Poem: The Egg


I found myself a purple egg

under clustered chatting trees

Filled with birds

taking flight

for lands I’d like to be

They fly a thousand miles

through heights of dizzy air

And down below

I wander lost

on roads of dusty gravel

The dirt is kicked

and shoes are soiled

dry heart cracked and broken

But then one day

when hope was lost

and trees were silent cold

Upon the ground

below a nest

a gift rolled oddly near

The shape so smooth

its oval walls

and color lilac paint

What lives within this object

why did it choose to fall

A purple egg

left behind

when flock has flown so far

It gently seemed to come

to me

walking down this sandy trail

Left behind apparently

this treasure sits so still

Fragile castle what do you hold

inside your bony shell

Gently then I pick it up

knowing we are meant to be

Holding it in my tender hands

this purple globe

is life

and when it cracks and looks about

then we will both be

set free

 

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Poem Art: The Sentry


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Years of giving

torn from the skinned Birch

to carry others

across rushing waters

while naked the Tree remains

rooted

watching

as the world walks away

Not listening

to the endless clawing on Jesus arms

the sucking tendrils

that have grown up

twisting themselves around

the age-old rings of Her heart

Move on! Move on!

whispering through the thousand hands

waving goodbyes to those

that left her standing

still

and siphoning life from

dirty earth thrown down

around Her

Immobile

a sentry seasoned with sight

the beacon to set others

on their way

But forever bound and grounded

in the place she chose

to be born

 

 

 

Just Right


“In the right place, under the right conditions, you can finally stretch out into what you are supposed to be. ” — Lab Girl by Hope Jahren

 

How long do we wait for the right place and the right conditions? It may seem to some of us that we take a long time to stretch out; that we spend much of our lives contorted and bursting apart just to come together again. I have.

The right conditions seem to involve some sort of special magic; a particular brew that mixes together to concoct the spell where the microcosm in which we move feels easy and the skin that we wear no longer needs tailoring.

Some folks that we meet seem to have been born with this magic as they whirl around with the twinkling Universe hovering nearby. But most of us aren’t so lucky. Some of us seek it, but I see now this maybe isn’t how it works. It may be more like how a seed turns into a tree. It’s just dumb luck. It just waits encased in its shell until all the conditions are perfect and then bursts forth into the world.

But most don’t get this far.

Maybe I’ve just tried too hard to make everything happen. Can I be more like that seed? Just quietly sitting on the forest floor gathering the magic conditions to crack me open. Will I be one of the lucky ones?

And once I am that wonderful entity, crawling with life and fluttering with each breath of wind, my roots firmly reaching in all directions: then I will know I am who I am supposed to be.

Poem: Stillness


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In stillness

times when I sat

hushed under ancient pines

back brushed up against wizened skin

small

yet safe

cradled silently

beneath an immobile mammoth

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In stillness

near a whispering brook

whose words spoke sense

when nothing else could

they drifted past

in bubbles of music

floating by

in ripples of spray

to be caught in moments

of calm

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And in stillness

sitting upon the hill

with warmth from above

creatures close by

and sharing the peace

near by voices are small

and my belly is round

while the world is spinning beyond

In stillness

In stillness

It lies

 

 

 

Poem: Bull Pine


I sat beneath the bull pine

When all the other kids were off

Its warm rough skin comforting my city kid back

Looking up through the sun slit glinting

We promised to care for each other

The cups of water tenderly carried

Making sure the roots were fed

And my quiet moments in returnr

The yet unknown parts of me

That longed for this peace

Took drinks of solitude

From the cup offered

By the spirit of the tree

 

 

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Poem : Rings


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Count the rings
The mounting miles curl round
Concentric circles
Piling on top of each other
With splintered sanity

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Burning wings
Flying too close to the sun
Butterfly
All the disguises
Through life

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Crossing
Constantly
From within to face value
Here to there
To nowhere

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It is finally ahead
Years in the making
That place up ahead
Which is now
Filled with peace

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Pick a poignant path
Walk with the next phase of your life
It’s fresh and clear
And will open new horizons