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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poem · Poetry · Quadrille

Keep

This poem is for a challenge at dVerse~Poets Pub to write a poem of 44 words (Quadrille) using the word ‘Keep’.

Keep is to cherish

as love undenied.

Keep is to perish

as vinegar from wine.

Keep is to guard

like gold bricks and silver.

Keep is too hard

if unsafe in the river.

Keep is for secrets

Not for surrender.

Keep is a keeper.

©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Poem · Poetry

Status: Unfriended

We took for granted those easy days,

believing in bonds, implicit contracts,

soul groups, & kinships. Hugs were warm

& kisses real. We could smell the hot coffee

brewing for the brunches.

 

Life…the miles…

left us in the wilderness

without food or drink or matches,

only emojis, tags, and Messenger.

 

We foraged & survived.

We still upheld each in

sickness & in health

with laughter, long chats,

likes, dislikes, loves, hearts,

birthday greetings & get-well wishes.

 

Then into the cloud, you suddenly leave,

a departure unannounced…unexpected.

An enigma now separates us

without the tough talk

that can actually heal us –

Why?

 

A quick impulse?

A quandary of loyalties?

A careless regard for our Light?

A boundary?

Jealousy?

Revenge?

Fear?

 

The vase that held our flower has smashed.

Can gold ever realign the deep rifts in this vessel?

Who will mop up the mess that is us?

 

Our paths split on the labyrinth –

Will this winding course ever lead us to

rediscovery and reclamation –

or to isolation?

 

We slip away from memories

as though Death claims us.

Shock & grief swell though

there is no memorial,

no grave to tend to.

 

All that is not aligned falls away.

Was this connection illusory?

Status: Unfriended. Heart Broken

 

©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Image: Pixabay.com