By Barbara Leonhard | Featured Contributor Dear Friends, most of us would agree that this past year has been extremely challenging if not tragic. Many of you have documented your pain and grief in poetry, fiction, and essays. St. Patrick’s Day is today and Easter is coming up, so it’s a good time for us to transmute…
A Blessing for You — PhoebeMD: Medicine + Poetry
Thank you, Phoebe, for publishing my blessing!
Dear Friends, most of us would agree that this past year has been extremely challenging if not tragic. Many of you have documented your pain and grief in poetry, fiction, and essays. St. Patrick’s Day is on Wednesday and Easter is coming up, so it’s a good time for us to transmute our sorrow and fear into blessings. It’s spring, a time of rebirth as we see the daffodils blooming. Although daffodils are sometimes pelted by one last snowfall, they are resilient. Indeed, spring is full of promise as four-leaf clovers await our search for good health and fortune. The fourth leaf, luck, adds to the trinity, so even if we fail to find the four-leaf clover, we are truly never alone. With love, I offer this blessing.
May you be blessed.
May good luck follow you always.
May you be healthy and thus wealthy.
May your heart be filled with grace
not grief.
May your home be filled with love,
not languor.
May your days be filled with mystery,
not misery.
May your back never bend in storm.
May friends and family gather at last
in your welcoming arms.
Feature Image: by artistlike on pixabay.com
Image of the daffodil: by MrGajowy3 on pixabay
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
This post includes the audio for the latest poem uploaded December 30, 2017. You can see the wording on that post.
Winter is a good time to reflect. Introspection opens to spiritual growth. Sometimes when we face ourselves, we may feel depressed. Knowing yourself and letting go of all that does not align is not easy but is so crucial for raising your vibration. This light will take you to God.
Copyright© 2017/12/31 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.wordpress.com
Image: pixabay.com
Listen to the Prayers of Snow
Snow sifts down in ashen splendor,
Coating lifeless grass,
Warming its pensive dormancy.
In spring, even the daffodils
Bow their heads to this majesty
As snow descends on early gardens
Eager for fruition.
The sound of snow is holy.
Old bark listens to the lilting chants
Of processions on drifting banks.
Laughter resounds as accolades, and
Sleds leave trails to be filled for new pilgrims.
The requiems of cardinals trumpet on brittle limbs
Hanging tenuously in blizzards.
Squirrels forage in frozen soil under white sky, for
The sun has its own prophesy in ice.
Mountains sleep, awakened only by the treading
Of tired hikers looking for sanctuary.
It’s at this time that pines stand as preachers since
Creeks are too frozen for parables.
I have my hearth by the fire
And my window opening to this temple,
Bringing me inside myself
To listen to the prayers of snow.
Copyright© 2017/12/30 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.wordpress.com
image: https://pixabay.com/en/cardinal-bird-wildlife-snow-winter-1884283/
Image: http://download–wallpapers.com/content/daffodils-in-snow-wallpaper.html
Spared a winter but not a spring.
Hail thrashes, splitting the wind
Into crystals lit by flashes,
Revealing shadows touching down
Like long fingers pointing curses.
My husband, the one-eyed lamp,
In our basement cave,
Checking the radar on his I-phone.
The cats subdued by the growling wind,
Finding refuge under a table by their litter.
And I, swathed in a blanket,
Sitting on the porta-potty seat,
Left over from a surgery,
To remain a throne in a storm.
My messages failed to send.
Roars diminishing to low growls,
Lightning flails like extinguishing flames,
Thunder stomps like a child wanting attention.
It passes over without forgiving.
New-born daffodils embracing the deluge now strain for morning.
Even storms are gifts.
Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard
Image: Brusheezy (free download)
https://www.brusheezy.com/brushes/1464-lightning-brushes
lightning-brushes
Sun blankets the snow,
A sloppy knife.
Daffodils, slumped over,
slowly raise their heads.
Spring caught unaware.
Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard
Image: https://wallpaperstock.net/daffodils-in-the-snow-wallpapers_w17542.html
Spared a winter but not a spring.
Hail thrashes, splitting the wind
Into crystals lit by flashes,
Revealing shadows touching down
Like long fingers pointing curses.
My husband, the one-eyed lamp,
In our basement cave,
Checking the radar on his I-phone.
The cats subdued by the growling wind,
Finding refuge under a table by their litter.
And I, swathed in a blanket,
Sitting on the porta-potty seat,
Left over from a surgery,
To remain a throne in a storm.
My messages failed to send.
Roars diminishing to low growls,
Lightning flails like extinguishing flames,
Thunder stomps like a child wanting attention.
It passes over without forgiving.
New-born daffodils embracing the deluge now strain for morning.
Even storms are gifts.
Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard
Image: Brusheezy (free download)
https://www.brusheezy.com/brushes/1464-lightning-brushes
My chair
by the daffodils –
a sacred throne.
My stillness
fights off two souls
wanting my garden.
Sun blankets the snow –
daffodils slowly
raise their heads.
These three haiku are related. One Spring, I bundled up in a hoodie since it was a bit chilly and settled in a chair next to the daffodils that I wrote about in the haiku. The snow had melted, and the daffodils had perked up. I was delighted they had survived being snow bound. The two souls were my husband and a music student wanting to play music in the garden. However, they turned away when they saw my quiet repose as I was firmly planted on my throne with no intention of surrendering my place.
I think finding quiet time in nature is very enlightening. That day, I wrote several Haiku since I was able to find the silent space between thoughts. Thoughts are distracting and can hide truth. If I just follow my thoughts, I go nowhere, but if I can meditate in a peaceful setting, I can travel to many places, mainly inward to the source of all poetry. Poems are like dreams – full of symbols open to interpretation. The picture of the chair transformed into a throne by the resurrected daffodils raising their heads from under the blanket of snow was a transforming moment. Despite any obstacle, the soul can rise above the turmoil and danger it faces. Everyone can find these sacred moments and places; everyone can write poetry.
Stillness is the key and stillness is the mountain. If we find stillness, we can hear the chorus of poetry and songs of our hidden potential. Stillness makes us strong and grounded and all knowing, like mountains. Mountains symbolize our core strength and inner wisdom, for they know the secrets of the ages and so are ever lasting symbols of truth. Many ascended masters, like Jesus and Moses, were enlightened on mountains, making mountains a significant source of inner knowing.
Stillness is paradoxical because who would guess that stillness could be so rich with the sound of rhyme and lyrics. We are so busy everyday that we don’t hear these songs which intend to enlighten us. In fact, we are so used to the noise of daily life that we can’t stand to be alone. However, it is necessary to seek out a time and place every day to just listen as well as watch. By observing the symbols of silence, we can write poetry. In my case, pondering the circumstances of the daffodils smothered in snow gave rise to poetry about the human condition. One could trample the daffodils, not seeing how they were suffocating, but one could also observe them and listen to what their message is. This communication gives rise to poetry.
This process of mediating on the silent spaces between thoughts is healing, and if I can’t go to that place for a period of time, it is unnerving. Maybe that is why I do not oblige anyone by surrendering my sacred throne.
(I originally published this blog on another site I had.)
© 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard; poetry and image (my garden) @extrordinarysunshineweaver.blog
