Poem · Poetry · Waka Poetry

So Long, My Friend

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.

 

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©Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Images: my yard

 

 

Audio · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry

The Poet Dreamer

 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

 

Ekphrastic Poetry · Healing · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry · Reiki · Writing

Rest in Your Being

 

Rest in your being.

Your light is ever shifting its gaze to wholeness

As moods can dim what’s inward 

To quarter light.

One cannot judge the size of the heart

From dawn to dusk.

You are your own moon rising and setting

Over the span of hours or days.

Time is relative to your path to insight as

Your moon waxes and wanes.

Heed not a dim light.

It will swell to fullness as a healed heart.

Dawn patiently greets a rising sun.

And sunsets greet a rising moon.

This is the rhythm of healing.

Shadows never linger, for insights shine.

Yet shadows create the spectrum of illumination,

Forming mandalas of awareness for you to study.

The wholeness of your light is rich in tone and chroma.

Your complexion is your moon.

This visage is vibrant and ever changing.

Fear not the face of your soul at dusk.

It is waking in that moment.

Rest in your spirit to await

The dawn of your knowing.

 

©Barbara Harris Leonhard  @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Image: “Dawn of Knowing”, original digital art, ©Martha Harris. See Martha’s Artistic Flarings@artisticflarings.blog

Healing · Poem · Poetry

Homo Sanctus Sanctus

Homo Sanctus Sanctus

When the well sinks into the deep, and

The songs ring flat. When colors fade

To ice and snow. When the sun sets too fast.

And sleep is needed just to breathe.

When good tidings weep without solace, and

The strains of Noel are but tearful whispers.

No one can hold these holy notes alone.

You alone should not bear the burden of

Dust to dust. This is sacred work,

To restore your Being, to evoke your Soul,

Despite the tangle of muddle in the mundane, where

Your disquieted mind diverts you from

Your path. As you flounder, may we be of service.

May we be the weavers drawing your threads into

The tapestry of grace.  May we be the space holders

Bearing up your sorrow for

Transmutation on this bridge of Light,

Offering the way for us all to thrive.

We are harmony, interwoven by cords.

Our affinity reverberates in the geometry

Of the cosmos. We are one on this journey

Infinatum.  Onward. Onward.

Onward. Still, a foundation can crumble,

Spinning us Homo sapiens sapiens

Into a deathless chasm and endless

Drowning in shadows. Without you,

The compass is not viable. Without you,

We agonize. Remember who you are.

Your song resounds in Excelsis Deo.

You are the hymn, echoing light and love.

 

Eros el mago. You are the mystery, the magician,

Creating sacred alchemy though the effort

Can be painstaking and insufferable,

Full of fear and regret, guilt and shame.

As biography begets biology into bloody

Mayhem, you can recast this malaise,

Gradually interlacing it to the Light.

You are the cosmos, made of filaments

Of nebula, and the framework of planets,

You are spiraling brightly in helical orbits

Divinely connected to the web of life.

The macrocosm is your microcosm.

There is nothing wretched in the Holy.

You are the blessed child entering the castle and

Feasting on the ambrosia of bliss

And joy. We need you. We so need you.

We cannot uphold this firmament without you

If we lose our hold. Eros el curador of debility,

Desperation, and despair. Your grace is a baptism.

A holy communion of purifying fire

Igniting soul out of ash. May you bolster us and

Redeem us, our healer, Homo sanctus sanctus.

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https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

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Notes if needed…

*”Eros el mago” in Spanish means “You are the magician.”

*”Eros el curator” in Spanish means “You are the healer.”

*”sanctus” is Latin for “holy” or “sacred”

Carolyn Myss teaches the our biography creates our biology. This simply means that how we live affects how we thrive as a biological life form.

In the book The Gene Keys Unlocking the Higher Purpose of Your DNA, Richard Rudd uses the term Homo Sanctus, which I found inspiring.

Nick Seneca Jankel reports of a serendipitous experience in which he was approached by a stranger in India who said, “Eros el Mago” to him. This experience helped ignite an awakening. (Coast to Coast AM, 12/12/2018).

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©2018 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Image: Orion Nebula from Pixabay (I chose this image because it depicts a web and a bridge.)

Audio · Bagua · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry · Tai Chi

Be As Water

Be as Water

Be as water,

Flowing from falls into silt,

Creating pools and streams,

Moving around rocks

And through openings in

Masses of reeds.

 

Be as water,

Flowing without obstruction.

Finding its course

Over the embankments, and

Finding stillness

In pools fed by streams.

 

Be as water,

Earth’s pulse,

Flexible, agile,

Life giving, lithesome.

Its supple force,

Cleansing all.

 

Be as water,

Its nourishment, creating and sustaining life.

Its steam, forming clouds

In Earth’s simmering heat,

The ice in her arctic breath,

Piercing fog.

 

Be as water,

Pure and enriching,

With powers that can’t be harnessed.

It’s Earth’s blood,

Pumping life into her veins

With vital force.

 

Be as water,

Dangerous and destructive

If Earth’s veins are slit.

Her roaring torrents of tears

Are savage and fatal.

Water knows its course.

 

Be as water,

A force of peace and joy,

Spitting up shells and glassy treasures.

A force of nature,

Sweeping away the ages

That need rebirth.

 

Copyright ©2018 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.wordpress.com

Image: digital art “Clouds Rising” ©Martha Harris See Martha’s Artistic Flarings @artisticflarings.blog

 

 

Audio · Digital Art · Ekphrastic Poetry · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry · Prose

Autumn Song

Autumn Song

When leaves fall, do they cry

As they release their grasp

From Mother’s skirt?

Their lives, soaked in sun and fed by rain.

Their Mother, protective,

Her branches, their home.

How does she feel when her bounty loses grip?

Her children, the glory of her color burst,

Their song to us, their poetry.

Now they bed our paths

In crisp wind play and

Reveal sky, gray with snow.

Autumn is Mother’s heart opening,

Before resting and donning her spring garments

For Easter prayer.

 

Copyright© Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.wordpress.com

….an older poem with new art….

Image: Original Digital Art “Autumn Song” ©Martha Harris See Martha’s Artistic Flarings @artisticflarings.blog