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.
©Barbara Harris Leonhard@extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog
Images: pixabay.com
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.
©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
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
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
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
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.
©Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog
Images: my yard
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
