And I will have to use the iron rain story, too, sometime. That is just too good a prompt to pass up.

From the folks at NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo:

And speaking of news, today our prompt (optional, of course) is another oldie-but-goodie: a poem based on a news article. Frankly, I understand why you might be avoiding the news lately, but this is a good opportunity to find some “weird” and poetical news stories for inspiration. A few potential candidates:

“Earth Has Acquired a Brand New Moon That’s About the Size of a Car,”

“Ohio Man Seeks World Record with Beer-Only Lent Diet”

“Pablo Escobar’s ‘Cocaine Hippos’ May Be Restoring Colombia’s Ecosystem”

“Researchers Discover Faraway Planet Where the Rain is Made of Iron”

April 1st: Grace

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Birds were my alarm this morning
Teasing me to open my eyes
Take my first breath
Gentle myself in their call

Without judgement or demand
Their delight lightened my spiral
Changing its course
Leading me into the grace of this day

Author’s Note:

Day 1: NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo

Hello, friends! This is my first poem for National Poetry Month.

Today’s prompt is “to write a self-portrait poem in which you make a specific action a metaphor for your life.” It is always optional to use the prompt and I never know if I meet the criteria. And I really don’t worry about that very much anyway. I write what makes me happy and I hope that is what you do also.

If you can, please visit the site. They share some fun resources – a metaphor generator which is quite unique and I couldn’t really grasp any of the rather weird metaphors. I might try again later when I’m in a more playful mood. Oy. And they shared a link to an Emily Dickinson poem as an example of using a metaphor. Wellllll, I won’t lie. I had to Google a commentary on the poem to understand it. Then I realized how obvious it was. There is NO judgement here on myself. It’s all about learning. 🙂 

I have a few friends who are being VERY brave and are humoring me this month. I have such sweet and wonderful friends. They have agreed to jump in and try writing poetry. They are amazing writers but don’t write poetry. They are going to give it a try. BRAVO!!

So I thought I would share one process I do sometimes. Poetry is about the essence of a thought. I see poetry as writing pared down into exact words, not too many and not too few. It is not over descriptive using flowery words. It is about your voice. The one inside your head that is precise and brings images to mind. 

I always have a movie running inside my head as I write. If I am writing a story, I write what I see. If I am writing a poem, I’ve done this long enough that I can edit the imagery into less words for my poem.

So I challenge my friends who are reluctant poets to start with a simple narrative. Then take away the unnecessary words. Especially words like “the” or “and”. Pare it down to just a beautiful image – even if it is not a specifically beautiful image.

Here is my example of my narrative and then the poem. I really didn’t end up taking away words from the narrative. But I gathered the essence of what I wanted to say. The narrative was the movie. The poem, my review. See what you think. 

So here is my process today:

Metaphor: Birds are my alarm clock

I didn’t set my alarm clock last night before I went to bed. It was late and I was feeling the spiral of these days taking me deeper. I thought I should sleep in. It was the birds I heard call me awake this morning. Not the beep, beep, beep of the red eyed glowing demon pushing me out of my warm cocoon.

This morning the birds were my alarm clock. They were a symphony of delight. Gentle in their call. In joy I gave gratitude to all that surrounds me that I may not pay attention to or acknowledge. This is the day of moving into wonder and grace given to me without judgement or me needing to prove my worth. This is the day I step into grace.

 

 

Eavesdrop

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Eavesdrop

They rose like dinosaurs in the landscape. Long necks of hued metal reaching to the sky. Only their stillness speaking. He listened to them. He, the NightWatchman, the one who hears.

When Ray got the job, he celebrated. They went to Maya’s and the family ate their fill laughing, and later, singing together when the band arrived. Ah, that was a good time.

Ray looked at the monsters lined up ready for work in the morning. 

Strength. 

That’s what he heard as he listened to them. Moving iron beams into place with ease. Even grace. Ray admired that. Grace.

There were a few small clicks bantering back and forth, here and there. 

Ray knew this conversation.

The day was brutal with heat.  As sun set and moon rose, the cool of night made its way into cracks and crevasses between plates and screws. And the instruments relaxed from their craft. A release of all they had accomplished. 

Ray knew this conversation.

Cranes confessed in relief. Some more bold, almost bragging. Others, simply a sigh.

Ray understood.

He welcomes dark
As he moves through his sacred space
Knowing each turn by heart
Flashlight pocketed, ready if needed

The NightWatchman listens
For conversations
Eavesdropping on the day
That no longer speaks with voices
But is captured in silence
Making room for a deeper hearing
For those things forgotten, ignored,
un-acknowledged

The NightWatchman honors the
Unremarkable
Each creak and crack and skitter
knowing the story they tell

Ray reached for his keys, a ring of wonder.

“Hey, Ray, how do you know the right one?”

He smiles and moves on. 

The NightWatchman knows.

 

. . . . .

Author’s Note:

Each group of writers brings a wondrous array of gifts. Unique voices. Wisdom. Compassion. Vulnerability. If it is a strong group, always vulnerability.

We wrote from a simple word prompt: eavesdropping.

