Audio · Digital Art · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry

Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver

This is an older poem explaining the origin of the name of my blog. I found this name with one of those fun apps that came across my Facebook page. Though the method to discover this name was mundane, the name speaks volumes. Source is all. I decided to keep the name for my journaling.

Weaver is Source, who connects all things.
Strings and threads are cloth woven for wear.
Sunshine is Source, who reaches out rays
Like fingers to heat and heal,
To create Spring, spiritual connection,
To nurture Gaia,
To create rain as food,
To dream life,
To forge love
And evolve Source.
Extraordinary is this mystery.
All extends from Source as fingers of light
To nourish and thrive,
And as night falls awake so do all
Return to Source.

 

©2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard@extraordinarysunshineweaver.com

Image: Digital Art “The Weaver” ©Martha Harris See Martha’s Artistic Flarings @artisticflarings.blog

 

Audio · Poem · Poetry

The Garden of Thoughts

The Garden of Thoughts

The garden of thoughts planted in spring

Still struggles if not managed.

Seeds bearing the fruit of life in shade and sun,

Nurturing bees and monarchs, can become

Tangled with weeds and eaten by blight.

Thoughts sustained by dew and noon rains

Can be forgotten and neglected by autumn light as

Thoughts blooming and stretching for sun

Can shrivel, scorched by drought in time

If the gardener takes leave

Of the rake, spade, and bucket, or

Lacks the wisdom of soils and seedlings.

Too much sun is unkind to bleeding heart.

If left in the field, pumpkins rot.

Honeysuckle makes a home in the untended mind.

Hostas thrive if transplanted but

Shred to decay if neglected.

Bees can’t thrive on blight.

Though seasons change,

The garden can still be tended by the earth and

Made ready for the next planting

If tilled and nurtured properly.

The gardener’s harvest can be of bounty and bliss

Or mindless bramble

In his garden of thoughts.

 

Copyright© September 7, 2017  Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: Pixabay

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Audio · Ekphrastic Poetry · Poem · Poetry

The Mirror of Fear

The Mirror of Fear

What is fear?

Fear is not an itsy bitsy spider or a snake.

It is in this mirror, so look inside.

See yourself as thoughts.

Thoughts can have claws

That grasp your eyes,

Forcing you to see

Only shadows and suspicions as Truth.

 

Fears can lay claim to you –

If you are in wakeful slumber –

And discolor the Light

Streaming from your eyes,

Blinding you to

What is Law,

What is Truth

What is Blessed

Unless you awaken to the knowing that

 

Fearful thoughts may birth a Monster,

Growing eight legs,

Crawling into your Self,

And making webs

That bind your heart to

Trap vermin, for at the very least,

Fear will make a feast of you.

 

Fear mouths caustic and corrosive words

Spiraling into smoke upwards from fire,

Becoming tentacles of lightning

Splitting your House in half and

Consuming your Buddha Soul.

But Fear will claim you had set this blaze, not she,

For she is the Great Manipulator.

 

Fear is Ego, the Beast,

Fed by her friends who are

Complicit in heinous actions and betrayals of you

Regardless of color, station, or creed.

Though in words the Beast is the Richest,

The Biggest, the Best, the Most High.

 

Ego is deaf to all but to her own voice.

She clamors with empty notes of grandiosity,

Unblessed streams of cacophonous disharmony

Wailed in false-etto.

She mesmerizes you into chanting her name, for

Ego loves her own soul and possibly

Those dressed in her image, for

Who else could she trust?

 

And if you see Ego’s crimes,

She is but the victim

Of your malpractice, right?

She projects her doings onto you.

You are unholy, not her.

Get It? You’re the loser.

You are the problem.

You are the disaster.

You are to be scorned.

You are to be defiled.

You are to be ridiculed

For exposing this Great Wonder.

 

Ego is kin of the Wicked Witch,

Who banished Snow White

For being the Fairest in the Land.

Ego loves those she can trample or smear,

For you are but a minion in her eyes

And worthy of her ridicule and shame.

As long as she is able to diminish you,

No one will be The One, but Ego.

 

Through the bravado,

Ego consumes all creation.

What can be forged by this Fear Beast

But a cold sweat?

There is no art in Fear,

Only incoherence in forms

And rambling tales,

As told by the choking tweets

Of dying birds.

