Audio · Healing · Poem · Poetry

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 · Healing · Poem · Poetry

Gaia

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 · Haiku · Micropoetry · Poem · Poetry

Day

Day of sorrow

Day of stillness

Choir for the soul

 

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: http://blog.rrchapman.us/2010/02/with-angels-and-archangels-and-all-the-company-of-heaven/

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Audio · Poem · Poetry

A Visit with Twain

I met him in a cave,

Led there by a wolf

Who said he was my guide –

But that was a joke.

Imagine the wolf’s howls

Of laughter as I faced

Mark Twain, the real host.

There he stood before me,

Dressed in white,

His gray hair shimmering –

He brought that light with him.

I paid my respects

And gratitude for this sighting.

What a surprise, so unexpected.

He told me many sad stories to pass along.

Twain, I don’t think I’m the scribe

Who can pen your journey!

I’m not the one who knows boats.

Now, there’s the irony,

Scratched in his tears,

Choosing me as kin.

What am I to learn

From this master’s words,

Wrought in sorrow.

Can it be penned by a mere traveler

On her own soul voyage?

Is it that we share

What his heart holds?

Is Grief my albatross,

Caught in my sails?

Winds cannot release her, but I must.

Her grip’s an illusion.

I’m not in her talons.

Nor was he.

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mark-twain-4

 

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/10203536627334068

Image: https://sfbaytripper.com/2012/09/10/22-best-quotes-about-san-francisco/

 

Audio · Poem · Poetry

Soul Longing Chimes

Soul longing chimes

On the backs of angels

Ringing wing songs

Notes, a roadway

Gold-toned steps,

Wet with tears

Of joy and sorrow,

Grief forgiven.

Once of brittle hearts,

Now child soul afloat

The span of wings,

Swooping higher

On gilded ice,

Spanning the ages

Of child play in wild flowers

Cast into stars.

IMG_0878

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: http://www.fusionmagazine.org/clouds/

clouds_elias

Image: my garden