Healing · Poem · Poetry · Recognition/ Honor

Sunday Best: Gaia

I’m grateful for the subject matter. Gaia is suffering, and only we can reach out to her and minister to her needs. At the very least, we can work with her to co-create a new Earth free of fire, flood, and fear.

I was pleased to get first place in this writing challenge.

https://freeverserevolution.wordpress.com/2020/01/05/sunday-best-gaia/

 

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

Dear reader,

Happy new year!

January on FVR follows the theme of ‘Earth’ and submissions are still open with 12 spaces left for contributors. See the submissions page for the guidelines.

To catch up the first five posts of the year:

Tuesday – Kristiana Reed

Wednesday – L. Stevens

Thursday – Devika Mathur

Friday – Bojana Stojcic

Saturday – L.E.


This week’s prompt was ‘Gaia’ and here are three wonderful responses:

Gaia – Barbara Leonhard

Earth – M.A. Morris

Gaia – Michelle Rolland

Gaia mother earth goddess

What has our world done

You gave us life force

Over which greed has won

Money won’t listen

So many unchanged

Even when voices of reason 

Cry out in pain

Gaia mother earth goddess

You send us your signs

Predicting our imminent demise

Show avarice what it is doing

Change what you can

One small voice can be a shout

For the love…

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Poem · Poetry

I am Your Mother

 

I see you looking at me from a far      my curves

draw you closer to my lush landscape      my sphere,

toughened by time     hewn by gravity    held

by dark matter

Have you

seen my sacred dance I spin in      ivory clouds, my shawl,

the rivers, my beads of turquoise    the green, my bouquet of herbs

Brother Sun shows you    beckons you closer    Sister Moon

draws you inward to my caverns where damp life

lay for light

forgotten 

my pain    my loss     my fever of fire

a torch sears into the ice walls built in my many lives

my guard is down    you swim in my gorges once dry

for passage    my tears wash away hungry beasts

and gardens   the shadows of ancient warriors emerge

out of the abyss of my old soul    my arrows drawn for battle

once more

I take you on my soil    you may enter my temple, my divine planes

and forests    eat    drink the sacraments at my altars     do

not defile my holy basins with the muck of unclean

souls

that

trample my meadows and plunder gold, ripping off

my lavish gown for gain

I am

no despoiled maiden, for fierce is my molten heart

in battle   no one can defeat

              your mother

 

©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Featured Image: WikiImage from Pixabay.com

 

Bagua · Poem · Poetry · Qigong · Tai Chi · Xing Yi

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

 

 

Poem · Poetry · Quadrille · Recognition/ Honor · Writing

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

Poem · Poetry

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

Ekphrastic Poetry · Poem · Poetry

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

 

Poem · Poetry

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.

 

earth-4307180_1280

 

©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Featured Images: Pixabay.com

Earth Mother Image: by Pandanna Imagen from Pixabay.com