 

Ego lies and deceives,

Making a wedding of

Nightmares and presentiments,

Muddling order and

Tangling lives into a bramble of thorns,

Suffocating souls, and

Drowning them under mushrooming thoughts

Of toxic orange horror

Unleashed by the despotic Sisters of Fear, for

They love your screams and pleas for salvation!

As long as you are in disharmony,

These ghouls have your soul.

 

So take heed.

Wake up to knowing.

Fear is Ego; Ego is Fear.

The antithesis of Love.

Ego bears her creed and

Her shield of ghouls masked as

Bowing Saints ready to do her bidding or

As the Winged Monkeys in Dorothy’s nightmare,

Flying forth from the tower to apprehend

The Tin Man, Scare Crow, and Cowardly Lion,

So you have worse to fear

In this your shiny mirror

Than tiny spiders and snakes.

 

Copyright© August 17, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: http://fantazia.centerblog.net/rub-gifs-animes-miroirs-.html

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Audio · Poem · Poetry · Uncategorized

Oh What a Beautiful Day!

Oh What a Beautiful Day!

Oh what a beautiful day

To lie awake by

The Sea of Sorrows with

Each cold wave

Hitting the shore

Laced with drifting

Wood of time as

Gulls dine on Light with

The Keeper of Words.

The skiff awaits.

 

Copyright© August 16, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: Pixabay

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Audio · Ekphrastic Poetry · Haiku · Micropoetry · Poem · Poetry

Coons

Coons

To share with a coon

can cause others to curse you

and nature to smile

 

Copyright © August 11, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image:  facebook.com  and  http://wealleatpizza.tumblr.com/post/74385980103/raccoons-eat-pizza-raccoons-are-noted-for-their

Audio · My Family · My Father · My Mother · Poem · Poetry

The House of Souls

 

The abode on the lake

Has housed many souls

From my lineage and anew

And survived many fates.

 

Dad, Earle of the manor,

An only child, his own best friend,

Took to adventures on the sandy beach of Lake Michigan,

His playground for swimming and skating.

 

Nature can be a foe and muster legends, as

The winter snow almost ate him when

He stumbled into a hole and was buried up to the neck, no siblings for his rescue.

And another boy wearing Dad’s skates fell through the ice.

 

Our pilgrimages there to see the sages,

Our faces burned by whiskers

After Granddad arrived home from the bank.

He built the house; it was also a Harris.

 

Our tummies filled with cherry pie

At the little round kid table by the nook.

Grandma Hattie’s apron and her

Kind, dark, deep-set eyes.

 

Our games and play for hours

On the sandy beach with the sun bearing down

To make blisters so big that

Bandages became our body armor.

 

Still, Sweet Grandma would hug so hard

The blisters would break open,

Soothed only by time and more cherry pie.

Lessons unlearned as we raced back to the shore.

 

Years passed with generations gone.

We moved there with Mom, for Dad went away to school.

How she survived is a testament to her resolve

As the Handmaid, the Mother, and the Queen.

 

This was our adventure, owning the castle.

Seven kids loving mischief,

Feeding Mom’s jewelry down the heating vent, and

Spreading around a bag of flour before the guests arrived.

 

Once the house almost died

As lightning struck it while Mom was away,

Having trusted the house and nature

To guard the seven treasures.

 

The house was hungry in the winter

Fed by coal delivered to the creepy bin in the basement.

How the house shook like a mighty beast when fed,

Satiated and ready for slumber.

 

Once I found Mom by the furnace.

How she looked wed to the fire.

Her eyes were blazing as she stoked the coals

And turned to glare at me. Of course, I ran.

 

The Lake had receded, so that year,

We only had waves of grass as our shore.

But the garage still had Granddad’s tools as toys,

And we could still smell him there.

 

This house was Dad’s soul and anchor,

Our refuge on vacations,

Our residence in a life transition.

I still hang my curtains the same way now,

 

Though I really can’t linger there

As was shown in a dream.

I saw myself as a young girl on the shore,

Dad and his parents inside at the nook.

 

Follow us, they said, leading me to the water’s edge

Though I feared the water and dared not venture too deep,

I followed and we became as frogs

Twisting with the current and swimming on the lake bottom.

 

Out we came to new ground

And I was made to walk on hot coals.

How I blazed on this path,

Glistening into my new fine diamond body

 

Until reborn into the Now.

For the past is but a house of memories

That cannot survive present winds or future travail.

And now the house that once held our souls has new occupants.

 

Copyright © August 11, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: Our House of Souls, which we had on Lake Michigan in Escanaba, Michigan

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