morning wakes
while a warm stretch
of sunlight crosses the room
to sweetly caress--
as morning sighs
a sleepy breath,
flowering in its soul.
Morning Wakes
Category: healing
Seals
At the edge of a known world
where sapphire sea meets an emerald surf
seals emerge in greeting
just feet from where I stand.
I did discover an absolute
in a moment of childlike wonder:
All things thought unattainable,
never to be found--
perhaps, even undeserved--
exist in the joy
at the edge of the sea.
Rose Bushes
I have always had rose bushes. My mother’s rosebushes so overgrown, hedges really, filled with beautiful red blooms and thick inch long thorns, waiting for a chance to shred away skin. Then my own before I was twenty-two. White ones. Planted on either side of the front door of a house in Baltimore. I let a piece of me die in that house yet the roses thrived. Then, in Texas. Yes, roses there too. Puny things. No lush leaves. No huge blooms. Black spot, fungus, rot always a battle. Vine like branches, filled with thousands of razor slicing thorns, thirsting for my blood when I came near to fertilize or water or with pruning shears. But today, in the high mountain desert, I took a chainsaw to the rose bushes. Buzzed them down to nothing but nubs. Roses do not belong here in this dry terrain. Thorns and a waste of water, the price to pay for no real return. I placed their thick, disconnected thorn filled limbs into doubled up lawn bags, and their thorny weapons, still thirsting for a taste of blood, stabbed at me as I carried the bag of bundled limbs to the trash bin. Some, of the toxic smiling kind, might say, “Look to the blossoms Not the thorns.” Easy to say if you’ve never seen, never felt the shredding thorns can do. Thus, I remove the shredding beauty here in the mountain desert, choosing beauty of a better kind.
Of Stones and Weeds
I could rake these stones. Free these tiny weeds which my feeble fingers fumble to grab and tweeze out. Yes, with a rake, I could disturb the harmony of stones, free the weeds— But no. I have had enough of stones. I’ve enough of their weight placed upon me. I’ve carried the tonnage of stone from place to place, lived under it, barely breathing through years, lived decades encased within a sarcophagus of other’s demands and expectations, all shattered now in lovely shards left in the distance behind me. No, I will leave these stones undisturbed. They will not take up my time. There are other ways to weed, and should the weeds take the stones, there is beauty to be found in the wildness of weeds.
Your Wings
Dreams fulfilled and abandoned, the wistful whimsical ones of fantasy-- Tears fallen, dried long ago, leaving salt crusts behind, and those never allowed to fall-- The skins of selves I used to be the wounded and scarred the shrunken down inside her skin the sacrificial to survival-- Take these things I freely give, adding all my wishes my dreams my hopes for you. Next, Add all you want, all you dream, all you desire, wish for and hope for in your life Then weave of them a chrysalis bout yourself to cushion and protect as you grow into your own skin. Leave your chains of fear, your yoke of worries with me. I will bury them deep inside my chest. When you emerge, your wings wet and beautiful, you may perch upon the branch of pride growing from my soul to flex and flutter your wings until dry enough to fly, beautiful as you have always been, never to shrink or curl away your wings again.
The Dirt of Chimayo
As if you erupted
from an eternal spring,
an immortal thing,
I gave you away
when last I prayed
here at Chimayo.
When kneeling
I scooped the healing dirt
as I spoke silent prayers of thanks
for my heart bravely facing
shocks of resuscitation
after years spent
barely beating
in stuttering grief.
Upon return today,
I kneel to scoop
the healing dirt,
asking in silent prayer
a blessing of forgiveness
for giving you away
too easily—
thus, killing you,
bleeding you of all hope,
beyond resurrection,
beyond resuscitation.
In the dirt of Chimayo,
this healing earth,
from this place of faith,
sifted through my hands,
I bury you, a mortal thing,
I gave away too easily
to an undeserving faith,
in this dirt of Chimayo.
Plantings
I tire of seeing memes about having a positive attitude and choosing one’s feelings plastered
social media. It is no surprise our young people are in the midst of a mental health crisis when constantly bombarded with messages telling them, in essence, “The only reason you are sad is because you are making the choice to be sad,” or, (one of my favorites for sabotaging anyone’s self esteem) “You have a choice to make your day wonderful or not.” While such simplistic messages are well meaning, I believe they are sometimes extremely toxic. After all, what if your parent died on that day? Did you make the choice to have a horrible day? What if you go home to a toxic abusive environment? How can you choose to make your day wonderful? So before reposting those wonderful positive messages on social media, let’s all take a step back and think about what we are really saying to someone who may be going through something or in an environment where there is no choice in the matter but to feel what he or she feels. Let’s send messages that say it’s okay to feel what you feel and acknowledge it and to take time to feel it all,so something can be gained from it—a lesson, a positive action taken, whatever it may be, so we know our suffering was not for naught. Hence, this piece.
I gathered my despair,
my tears, my losses, all my grief.
Sat with each,
held them close,
let them dry,
waiting for spring.
When the ground warms,
softening, ready for tilling,
I will plant my despair,
sow my tears,
plough rows for my losses,
dig a hole deep enough to hold all my grief.
In the turning of time,
from the shrubs of my despair,
I will snip flowers and herbs
for healing others.
From the vines of my tears,
I will pluck the fruits and vegetables
to pile upon the table for all who need.
From the fields of my losses,
I will reap the harvest grain
to store for when a time of need arrives.
Finally, from the tree of all I grieve.
I will pick the sweetest fruit
of memory.
Crumbs
Inspired by this line from Mary Oliver
Feast not too often on meager crumbs of joy,
fallen haphazardly from someone else’s table.
Thinking yourself filled, sated,
you will find yourself crouching, smiling,
lowering your head to be patted by the hand
that cares nothing for you.
Then, when beaten back from the table,
you will scuttle away crouching low,
spirit yielding to fear.
But rise, rise then, standing—
staring eye to eye.
Lift your head and turn,
walk to new horizons.
There, build a table all your own
where you feast wholeheartedly
upon the delightful dishes of joy
you create,
inviting others to share.
Each one partaking in as much joy
as can be held
at your table
where no one
need feast on crumbs.
Endlessness
https://godoggocafe.com/2022/06/21/tuesday-writing-prompt-challenge-june-21-2022/
Todays prompt: Begin a poem with “endless”
Endless winds rustling
Through leaves baked a thin crisp green
By summer’s noon sun.
Endless wilting flowers
Reaping words of empty dust
Sands away meaning.
Endless hope sprouts blooms
In the dry cracked refuge of earth
A survival scented thing.
An Autumnal Baptism
Caught in the evening downpour, I am washed clean of summer. Summer’s red rock, red dirt dreams Sluiced from me with this autumnal drenching. Morning greets me with a cool hand Of sunshine upon my brow. Autumn whispers of a harvest Under skies of bluest topaz. A clear, clean, honest reaping In days yet to be had.
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 