Enter into gratitude! Happy Thanksgiving!
Photo: ©Dierik Leonhard
Month: November 2019
Hope was Not a Loss – Barbara Leonhard — FREE VERSE REVOLUTION
My body was a cage With only eyes for doors. My arms, contorted, Like branches twisted in shadows. Voices, hollow sounds, Called from the dinner table, but My legs, dead trunks, Held me to a bed With a view to other children. How they danced, Like pansies and violets, Their blooms outstretched, Gathering rays […]
via Hope was Not a Loss – Barbara Leonhard — FREE VERSE REVOLUTION
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Labyrinth
This is a loop poem with the rhyme scheme of ab, cc, defg, hh, ii, jklm, nn, oo.
Some days I just want to be alone
alone with my soul and sacred things
sacred things like collages, crystals and prayers
prayers holding grace up heavenly stairs
stairs that wind higher into vast space
space is the matrix of light and dark matter
matter enfolds all dimensions and souls
souls resound songs of different vibrations
vibrations shimmer with tones in the light
light flares rich hues from the dark to the bright
bright is the source of all in creation
creation is God/ Goddesses awesome play station
Playstation sells games that aren’t on my shelves
shelves are my places for books and dear treasures
treasures hold gold in my heart and my home
home is the place I escape all life tensions
tensions create anxiety and fear
fear is a captor that’s not of good cheer
cheer is the reason I remain in the sacred
sacred time with my soul will never be wasted.
©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog
Digital Image: ‘Labyrinth’ ©Martha Harris, Martha’s Artistic Flarings, artisticflarings.blog
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Tao Play
When they come to the temple,
they are but broken warriors,
seeking redemption
in Tao play.
They enter the temple gates
out of the shadows of their lives
in the light of the sun
rising on the horizon.
They are vessels receiving and
giving sustenance from the ball of life that
lifts them out of their birth place and
roots them to solid ground.
Taking their positions,
they center in Wuji,
spread and cool the white crane’s wings, and
grasp the sparrow’s tail.
They take to quarrels
with monkeys and prevail,
warding off their fears and sending them
flying with swords and fans.
They find the balance
in all Forms, which,
when done to perfection,
will make them immortal.
Rev. 10/7/2019 from an earlier version on WordPress in June 2017.
©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver,blog
Art Doll: Inessa Morelock
Yin/Yang Image: Lisa Ryan
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Sunday Best: Cocoon — FREE VERSE REVOLUTION
I feel honored my poem “Cocoons” was one of the top three submissions this week. Most grateful! Check out the other great entries and follow Free Verse Revolution for other opportunities to feature your work.
Dear reader, Thank you for all of your support this week; the stats have been booming and so much love has been shown to this week’s contributors. If you missed anything, catch up below: Tuesday – Jimmi Campkin Wednesday – Yacoob Manjoo Thursday – L. E. Friday – Basilike Pappa Saturday – Bojana Stojcic This […]
via Sunday Best: Cocoon — FREE VERSE REVOLUTION
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A Fine Coat
Grief is a tailor.
Each garment made to suit,
buttons attached each year,
hems altered,
seams made strong by
threads of time,
pockets lined with truth.
Grief takes threads of every color
in and out.
Rage-red borders blend
flecks of gold.
It makes a fine coat
so soft to the touch.
How surprising.
This linen is a close friend
worn to ragged shreds,
worn to the bone.
Death is a companion
with us since birth.
There is no void, only Death,
swaddling us, yet
taking us little by little.
For this we grieve.
One day a babe greeting us
from the womb with tears,
and later, sharing tears for our passing.
We are dressed in Grief,
tailored memories of
laughter and sorrow;
joy and despair;
guilt woven into forgiveness;
grief into love.
Why do we fear?
We are comforted by this lavish coat.
Grief is a tailor
hired at birth
to clothe our lives,
worn to tatters with threads
left to line our souls.
(This poem is a revision of Grief: A Weaver, which I published on WordPress in June 2017.)
