One

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Day Twenty-two

 

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Catarrh allows for only this,
all I will accomplish today.
Our morning walk,
a drop of rain for remembrance,
how delicate we are,
how lovely we are,
and how we are all One.
May we take care of her,
this beautiful Earth of ours,
for she is generous in her benevolence.
Happy Earth Day.

 

 

Author’s Note:

Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo:

“Last but not least, here is our prompt for the day (optional, as always). In honor of Earth Day, I’d like to challenge you to write a georgic. The original georgic poem was written by Virgil, and while it was ostensibly a practical and instructional guide regarding agricultural concerns, it also offers political commentary on the use of land in the wake of war. The georgic was revived by British poets in the eighteenth century, when the use of land was changing both due to the increased use of enlightenment farming techniques and due to political realignments such as the union of England, Scotland, and Wales.

Your Georgic could be a simple set of instructions on how to grow or care for something, but it could also incorporate larger themes as to how land should be used (or not used), or for what purposes.”

Milk Glass

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Day Eighteen

 

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Little you, that piece
of you, first bud
on lilac’s branch,
will bloom forth
without burden.

Little you, that
sadness you hold,
a milk glass trifle
of memory past,
will fade.

Little you, those
tears, rainlets to wash
away abandoned hope,
sun faithfully dawns.

Little you, you are
as vital as the least
imperceptible cell
and the most
eloquent planet.

Little you, rejoice
in you, for you are
perfect, simply
by your creation.

And that is all
that matters.

 

Author’s Note:

Not following the prompt today, but borrowing a word. Thank you, Vandana Bhasin.

Moving Day

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Day One

 

Movers heft a couch
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to make it fit,
a place to sit
when one
is done.

Rain sustains
and softens dry
earth left
too often
under winter’s sun
as drops bless
each one while
they move
from truck to door,
and back again
once more.

On moving day
new beginnings
meet, again and again,
little neat
soldiers shown
marching off to
unknown precincts.

A new drawer to
fill with old, and still
the movers make
their way under
bold gray billows, to
and fro.

We start afresh,
a month, a home,
thresholds to cross at
each ingress.

Eyes wide
open, at least we
imagine, and
through we go
to sow new
seeds with
unblemished
inhaled breath
in accordance
with every
immutable
death.

Author’s Note:

From NaPoWriMo:

“Today’s interview is with Kay Ryan, whose spare, tightly-rhymed work makes each poem a small, witty, philosophical puzzle. You can find more background on Ryan’s life and work here, and read one of her poems here.

And finally, our (optional) prompt. In honor of today’s interviewee, I’d like to challenge you to write a Kay-Ryan-esque poem: short, tight lines, rhymes interwoven throughout, maybe an animal or two, and, if you can manage to stuff it in, a sharp little philosophical conclusion.”

 

Amalgamation

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And Old Rock Man
titling to sleep, slack jawed,
eyes hallow, blue lichen
dotting rims and ridges,
I hear him laugh while years
speed as he attends, baked
under sun, iced with snow,
quenched in spring drizzle

Open palmed, eyes closed,
I feel the patter of your elfin
droplets yield their kisses,
then race to become more than I
can grasp, finally a watercourse
running through my fingers
unable to bear your presence

While braggarts and buffoons
hold court on stages
dealing fear to anyone
who will take the draw

But you and I ask,
seek and find the open door
where you and I and Old Rock Man
dance under skies harboring
moon’s extravagance and
stars’ wildness as rain
washes us away

.
.
.

Author’s Note:

 

These weeks roll on.

And I wonder what the outcome of this political season of fear will produce.

But there is always hope, tenderness in the smallest of gestures.

In the madness of this week I was presented with a gift. There was a sweet and gentle apology that maybe it should have been more colorful and soft, maybe sparkly. But what was given is rough and worn, aged with wisdom.

It holds ancient stories.

It’s been a while since I’ve regularly visited Sunday scripture readings. For this Sunday I again find that the words surround me with pain and fear, all of that which I chose to leave behind. But as I dig through, I find the much needed balm. Maybe the simple voice that needs to be heard through all the words, the words that declare we are sinners. Within peaks out the real nugget. From Sodom and Gomorrah to transgressions and uncircumcised flesh all the way to the final test and selfishness, somewhere within all that hurtful dressing, I find the wisdom of our ancient but ever present shaman, Jesus.

I must open my heart enough to set my agenda aside and simply ask for what I need. When I ask, I surrender myself. I depend on Someone else. I wash my hands of trying to do it all, to be perfect. I let down my guard, release ego from its post, relax into Spirit’s arms. And once I am there, with a great deep inhale filling my lungs to capacity and then blowing out my designs, I make room for truth. I clear the smoke to be able to see.

I am loved, always have been, always will be.

I don’t need the facade of dressing up. I don’t need the filling of my ego’s bottomless cup from other sources or even with my own deeds.

I am simply enough.

Rough and worn and a bit ragged, but wiser for the wear. And stories to tell, ancient and wonderful.

May you reach to the ancients
for our Wisdom, digging
through the trappings
to find our Beautiful Mystery.

May you reach into your heart
for there is our Light shining
to illuminate our way together.

May you reach to another’s hand,
join the dance with those
who have gone before on a path
well worn but resplendent and
wide enough for all.

Amen. Amen. Amen.

Happy Full Moon Blessings,

Lexanne

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Amalgamation Choir | Live at the Library – Ksenitia tou Erota

Today

There is weight in the word “carry”11216587_10206478118263683_3028741297045237260_n
exhaustion, a heaviness that heaves a sigh

Today I set down my garden
Oh, not completely, never completely

I will let beds unto themselves, allow a give
and take of seasons passing

I will empty pots, crumbled and
weathered over years of trusted work

I will carry simplicity and nurture
abundance only within my reach

Today I set down past hurt, yes,
no need to make room for such folly

I cannot amend ghosts who
ride beside me, whispering their call

I set down their reins, release the
tether, no longer will I carry

Today I set down my fear
a weighted bundle of nihility

I will preside in the here and now
in light of day, depth of night

I will smile of me and in gratitude
of grace sweetly poured

I will walk with you and with those
I am given, animal and insect, too

 

Today I will set down my titles
for I am sixty and begin anew

 

I will let wind name me
I will let rain purify me
I will let earth ordain me
I will let sun commission me

 

May I carry that which gives life
May I carry thanksgiving in my stride
May I carry Light for my path

 

Amen. Amen. Amen.