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 · 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 · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry

Clandestine Spirit

Clandestine Spirit

Clandestine Spirit, there is a fold

In the universe for you.

Obscurity hidden, your disguise,

A soul unmanifested,

Cloistered layers of debris of

Expectation and self-deprecation,

Your sparkle diminished into secrets,

 

Fear of scintillating into recognition.

Your flame, unsanctioned,

Unholy fire of dead stars.

What is your jewel to guard,

Entombed truth?

Is this place your urn

Or your womb?

Fear is the breath of sin;

Forgiveness, the gold of God.

Copyright © 2017/10/22 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.wordpress.com

Image: original art “Clandestine Spirit” © Martha Harris See Martha’s Artistic Flarings @artisticflarings.blog

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

Floating in the Depths

Floating in the Depths

i awaken to being wrapped

in a void of waves

my arms and legs carried along

toward a beacon

as tunes in a tide

in the depths

i am my mind

i am my soul

i am my self

in this present moment

i am my first

i am my last

i am the sea

i am the womb

i am the fetus

i am the infant

is this my birth

or my death

sea and womb are one

with transcendence to ashes

the beacon pulls me

i am becoming

floating in the depths

 

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

Image: Original art “Floating in the Depths” © by Martha Harris See Martha’s Artistic Flarings @artisticflarings.blog

 

 

 

 

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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Audio · Poem · Poetry · Tai Chi

New Audio: Fair Maiden

Fair Maiden

White leather sown with straps and beads,
Braids woven in feathers
Though fair skinned,
I am a Native maiden,
On my path winding inward.
The forest tangles
Yet opens its vines and limbs
As a cave mouth,
Where I enter, greeted by a wolf and a hawk,
Guides to an overlook.
Wolf at my side, the expanse opens up.
I fly with Hawk,
The wind drumming my face
To where the dance is,
The drums, the rattles.
Wolf and I dance.
As the Fire strokes my hair.
Drumming, chanting, whirling.
I whirl my arms skyward,
Embracing air. I am small,
For the twisting air makes night a shape,
Looming before me, it asks if
I am ready to die.
I stand bold, warding off Death.
Fair Maiden to the North,
South, East, and West, all directions.
Night Dragon breathes Fire,
But I ward off Death in the fumes.
All around the drums beating
In my heart, steady beats, strong.
I stand like granite.
I am the chanting, the dance.
The songs open to me
The words I need to know
As I emerge from the rage
Of Night, asking for my Soul,
Of which I have many,
One for every element.
The elders sing my divination,
Their faces lit by fire and stars.
The Night Beast withdraws,
Warded off by my Spirit,
There he rests, waiting
For another test of me, but
He’s really an Ally,
Guarding a contract
Written in parchment
By the Sea of Forgetting.
I am here to be reborn.
To awaken to Truth
And to lead others to their sacred gardens,
Where Fear makes their beasts
And where they greet Death
As a passage to their Spirit Name.
And emerge as warriors,
Gifted with arrows, feathers, and drums.

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: https://pixabay.com/en/native-sprite-dancer-folk-art-20341/

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Audio · Poem · Poetry

New Audio: Twin Flames

 

Maybe the twin flame is the body.

This carriage of flesh and bone

Transporting the empress;

This fine leather purse

Guarding the treasure.

The clay vessel

Displaying roses.

The body, a self, one memory;

The treasure, a self, many memories yet

Two souls become entwined.

The candle; the flame.

The host; the guest.

The package; the gift.

Both in agreement as one receives the other,

Dissolving into its infant being

And yet they are so different.

For one is a temporal vessel easily chipped and broken;

The other, an old soul on many missions, indestructible.

For one, where there is discovery;

For the other, there is knowing and revelation.

For one, where there is desire;

For the other, there is manifestation.

For one, where there is Time connecting all pain;

For the other, there is only Now.

For one, there is slumber as life is a dream, an illusion;

For the other, there is awakening and enlightenment as life is a school.

One is a dense, heavy, carnal, earthly, transient being;

The other, a radiant, expansive, ethereal thought being from Source.

They are Cohabiting, yet so unique.

The purpose is to bring to fruition unconditional love

In the home and the spirit

On Earth.

These two beings, twin flames.

With the death of one, there is ongoing life for the other and yet

Grief for the loss of this mate of a different race

Until reuniting with the Light as a spectrum of thought, and then

Another journey to the flesh and bone of a chosen one.

For the other forever moves out from as well as back into the Light,

Merging with Ancient Kin as both One and Not One,

Living others’ stories and sharing its own reviews

Over many lifetimes.

As a guest to many hosts

On its ascension to full Truth,

Known as Source.

 

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: Raggedy Ann and Andy  pinterest.com (Vogue cover)

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