Sunday Poem #6
In the country of the heart the baby rabbit sleeps
shaded by Eagle’s wings
sheltered from noonday sun
Fierce and tender held
in the same thudding heartbeat
the pulse that carries, the beat that rides
Surging sea and star-flung sky
silent budding earth
firebright, starbright, spilled-ink moon
Listen
The world leans to this whisper
Listen
The wind releases its cry
Listen
The Beloved’s breath in your ear
Shhhhhh . . . listen
…………………………………………………..
(As always, Sunday is Share-a-Poem Day at the Flourishing Muse. Share your poems and stories in Comments. Let’s celebrate the lusciousness of the heart’s language together.)
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even in the darkness
the asphalt shines
hopeful and longing
for the day
street lamps reflecting
in the gathered rain below
pockets of water flow
into one another
the wind stirs
the maples trees
from their slumber
quiet songs
winding
their way
through
we are waiting
the rain and I
for the morning
waiting for the light
to spill slowly
across the sky
until the last trace
of night
fades
~
la tyson
When I consider how my life is spent
The omnipresent in a point confined,
I think of how my aching back is bent,
How cataracts are making both eyes blind.
I look at arms that once, not long ago
Could lift with ease two hundred pounds or more,
Yet now can’t lift a chair or shovel snow
Without a stabbing pain not felt before.
Such powers I had to focus hand and mind;
As craftsman, teacher, writer, athlete I
Could work with ease at many tasks combined.
What use these powers as strength and vision die?
And yet, one thing I know whate’er befalls
I am the Temple’s God and not its walls.
This poem is about an island that I love to visit, which is situated in Loch Lomond and was the home of St Kentigerna. It feels like a deeply spiritual place to me, and I often dream of walking the paths that wind their way through the oak forested isle. An immensely special place.
Inchcailloch
Before my face,
the butterflies,
dancing between sunshine and sunshade,
share in the joy of each step.
soar in the rise of each dawn.
sway in the breath of each breeze.
As I am drawn onwards and inwards
to the heart of the myth.
to the heart of the isle.
to the heart of myself.
Beneath bare feet,
the rich dark earth,
malleable with persistent mists,
responds to the shape of each sole.
replies to the depth of each print.
relates to the height of each hope.
As I am drawn onwards and inwards
to the heart of the myth.
to the heart of the isle.
to the heart of myself.
Beyond my flaws,
Kentigerna,
offering sweet, serene sanctuary,
bestirs in the sleep of my soul.
begins in the breadth of my being.
belongs in the flame of my love.
As I am drawn onwards and inwards
to the heart of the myth.
to the heart of the isle.
to the heart of myself.
.-= amypalko´s last post … A Birthday Less Ordinary =-.
I’m blown away by the beauty and depth of these poems. Thank you so much, Leigh-Anne, Douglas, Amy. What a rich, Sunday morning feast!
Love, Hiro
.-= Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #6 =-.
Where the Exchange Occurs
At the intersection of Hawthorne and Linden Avenues
Memory bounces in the unnaturally yellow tennis ball
70′s era girl scout uniform dangles from a red hanger
“On my honor, I will try” lives in the “11″ troop label as
Death in red leaves fall from the Maple’s aging arm
Her fingers check my pulse, ears listen, eyes
praying for anything except this spacious silence
Without a pillow, I beg for the next ending, anything
except… Paradox, its meeting point where the exchange occurs
for meanness is them, not me, my job is to stay me like a
barren tree, leafless, somehow full of protective life at
my feet, grounded, rooted, below the path separated by
Hunger’s emptiness isn’t an insistent Audrey 2 “Feed me!!!”
Wrap it in whatever meaning you elect I notice, I see
her hair is a slip knot riding snugly against her neck
Claw foot pedestal table holds up her elbows I watch
wondering, curious, last night’s question still hanging
like the uniform dangling from the plastic red hanger
anachronism, out of sorts, out of time, a blizzard
of thoughts cover my sand buried toes
my legs, looking like marble reflecting moon rays
I settle back, tucking my red purse beneath my head
Someone will cover me with a colorful quilt when I am cold
sparkles
of light
dancing across the waves
i turn my face
up
to the sun
to the Light
and laugh
.-= elizabeth´s last post … feeding fear =-.
From a Jar of Air
Marbles and bells
time
worn
listen and feel
how they travel along the crease
to iron the fabric left by hunger
by war and irreverence
magic to air and land
dirty and dented hope
tumbled and warn
with tint of frolic and peace
gather a treasure from one small boy’s pocket
then listen any Sunday
As I said I might, I’ve recorded an audio of my poem as I felt the rhythm and repetitions were probably better suited to the spoken rather than the written word. I hope you enjoy: http://tinyurl.com/inchcailloch
Amy
xx
.-= amypalko´s last post … Inchcailloch =-.
Thanks, Amy! I’m off to listen to it now. :-)
.-= Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #6 =-.
I love the peoms Amy. Thanks for sharing.
.-= Lochlomondo´s last post … Tullie Inn Balloch =-.