Healing · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry

Sleep Chose Me

Sleep Chose Me

Sleep chose me

To take this walk on crisp leaves

Smothered by frost.

Colors, thread bare faces,

Glassy lattice in sun,

Forming halos for owls

As shade dissolves into moonlight,

Magical stasis.

Linger here in truth,

Alone with feathers of snow

Clinging briefly to crystal,

Blazing its fire,

Sizzling in waves of storm

Like smothered sand bits

On the wild shore

Holding my footing.

The colors dim into food for forest.

I trample the earth into new stone,

Bedrock for soul,

My blossom,

With the will to live

In granite.

©2018 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Image: “Building Blocks” digital art ©2018 Martha Harris See Martha’s Artistic Flarings @artisticflarings.blog

 

 

 

Audio · Poem · Poetry · Reiki · Voices from the Veil

New Audio: Listen to the Prayers of Snow

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

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Audio · Poem · Poetry · Voices from the Veil

Listen to the Prayers of Snow

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/

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Image: http://download–wallpapers.com/content/daffodils-in-snow-wallpaper.html

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Audio · Ekphrastic Poetry · Poem · Poetry · Reiki

This New Earth

 

 

This New Earth

The summer harvest

Has been reaped

To feed our souls.

The last bounty gone

To the dust of leaves,

Clinging to the mother branch

Until the swirling breeze

Seizes them for the ground

To heal the soil, dried

From August drought.

 

One last fruit,

Grateful for the light,

Ferociously clings here,

Where the kale is anchored

Hardy with a new tree.

My Self, infused

With that last soup, and

Thankful for summer’s

Nurturing days and

Garden of plenty.

 

This is the time for us

To turn the soil and for

The soul to sleep

With the ashes of life

Embedded in earth

To grow new roots

That take us deeper

To higher self,

Birthing and swaddled

In drifting snow.

 

Where it’s cold,

There is deep healing,

It is said.

 

Energy moves in swirls,

Truth emanating in

Vortexes descending

To inner self and

Soul ascending as a sun,

A brilliance of rainbows

Wound around the Tree of Life

To shine on new gardens

Planted in young ground

Fertile with worms.

 

We are the Gardeners

Of This New Earth;

We are the Cycle of Light.

 

Copyright© 2017/11/17 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.wordpress.com

Images: my garden

 

 

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

Daffodils

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

 

Audio · Poem · Poetry

Birth

I whisper this soul song
in pale amber light,
strong and spiraling flakes of snow
across the heart like sweet ice rain
over gray, blue night.

I whisper like a chick can sing for seed
or a baby coo for warm milk.
There’s no autumn,
for the leaves have fallen
down the slopes to the frigid sea side.

Snow is swirling on the shore,
but bare are the waves
hitting the rocky beach, where
I stretch to touch the moonbeams
and hold tight as I climb up the light.

Hollow is the way,
yet still so thick with stars,
holding me, pulling me, coaxing me
upward so tightly, so closely, so warmly,
Come along, come along.

And so I do.
And so I do.

No struggle, no pain riding waves of pure joy,
rolled and tossed by the warm light
of angels humming, their wings unfolding,
their words like dove song,
Come along, come along.

And so I do.
And so I do.

No struggle, no pain floating in the spiral of angels’ songs,
winging toward their Beacon,
its glow so hot I cannot breathe
until I hit the shore
like a soul storm.

And so I cry out loud,
not from pain but from joy released,
my song like clamoring bells of all tones
in perfect harmony,
I am born.

 

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: http://hdwallpaperhighresolution.blogspot.com/2013/07/sun-and-clouds-wallpapers.html

Sun And Clouds Wallpapers (3)

 

 

Audio · Micropoetry · Poem · Poetry · Prose

My Chair: My Stillness

 

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