Ekphrastic Poetry · Poem · Poetry

Unless We Pray

The Coyote chases prey

its fur, matted where it lay

The Clown holds court and

the law is left to sway

as though he won’t have his day

The Trickster is King

and havoc he will bring

as we succumb to lay

much like cattle down on hay

The Jackal cackles

as the Dingo takes the babes

to slay

All Hail

All Hail

There’s nothing left to say

Unless we pray that

the Chariot comes our way.

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©Barbara Harris Leonhard@extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Images: pixabay.com

Ekphrastic Poetry · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry · Writing

The Sound of Silence

Listening for silence

Is like living with tinnitus.

The ears ringing resounding notes.

Chicks chirping for food.

Roosters crowing their warnings.

The chorus of frogs mating.

Cicadas rejoicing

In their summer release

From years of birthing

In their earth womb.

Released, they scream their tunes

Playing their tymbals for mates. 

The sound of silence.

It is the eternal now of song. 

It is creation.

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©Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Featured Digital Image: © “Silence” Martha Harris

Martha’s other image here is “I’m Listening”.

See Martha’s Artistic Flarings@artisticflarings.blog

 

My Mother · Poem · Poetry

Picking Blueberries with Mom

On hot summer Michigan days,

Mom loved picking wild blueberries.

We would be on that promised trip to the beach of Lake Superior

When suddenly our plans would change

At the sight of wild patches of blueberries

In a meadow drenched in searing sun.

We would leave the car by the dusty road and

Barrel out for her sake to scatter in the patches.

Truthfully, berry picking was not my love.

I thought we were heading one place

Only to be sidetracked by this venture.

Our trip to the lake, postponed.

Yet Mom took to the field like a young girl,

Her smock stained blue and her lips made ready

For purple kisses.

While I kept watch on the tree lines for hungry bears,

She lost herself in the foraging, requiring us to gather

What we could in our shirts.

My back ached as I did this work, and

I impatiently waited to be on our way

To seek some relief in cool lake water

Away from bees, mosquitoes and flies.

Yet Mom looked rejuvenated by her adventure.

She sang as she picked, her tunes resounding as prayers.

I didn’t realize blueberries were regenerative,

Bringing forth blessings and eternal optimism our way.

Mom was radiant as she harvested this bounty,

As though recapturing the time when

Her mother took her to her first blueberry patch,

Where she learned a way to halt time

And sing in meadows.

 

©Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Image: pixabay.com