©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog
Image: Pixabay.com
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River Grass at Summer’s End
Seedlings in spring,
tall grasses in summer sun,
we scan life on the lapping currents
at our river’s edge.
Clinging to trees, cicadas call out an endless shrill.
Water striders mate and die. Widow Skimmers dance
on the waves. A turtle basks on a dead limb
caught in a root wad along our bank. An eagle keeps watch
from a lofty sycamore perch.
Clouds darken the face of the sun. A kayak floats
downstream in shadows. A warm gust lifts and sways us
on the shore, and we wave at the paddler drifting by.
The paddler succumbs to rain. The wind stirs wakes as
an Asian Carp pounds into the boat. The beaver
makes it to shore first in the storm. The river bank is
summer’s bed of sand at our roots.
In the bluster of early autumn, we bear our seeds at water’s edge.
They scatter like startled bees in the falling light.
Our ravaged arms reach for the falling light at dusk.
The glassy river reflects our age as colors fade.
Our stems bend, thirsty for noon.
This Poem is a revision of “Summer’s End”, which I put up on August 31, 2019.
©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog
Image: “Sunset on Missouri River” ©Dierik Leonhard
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In Autumn (Two Drafts)
This is a loop poem, in which the last word of a line begins the next line. This first draft seemed bland to me, so I revised it by adding details and being looser with the rules for loop poems. I feel the looping can create unnecessary repetition and restrict exploration unless I can loosen up and stretch the boundaries of the form. What do you think?
Draft 1
Autumn is the lesson of leaves
leaves cling to branches in storms
storms batter the stronghold of trees
trees stand with grand resolve
resolve to hold their ground
ground captures falling leaves
leaves take to earth like sawdust
sawdust of fallen trees in sun
sun, the ancient watcher of autumn.
Draft 2
Autumn is the lesson of dying leaves.
Leaves, once lush from summer rain, cling to branches for life in storms.
Midday thunder storms batter the stronghold of bristling trees.
Aged trees, their arms flailing, stand with grand resolve,
a resolve to hold their place on eroded ground.
The wasted ground complies to capture the fallen.
Fallen leaves take to earth like the sand of ocher sawdust.
The ocher sawdust of shedding trees lies parched in low sun.
The sun, the ancient watcher of late autumn.
poem and image: ©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog
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Cocoons
Rice cooks,
sheaths burst,
steam rises for sacral birth.
Seeds hold life
released by light.
Flowers unfold deep soul
in germination.
Such is life as it unfolds
From seed to crypt.
Genesis is not kind.
We break free of the organ &
in the pain of delivery,
engage in battle.
A crust of fear
enfolds the heart as
love’s armor defends
the wounded self.
We break through the barrier.
The heart wall collapses to tinder.
Pain dissolves as we prevail in labor
for our ascent to a new plane
swaddled with grace.
©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog
Featured Images: Pixabay.com
Earth Mother Image: by Pandanna Imagen from Pixabay.com
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In Autumn (Two Drafts)
This is a loop poem, in which the last word of a line begins the next line. This first draft seemed bland to me, so I revised it by adding details and being looser with the rules for loop poems. I feel the looping can create unnecessary repetition and restrict exploration unless I can loosen up and stretch the boundaries of the form.
Draft 1
Autumn is the lesson of leaves
leaves cling to branches in storms
storms batter the stronghold of trees
trees stand with grand resolve
resolve to hold their ground
ground captures falling leaves
leaves take to earth like sawdust
sawdust of fallen trees in sun
sun, the ancient watcher of autumn.
Draft 2
Autumn is the lesson of dying leaves.
Leaves, once lush from summer rain, cling to branches for life in storms.
Midday thunder storms batter the stronghold of bristling trees.
Aged trees, their arms flailing, stand with grand resolve,
a resolve to hold their place on eroded ground.
The wasted ground complies to capture the fallen.
Fallen leaves take to earth like the sand of ocher sawdust.
The ocher sawdust of shedding trees lies parched in low sun.
The sun, the ancient watcher of late autumn.
poem and image: ©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog
