Tag Archives: nature

Love Lessons: A talk with Dr. Bernie S. Siegel and Cynthia J. Hurn


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Filed under Announcements, Editorial, Non-Fiction, Spiritual wisdom, Uncategorized

Nature


May-June 2007 039
Turned me inside out
Lush hedgerows, blossoms bursting
Beauty’s soul exposed

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Filed under Haiku, Poetry, Uncategorized

Meditation on Moving On


At Keystone Café, the radio plays

and words of a song from the sixties pierce my coffee-bred thoughts:

Always something there to remind me…

Trying to forget, I know this world is but a dream

a temporary mirror of the other

that place where you and I reside in eternity

mere cells within the One Great Plan

where time has no meaning

and words don’t exist

and love is a given

Yet here, amongst dog rose and lupin

she, open and pink

and he, closed and blue

we became like them – rooted in sand

surrounded by stones and their stories

drinking summer grey mists

on salt water taffy mornings

but rose petals fade and lupins shrivel

their seedpods of black

hanging like coffins

Right now

in this moment

eagle perches for the view

and fish dance

and gulls dive for the feast

and cry

this is mine

All the while

the ferry inhales and exhales passengers

like a heart-lung machine

a blood bank of journeys

a breaker of waves that crosses the synaptic sea

and, locked into terminal, transmits

holders of keys to neurons

In bursts of energy

flowing down rivers of roads

streams of pulsing potential

these elements of the greater intelligence

try to carry its message

this for the arms that yearn to hold

that for the aching walk-alone legs

and yesterday’s broken dream becomes

one Sunday transformed

A poem is born in words that don’t rhyme

as the radio plays another song:

Can’t you hear the pounding of my heartbeat,

You’re the one I love…

Holding the mirror close, all I see is my own breath

and waves that drill the shore in a tumbling roll

while the ocean remains constant

and eagle takes flight

 

Submitted to:

onesingleimpression.blogspot.com

poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/poetrypantry

sundayscribblings.blogspot.com

 

 

 

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Filed under Poetry

Reincarnation


#1

Dead drifted wood

Harboring frost

Dreaming ghost branches

#2

Rising sun warms

Crystal meditation

Awakened water flows

#3

Earth thirst quenched

Knowledge released

 Memories take root

~

submitted to:

Jingle’s Poetry Picnic prompt: Spring

Thursday Poet’s Rally  – Wk 60

dVerse Poets prompt – Imagery

Haiku Heights – Gem

27 Comments

Filed under Haiku, Poetry

This Is Who I Am


To be a writer

is like being two atoms that dance with one

Hydrogen playing with Oxygen

moving with scintillating, procreating fluidity

a disciplined yet unchained pattern

until the quadrille

slows down

and stands

with hardly a breath

transforming into crystals,

each one a unique expression

of water being frost

rock being mountain

or wind being ripples on river’s skin

like human being body, emotion and thought

like me, turning molecules of mind into words

dancing the rounds and rhythms,

pulling sounds and meanings like taffy;

stretching, tempting, and loving the sweetness

of post-rain petrichor, poetry and story-being-born.

Discipline is all it takes;

it’s only a matter of focused attention.

All the while my faucet drips

a metronome playing Chopin’s Funeral March.

It echoes against the cold hard tub: Dum Dum da Dum,

Dum da Dum da Dum da Dum…

A suitable march for somber scenes

or penned phrases that smirk.

Do you remember Mommy’s funeral?

When we weren’t supposed to laugh?

Suddenly, simple things such as a lady’s hat

black and wide

a saucer-shaped ride for snow,

turned resignation and sorrow into nonsense,

amplified our sighs into unstoppable giggles,

and hoots escaped from our throats

bouncing off gravestones

and falling like stars of grief-relief.

We stood there, two children hugging themselves

trying to appear with socially-acceptable sadness

behavior more suited to the tragic event.

We failed.

Laughter, glorious laughter

like a toad released in a classroom of nuns

shocked the mourners and freed us.

Mourners shifted in confusion

at our emancipation.

Surely we weren’t glad that Mommy died?

No more bed pans

No more sheets and laundry

Not one more morning of waking up wondering

if she’s dead

or still dying…

Is that faucet still dripping?

It is.

Handel’s Water Suite No 2

now skipping like tigger in my tub

bouncy, boisterous and… happy.

In the yellow pages under Plumbers, I find Scotty.

I call and ask him for a quote.

He knows my rented cottage

I forgot that this is an island,

a community of small and intimate

where no sparrow falls without everyone knowing

just as no bath leaks

nor pipes crack

nor drain becomes clogged

without Scottie fixing it

I need more than a washer, he says,

to stop this rhythmic dripping that disturbs my work.

Receiving his quote, I discover that words come cheap

but plumbing doesn’t.

His repair will cost me a whole chapter

including the edits.

Handel’s happy notes begin to grow on me.

Staying in the moment, I hear another pattern

an attitude – a practice of choice – an epiphany.

A drip or a sound need not be my nemesis

instead it is a setting; fire and fuel for my work.

