Audio · Ekphrastic Poetry · Poem · Poetry

When Eclipsed

When Eclipsed

When eclipsed by the moon,

The sun did not cry

As much as I did,

For their union was bound

By the glistening ring and

All Earth collapsed into slumber

As birds tucked into their wings

To the cicadas’ chorus

Of tunes chilling the midday heat

To cloud mist:

Darkness to the dance

Of Solar and Lunar

Opened to the jewel

Of another day and

Revelers praised the wonder of

This exquisite union.

 

Copyright© September 6, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: https://pixabay.com/en/solar-eclipse-eclipse-sun-flare-152834/

solar-eclipse-152834_960_720

Audio · Ekphrastic Poetry · My Mother · Poem · Poetry

New Audio: Mother, Great Pine

Mother, Great Pine,

Stretching in her years.

Needles springing from craggy trunk

In need of water.

Branches reaching for cloud mist.

Perches for birds with nests

Gathered in crevices hidden by owls.

Her hair of needles

Cracks in Sun’s heat

And breaks in Sun’s breath.

Her roots dig into springs

Dried to stain on parched sand,

Blown to rock in forgotten forests,

Where memories remain.

Mother, Great Pine,

Life marks its initials

On tattered bark

Dressing her soul.

Her shadow marks a path

For Time to travel

Dawn to dusk

Without fail.

 

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: https://www.google.com/search

pine-tree-e1334339816520

 

 

 

Audio · Haiku · Poem · Poetry

Loving Too Much

A fledgling’s last gasps

choking on seeds of bounty

from the human hand

 

I wrote this Haiku in memory of one day when my husband and I found a fledgling bird. I’m not sure if it was a starling or a robin. We only knew that it had fallen from its nest like leaf from a branch in an autumn breeze. There it lay on the ground, its mouth open for its next meal from its mother. We tenderly laid it down on a comfortable bed of tissues in a box which we kept out of the way of cats. Then we pondered how to save this small, helpless creature. Well, we remembered that birds ate seeds, so we found seeds to fill the fledgling’s small mouth with. It choked them down. Then we reconsidered whether that was such a good idea, so we thought about it some more and decided that the bird’s mother probably presented her baby with chewed worms and the like. In that case, it would be more appropriate to feed the little thing some wet cat food. Indeed, it went down well, so we kept it up – offering our little pet nibbles of wet Fancy Feast. I’m not sure how long we had this tiny baby, but we found that our generous meals were too much for the little tike. The shock of its fall from the nest, the stress of being an orphan in the hands of giants, and the inability to digest the seeds and cat food finally took the tiny bird’s life.

 

This experience taught me that sometimes nature knows better than I about what to do with the weak and the sick. It occurred to us that maybe the fledgling had been pushed out of the nest for a reason, making its survival unlikely to begin with. Moreover, if this chick had been healthy and had somehow just fallen out of the nest by accident, it is still unlikely we could have nursed it back to health and least likely its mother would have taken it back since it would have stank of human sweat. I realized finally that nature is not as cruel as we were. In our attempts to comfort the ailing fledgling, we simple loved it to death. The other option for this small patient of ours would have been a swift yet quiet and private death in a soft pile of leaves, not a cardboard box in a foreign land.

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: http://www.animalliberationfront.com/Practical/Pets/PetCare/BabyBirds/Baby%20Starlings%20Photos%20of%20Nestlings%20and%20Fledglings.htmbaby7

Audio · Ekphrastic Poetry · My Mother · Poem · Poetry

Mother, Great Pine

Mother, Great Pine,

Stretching in her years.

Needles springing from craggy trunk

In need of water.

Branches reaching for cloud mist.

Perches for birds with nests

Gathered in crevices hidden by owls.

Her hair of needles

Cracks in Sun’s heat

And breaks in Sun’s breath.

Her roots dig into springs

Dried to stain on parched sand,

Blown to rock in forgotten forests,

Where memories remain.

Mother, Great Pine,

Life marks its initials

On tattered bark

Dressing her soul.

Her shadow marks a path

For Time to travel

Dawn to dusk

Without fail.

 

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: https://www.google.com/search

pine-tree-e1334339816520