I 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
. . . 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
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
The moon hung, a bittersweet glow
cupped against midnight blue behind
boney arms of our grande dame maple,
whose leaves never turn red in fall,
only yellow then brown on fallow grass.
As I watched,
just past a new day’s first hour,
I could almost see her luminous
crescent rock back and forth drawing
my eye upward, higher, a need to tilt
my head back and forth to discern
Your gift through lacy silhouette
branches standing guard between
me and Eternity.
But she pointed me to it,
to a god always present,
maybe in a conflicting place
from one night to the next,
but always there, Jupiter,
a thunderbolt-bright comfort
knowing once and again
he would meet me.
I am created no more
or less perfect than these.
I hold within myself the same
wonder of stars and moon
and trees rooted deeply into earth.
I grow and change, not staying
in one place, although I have lived
in this same place all my life.
When the world groans
under sorrow made
by hands of stone…
Not stone that changes
the course of rivers.
Not stone that greets
a wanderer along her craggy pass.
These stones are as Spirit filled
as every heart that beats…
But when the world groans
from counterfeit hands
made of false stone that cannot see
within themselves the utter sweetness
of the Beloved, nor the Beloved’s
consummate sweetness in souls
they stone, I feel pieces explode until
all that is left is blackness, a dark hole
so profound not even Jupiter
could spark a flame.
From where I stand
I must be what I am first made,
gentle light, devoted lover,
precious consecration of You.
My hands, made of Your passion,
to each integer of Creation.
I cry out like thunder in the desert,
groan and writhe,
but know You will hear my prayer
and open our eyes
to our manmade
stone hands of annihilation.
May our prayers transfigure
our false hands
back into cupped hands
ready to receive Your timber.
If you would like more on this poem, please join my weekly reflection at Journey/lex. It is a weekly newsletter that arrives in your e-mail in-box usually on Saturdays.