I listen to the rhythms, inhale them, accept them into my being

Words commune and bond with water

dancing the dance of intention

while I, in glorious birth,

exist again and again and again

bonder of sights, sounds, heart and soul

in crystal-forming discipline

becoming what I already am

and so

I write

~

Submitted to Poetry Palace’s Thursday Rally:

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/2012/01/agreement-for-poets-rally-week-60.html

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Love-Hate Relationship


I share it with my aged dog

and with the skunk who flavors the night

outside our bedroom window,

with the gardeners who sit on the lawn

eating knapsack lunches of red thermos soups

and coffee with enchiladas and chicken wings,

and with my neighbor who cries after dark

only a screen and her loneliness between us,

and with thick-skinned shrubs by the door,

and with my writer’s desk – the patio table

that serves in all weathers except those below frost,

with the tissue that catches my sneezing results,

with roofs, gutters and condo paths

and black-paved neighborhood drives,

and with drains that carry the showered flour

of green and yellow wind-bourn dust,

I share the fare of reproduction

unplanned and promised tomorrows

from insect-assisted procreation,

wiping it off my laptop keys

washing it from swollen eyes

and coughing in irritation

yet…

all the time

loving what it brings – trees,

leaves, grass, bark and blossoms,

spring green and summer gold

and autumn, crazy and colored,

taking only the winter to rest, until

up the nose it goes again

this love-hate relationship with

Pollen

 

Pollen photos courtesy of Google images

Shared on Imperfect Prose

 http://canvaschild.blogspot.com/search?q=imperfect+prose

And: Theme Thursday:

 http://themethursday.blogspot.com/

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Introspection


What if I were God

and you were just a part of me?

 You, the corn on the bottom of my foot

an irritation that hurt when I walked

Would I rub you out with an emery board

or clip you off, and drop you on the floor

then sweep your bits under the rug?

What if I were God

 and you, a breast that disappointed

by being too small, too flat, too thin

Would I slice you open, fill you with gel

and hoist you into a wire-rim

then strut you around – my parceled goods?

What if I were God

 and you, a beggar who walked my street

a living reminder of There-But-For-Fortune

Would I cast my eyes the opposite way

and pretend you didn’t exist

then demand the police move you on?

What if I were God

 and you, a kidnapped slave taken for sex

hidden from laws, devalued as human scum

Would I say it was up to you to fight back

that you should have known better

than to walk alone at night?

 What if I were God

and you were part of me?

 Would I love you?

 

 For Poetry Potluck Monday: http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/

23 Comments

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Discussion of author Annie Dillard, Nature and The Writing Life


Annie Dillard walked by my side when I lived on the northernmost tip of Vancouver Island in 1975. My isolation was no less than hers, although I was surrounded by people: loggers, fishermen, trappers, hunters, chefs, waiters and a bar full of whiskey that I was in charge of. During my hours off-work, I hid in a cove down by the harbor, or I went to the dump to be entertained by the bears. Always, Annie came with me. “Pilgrim at Tinker Creek” gave me everything a solitary girl needed. Her words were my refuge, my delight, my confusion, my comfort. When I think of the six months in Port Hardy, I think of Annie.

“The Writing Life” is full of her parables: a man who rowed against the current until the current changed and brought him home; chopping at alder logs like a crazed woman until she learned to chop through the wood and the logs relented; watching Rahm roll his stunt plane through the air, making beautiful patterns like the precise blue-green swallow, and learning that it was all about sticking with the rhythm and paying attention to the lighting. All her stories trap the reader’s attention and pull them in until they realize she’s teaching about writing.  It makes me wonder if Annie has ever written about anything else. Aren’t all her books, when you get down to her basic message, about the writer’s life?

Annie secludes herself. She goes where she cannot be distracted by the usual daily din, finds a small, often cold and somewhat dark, shack of a room to write in. She tells me to “spend it all; play it, lose it, all, right away, every time.” She warns me not to hoard a good phrase for a later time, for in the hoarding act, it will be lost. It must be freely given, she says, reminding me of what my Dad used to tell me, “Nothing is yours until you give it away.”  She bids me to “examine all things intensely and relentlessly. Probe and search each object in a piece of art.”  She describes watching parallel rows of ocean waves breaking up, as if they were “reproducing the sensation of reading, but without reading’s sense.” (Brilliant, Annie – just brilliant observation!)

Annie wrote a whole chapter in one and a half pages. She warns that the writer’s life is wrought with danger – especially when the writer leaves the work. She uses an erupting typewriter and her struggle to prevent the room from catching fire as the only scene/event in the chapter. Her final statement, instead of giving explanation, assured the reader that though she’s had no trouble with it since, she knows it can happen. She never says if it ever really did happen, (she might have dreamt it), or whether she invented the whole scene as a metaphor for the labor a writer goes through, only to face complete destruction.  It doesn’t even matter that we don’t know. She pulls off another parable, so powerful, that it took less than 2 pages to leave me contemplating the scene for half an hour, playing with her words and wondering what gave her the courage or even the idea, to write a whole chapter in five short paragraphs and teach a lesson about sticking with it no matter what.

I love you, Annie.  Show me that trick again.

I want to tell Annie my parables; about the bears I watched, and how I learned that you have to respect the mother. I want to show her how the rescued bird looked out for his brother and saved him from starving. I want to show her how the English robin’s hunger, keen sense of hearing, and his successful hunt convinced me that I could return to America and make a new life out of nothing. I wonder, when Annie ponders the world she secludes herself in, does she have a question in mind that nature answers? Or does she gaze and observe until nature teaches her the question? Perhaps the result of every writer’s work is in reality nature’s own act of learning.

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Filed under Non-Fiction, Uncategorized

Goosedown Sky


 

White feathers sail on blue

like the summer moult on Commons Pond

pillow stuffing for winter angels

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Pond at Dawn on July 4th


Four ducks, in simultaneous flip

Pure white bellies upon  dark pond surface

Bottoms up in morning salute

Photo courtesy of Canon Digital Photography Forums

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Filed under Haiku, Poetry, Uncategorized