Sunday Poem # 9
Hiro Boga | November 8th, 2009
SERENADE
Feet planted in mud, cinnamon silt and sand
I rise to you through wavering green water.
Through blooms of algae, tangled weeds, I rise
unfold in the arbor of your tendrilled sun.
I rise, sweet breath of life, to you,
Breathe your fragrant air. Rooted
in tangles of despair I rise, sweet singer,
to your song, and all my yearning
yields to the height, breadth
and depth of you. I rise, great bard, to you.
And in that meeting-place of pond and sky
my I dissolves in your light—
boundless, boundless welcome.
…………………………………
(It was great to read your poems last Sunday. Join me again today and share your poems in Comments. Poetry brings us together in a community of hearts. Yes!)
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Hiro, your poem reminded me of this little morsel from yoga teacher Francois Raoult:
The salt child walked further and further into the water of the great Ocean, dissolving with each step and at the end exclaimed: “Ah, now I know who I am!”
Lianne, thanks for this beautiful quote from Francois Raoult. I love the image of the salt child walking into the ocean, dissolving with each step!
Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem # 9
This is such a wonderful, healing gift, Hiro. I love the way poetry connects and expands us. This came from several years ago, before my mother died and my dad got cancer. Memories also heal.
Where I Come From
I come from rotting bean vine mountains
my dog and I scale,
siphon tubes,
black beetles fleeing water.
I come from 5 cent cokes in the park,
Spinach ripped by hail
for my dad to replant.
I come from bread in the oven,
my mom dancing and singing in the kitchen,
from “Ladies don’t say ‘shut up’”
(Be quiet is appropriate),
from hot dust between my toes,
steering the tractor from my dad’s lap,
hiding in the wheat field.
I come from salting ice
around 4th of July ice cream,
pine towers and stream-chilled watermelon,
endless books, daydreams,
All carried in my bones
even when I forget to remember.
Lynne Tolk´s last post … Ever Integrating
Lynne, what a wonderfully vivid world you’ve conjured into being in this poem. I hear so much of what makes you you, as I listen to your memories. Thank you for sharing them in this beautiful poem!
Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem # 9