On my drive to the session I saw a row of cranes near a water plant all lined up in a multitude of colors. Just the necks, like brontosauruses all in a row waiting for a treat. And “night watchmen” from the radio jumped out and tickled my ear. I don’t hear that word much anymore.

And what was birthed came from those three inspirations today and a lot of support and love from the group.

Blessed be.

Feint

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Little bee
you came out
almost
too soon,
winter’s trickster feint

But sun is warm
bones thaw
you move again with grace
about your daily chores

Your wings loose
and stretch
ready for flight

Violas call
You cleave

And I ride your back
honeymeade our drink
eternity our design

Lacuna

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Day Twenty-three

fire

 

 

lacuna
intimate hollow
own innermost silence
ancient lodestar, you kindle
grace

grace
greed’s balefire
ashes to nourish
new growth, fresh life
dawns

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo:

“And now for our daily prompt (optional, as always). Our prompt for Day Twenty-Three comes to us from Gloria Gonsalves, who challenges us to write a double elevenie. What’s that? Well, an elevenie is an eleven-word poem of five lines, with each line performing a specific task in the poem. The first line is one word, a noun. The second line is two words that explain what the noun in the first line does, the third line explains where the noun is in three words, the fourth line provides further explanation in four words, and the fifth line concludes with one word that sums up the feeling or result of the first line’s noun being what it is and where it is. There are some good examples in the link above.

A double elevenie would have two stanzas of five lines each, and twenty-two words in all. It might be fun to try to write your double elevenie based on two nouns that are opposites, like sun and moon, or mountain and sea.”

Grace of Water

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Day Six

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I.
Water trickled over my forehead.
Now accepted, a daughter-child of God,
to follow dogma. Water legislated
to make it so.

II.
Water sprayed over your writhing body
gasping for air. You are the enemy –
of who, of what – a child of men
who play God, make rules.
Water to cleanse. Water to heal.

III.
Water tumbled from sky
spawning streams, swelling rivers.
Men piped oil defiling you.
Our ancient family stands strong
with you in gratitude, they affirm.

IV.
Water is Spirit, dewdrop
in spring, snowflake in
winter, fall’s foggy drift,
summer’s replenishment.

V.
May we dwell in unity
and wisdom and gratitude
under your benefaction.
The grace of water, the gift of life.

 

Author’s Note:

Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo:

“And now for our (optional) prompt. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that looks at the same thing from various points of view. The most famous poem of this type is probably Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”. You don’t need to have thirteen ways of looking at something – just a few will do!”

On The Eve…

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I like to walk at night in the dark so I can see the stars. They give me hope. Or, I walk in the morning well before the sun rises, before the creamsicle glow announces a new day.

In those hours I feel safe surrounded by that which I cannot see, but trust my dear beast will protect me if need arises. I want to feel the chill and be enveloped in the vast deepness and blazing silence where truth is hidden in the promise of hope. You know hope, those little twinkling lights I can only see when it’s dark.

Tonight on our walk I held a small stone to my chest, next to my heart where the energy of that swirling green chakra resides, the entry into Spirit, my Love. And I asked for all my fears deep within the darkness of my soul, all my hates that tighten my chest, all the hurts that have been hurled at me and captured – I asked that this simple stone be the chariot, the wagon, the wings to take this pain and hold it for a moment.

I walked with my mantram soothing my mind and giving time for those unwelcome guests to surround my tiny rock and attach themselves.

Under the skies sprinkled with hopes, I released the stone to Earth Mother. She will welcome that teeny piece of her back home again. She will do what she does best. Pachamama will take what no longer serves me, that which I have allowed to hold me in its grip, and she will cleanse it. Those hurts and pains and fears will become new soil in which to plant. Our sweet Mother will take them and bury them deep within her for transformation.

And in the promised spring, there will be richness to welcome new growth and life and beauty.

 
I pledge…

I will trust Spirit and give myself fully.

I will be a voice for beauty and song to fill the world with hope.

I will honor life and use my actions, everything I do, to uplift and offer more hope.

I will walk on Pachamama with grace and gentleness in gratitude for all I have been given.

I will live simply in work and play and all I do to keep my heart free and clear to receive more so I can be a watercourse for Spirit back into the world.

 

This day and everyday
may I speak impeccably.
May I work with honesty.
May I make art with a joyful heart.
May I forgive with ease and humility.
And may I love without exception.

This night and every night,
I bless you all and
all who pass this way
with peace and compassion
in great gratitude.

Munay,
Lexanne

Red Tailed Hawk

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MorningCompanionI burn
for words to flow from my
wings,
fingers on keys punching out
truth of my heart
 
There is something called
Mystery
in the way word flows
 
I cannot rest inside thick walls
where chinks crack light
there is more outside
wider truth
blinding flight
 
I am not meant to stay
sidestep to validate
defend that which does not
ring sweet and lavish
no more
no more
 
I open the primordial door of language
to empty myself
hollow out my bones
leave my vessel quarried
open
to be filled
a chamber
holding space for the Sacred
 
I am an aperture of Grace
Alice through
the glass
into fields of
green and silence
where wind speaks
and one day
words will coil
as Great Serpent
with Jupiter
rising
side by side
in passionate embrace
with the Cold Snow Moon

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A red tailed hawk was my breakfast companion this week. As I sat eating I gazed up and out the high window of the room. There she was, a hawk. And she gazed back at me as I grabbed my phone to take a photo. She obliged and stayed for the meal.
 
I received good news. Finally, after fifteen years of CAT scans, my doctor now considers me cancer free.
 
I received the gift of two poems from two dear friends. One dedicated a newly penned and lovely one to me. The other friend came across one in a newly acquired book. The poems spoke to them of me. They graciously shared, a heart blessed way to encourage me on my new path.
 
And, a full moon this week.
 
On the night in which it was full, we had clouds. It was cold, and she came and went as thick and thin wisps passed through the air burgeoning with almost snow. But she was there. The next evening under clear skies Jupiter and Grandmother Moon danced.
 
I share these random thoughts as I begin a new way in my life. I feel good in my skin. Something I’ve never felt before. Peace and much joy.
 
And I discovered the work of the artist below that made me want to jump up and down and scream, “Yes!!!! This is what I want to be when I grow up. A poet like this. An artist like this.”
 
Peace and joy of new beginnings to you.
Don’t let them scare you away.
 
Lexanne

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Full Moon Blessings!
Watch the Full Snow Moon on February 22nd. The name of this Full Moon came from the native tribes of the north where the month of February usually had the biggest snowfall. Sometimes it was also referred to as the Full Hunger Moon since food was scarce due to difficult hunting in harsh winter conditions.
As usual, I bring you more the Full Moon names from several Native American tribes:
Abenaki – Makes branches fall in pieces Moon
Algonquin – Ice in river is gone
Anishnaabe (Chippewa, Ojibwe) – Sucker Moon
Arapaho – Frost sparkling in the sun
Assiniboine – Long dry Moon
Cherokee – Bony Moon
Choctaw – Wind Moon
Comanche – Sleet Moon
Cree – Old Moon
Haida – Goose Moon
Hopi – Moon of purification and renewal
Kalapuya – Out of food
Lakota – Moon when the trees crack because of the cold
Mohawk – Lateness
Navajo – Squeeky voice
Omaha – Moon when geese come home
Passamaquoddy- When the spruce tips fall
Potawatomi – Moon of the rabbit
Pueblo – Moon of the cedar dust wind
Shawnee – Crow Moon
Shoshone – Coyote Moon
Sioux – Dark red calves or raccoon Moon
Tlingit – Black bear Moon
Winnebago – Fish-running Moon
Wishram – Shoulder to shoulder around the fire Moon
Zuni – No snow in trails
Rivers in the Ocean
— with Jeanette Carrero 

Undone

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When ghostlike fog wrapsDoro3
itself around your arms,
be wary if you stay.
There is temptation
to welcome softness, allow
a mantling about and through
palms outstretched,
fingers sans raiment.
But its demands are fierce.

There is impregnable beauty
if you do pause as cold
descends stilling fog’s path.
Majesty in each mounded
crystal cling, appendages
knitted one to another,
a new glove and cloak.
Astonishment in delicacy,
an artistry in lethal cold.

I reach to you,
as trees on winter mornings,
undone. My once summer
facade laid bare,
a deathly inevitability.
No longer hiding my array,
I am yours to draw,
an artist’s form
for you to mold and pattern me,
a remarkable fragment of
your bewildering eternity.

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It’s not always easy to see grace.

It is in letting go of what we think we are that we become what we must be.

You see, sometimes the Divine is not warm and fuzzy. Sometimes our Holy One comes through cold and harsh demands that make it difficult to realize the beauty unless we still ourselves and take the time to acknowledge it and experience it for what it is.

Nature is a threshold into the Divine. The snow crystals on tree limbs in early January were astounding. Fog hung thick as the bitter cold arrived. The fog, no longer able to stay afloat, settled on trees and turned into new forms of winter wonder. Many photos of this found their way into my life. My friend, Dorothea Madry, graciously allowed me to use her photo to pair with today’s poem.

Enjoy the cold. The barren trees. The icy mounds. You never know what gifts they bring.

Lexanne

 

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Immutable

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Why, in the end, was it a magic trickImmutable
that was needed to get my attention?
I can be so jam-headed.

At first You didn’t make sense.
A gentle healing in the same way
You are on snowfall mornings
when crystals, each one an individual
creation, brush by in winter wind
to ice my skin. Your immutable
presence underscored in deep silence
beneath the storm holding me dear.
Instead, I settled behind closed doors,
warm and safe.

I was not yet wild enough to hear
Your fathomless love song.

It’s not my sins that need to be forgiven
in an act of terror or a rising again.

It is knowing in the sweet cry of a babe
on his birth-day that we are the Same.
I know You walked on feet sore
at day’s end, slept fitful with worry,
struggled to be understood,
yearned for a gentle touch.
You were just like me.

This knowing heals my shards,
smoothes my edges, tames my fears,
what some may call forgiving my sins.

You and I are One this holy season,
this new start we begin again,
remember Grace in what You did
to realize I can do it also.

It wasn’t a magic trick in the end
that Oned us, it is the birth into this life
as we walk together.

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