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.

B98CEE03-AC46-4BC2-AAD8-CD5C1ABDA8C5

©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.

7935F65F-E38D-4632-8023-863A7C19F36A

 

©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

 

Poem · Poetry

The Craft

I am only a human seeking perfection

Weaving the yarn, anchoring my hook

Into a rhythm in each row,

Putting colors in place,

Counting the stitches,

Just like the meter in a poem.

Casting off, crocheting my lines,

Each stitch a thought, a memory

Taking me down the lines of discovery.

What am I making?

Will it turn out?

I study the creation, pleased that

Some rows acclaim symmetry and coherence to form.

So I revel in the virtuosity and clarity of hue

As though I have hooked into radiance.

But lo!

Other rows meander like a stream,

Wandering around the bed rocks.

Threads in some rows become weed like,

Tangled in the mud of past despair.

These are memories to be forgotten,

Words that should have never been said,

Plans gone awry, fitful dreams, diminished hope,

As though gripping this hook has crippled my thinking.

Where am I heading?

I am only a human,

Unraveling my knots.

©Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

 

 

Micropoetry · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry · Quotes

Sink into Your Knowing

It’s time to stop chasing

And to start embracing.

You have everything that you need.

Go deep with what you know.

A rock skipping over the stream

Sees no depth.

Fall into yourself;

Your well is deep and pure

With mysteries and magic

Awaiting your ventures.

You already know everything, so

Collections are mere dust. It’s time to

Open that portal to inner sight

And listen, for what you seek is there.

Awaken your instincts and intuition.

Fan that fire of knowing

Burning in your heart,

Making you magnificent.

It’s this blazing wisdom alone

That will take you home.

 

 

©Barbara Harris Leonhard@extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Original Digital Art “Future Earth” ©Martha Harris. See Martha’s Artistic Flarings @artisticflarings.blog

Poem · Poetry · Waka Poetry

So Long, My Friend

So long, my friend,

How short was your stay.

I was too caught up

In my mindless days

To sit with you

When your blooms were lush and

Singing in the sun and air.

You were glorious

Even when the snow surprised us all.

Still, you held your back up,

And your crown never fell.

You had bounty in your short time.

I could see your joy

As you swayed in the breeze

And drank in the sun and rain.

I took you for granted though

I said I would stop by more often.

Now as your beauty fades

To crumbled blooms,

Your smile drops and fades

Into the beds of periwinkle

Huddled to catch you, yet

You still seem to dance

As the breath of God gently

Blows your ash into soil

For another year.

 

img_0087

B6FC5C77-FF37-4199-B8C7-6625B9BA2A4C

 

 

©Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Images: my yard

 

 

Audio · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry

The Poet Dreamer

 The Poet Dreamer

Our lives are nights bereft of cogent dreams,

Sleep of light thought of lines of poems

Forgotten upon rising.

We are poets searching for truth in all dimensions

Much less our own lives,

Our greatest dream and illusion.

 

The mind plays tricks as symbols contest each other

In active play as we slumber away our hours.

Our day dreams are adventures with abstract layers

Of indecipherable, chaotic images and

Archetypes creating a play of poems.

Elusive are the truths hidden on the stages of dreams within dreams.

 

In which dream are we?

We are dreamers fighting our minds

To make sense of signs and symbols.

Each day we dream our stories of

Mystery, terror, rhapsody, and salvation,

As we seek order in identity, our place in creation.

 

Our days are collages of metaphors and entanglements,

Battles with shadows, and fictional accounts of

Victory and defeat; glory and grief.

Truth is elusive and well hidden in then

Confusion of interpretations of our delusions

Of self and others.

 

Life is a play of art unfolding in a labyrinth of

Paths interlinking the past, present, and future;

This dream of life is not linear;

It is a chaotic muddle of symbols and

Lines of thought with no intersection for truths to gather

For directions on this journey.

 

Life too is a kaleidoscope of truths

Brought into focus in vivid moments of contemplation

In which we awaken to capture flashes of

Brilliant insights as lucid dreamers.

That is the irony;

That is the poetry.

 

© September 14, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Original Digital Art: “The Poet Dreamer” ©Martha Harris  See Martha’s Artistic Flarings@artisticflarings.blog