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…

View original post 6 more words

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ekphrastic Poetry · Healing · Poem · Poetry

Searching

I am crying for the Amazon because the loss of animal life and the trees is devastating. This poem honors our forests, the arms of the Goddess, still reaching out to us though we forget who she is, our dear Mother Earth.

The way goes deep

into these dark woods.

Your Mag-lit blinks

as shadows splice the light.

You hold your world

bound tight on your back

with ropes strung as questions.

The burden pulls down your smile.

You are not alone.

My trunk is your spine.

My roots reach out with food

and a protected path.

My limbs will hold you

and shield you.

I am the forest;

each sapling is nourished

by my grace.

I shelter and feed travelers

who rest in the moss at my feet.

I bring rain and make you a garden.

Lay down your burdens;

give to me all that you cannot carry.

 

©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Image: Pixabay

Audio · Healing · Poem · Poetry

Gaia

Submitted to FREE VERSE REVOLUTION for the January 1, 2020, challenge. The theme is Gaia.

We are holding in the cries of fear,

Refusing to surrender to truth.

What can come of filling the streams

Of Gaia’s veins with our tears but a flood of pain?

Can the rifts in her ancient skin be healed?

Can canyon walls ever merge into a New Earth

Free of grief and loss?

 

The fingers of the Sun can only reach so far

Into the depths for galactic truth.

Has God succumbed to the Fire?

It cannot be so.

Though dense on the edges of Holy Planes,

Light is there.

Light and Shadow share one spectrum,

Always in battle for healing,

Finding the perfect balance.

 

Where Earth is upheaved grows new bounty.

The pain of ripping soil births potential,

Shimmering translucent as

Tiny perfect fingers rooting in Time,

Swaddled in constellations

Webbing Then and Now.

Time is connected on all planes.

Today’s prayers heal the past

As it has never ended.

All grief is omnipresent and infinite

If we remain in slumber.

 

Hope is wholeness.

The future is “I AM”.

Tears heal tears in the fabric of Time,

Filling in the rifts and canyons of geologic upheaval

With Love transmuted into cosmic truth.

We are One.

Our tears are Gaia’s rain.

The clogged well of each heart

Is her burden to bear.

Our actions become her prayers or her curses.

She cries in fire, wind and geologic torment when

We fail to love her power,

Which supports us in the lattice of her cosmic apron

To which we cling as babes born innocent

And slow to awaken to her grief,

Which is ours to bear.

 

Copyright© 2017/12/10 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.wordpress.com

Image: Pixabay

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

Digital Art · My Mother · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry

This, a River

This, a River

This, a river,

I am not lines but curves

Winding around sand bars

Creating islands 

Revealed in low tide

My current pulses life

Tadpoles, carp, algae

I smile in light

Shimmering reflections

I draw in birds to feed

I am poetry for travelers 

On barges

I hold kayaks as toys

To capture in my eddies

This, a river,

My legs flutter waves

Swimming to create

This flow

My arms formed from rivulets

Guiding this charge of current 

Gravity’s way

My power carving out

My face

I shape Mother

As she wishes 

I clean up her storms 

The overwhelming swells

Of branches and trash

Dissolve into me and my banks

I do her work

Feeding her life 

Dispersing its bones and teeth

For children to seek as treasure

This, a river,

Can hold you

Transport you

Can gather you into me

Into my dark

My hungry fury

Beneath my churning 

My currents are scars

That run as bottomless incisions

Into crust

My age is Earth

Study me

Learn me

My mystery is beauty

My myth is enigma

My abyss is danger

This, a river,

What made me

Our Mother 

Her tears washing away our history

Revealing our present

She is in the sun 

Warming our life span

Reflected into my ocean

My soul of 

Beds and banks

Flora and fauna

My aura is your atmosphere

My depths are your cosmos

Mother’s grief can nourish or drown, but

This, a river, 

Cannot cry.

©Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.com

Image “This, a River” digital art ©Martha Harris See Martha’s Artistic Flarings @artisticflarings.blog