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 · Poem · Poetry

And Then There Was Light

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And Then There Was Light

Destruction is Creation.

The Void, ripped open

By the Light,

The Cosmic knife

Piercing through dark matter,

Spilling shards of radiance,

Bleeding light, birthing stars,

And us with the dust.

All wounds, transmuting pain into

New flesh.

Beauty and innocence, nurtured in a

Dark womb.

Birth, emerging with screams and

Open eyes.

The butterfly, born from

Shearing off the face.

Roots tearing the soil,

Blossoming the manifested.

Light and Shadow, betrothed,

The polarity;

The paradox.

 

Copyright © 2017/10/29 Barbara Harris Leonhard @ extraordinarysunshineweaver.wordpress.com

Image: https://www.events.iop.org/e/from-the-big-bang-to-homers-last-theorem-123641500/page.html

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

Broken Heart

Broken Heart

A broken heart,

The construct of love breached,

Rivets on the bridge

snapping in a storm.

The dam opening,

Spilling grief in torrents,

Flooding with tears

The home in the valley.

Trails and journeys,

Washing away,

Burying hope in sediment.

Lives stiffening into artifacts.

 

Is it inherent for

Yin to slaughter Yang?

Can a smile balance on

One lip?

Is a journey taken with

One foot?

Is a blossom perched on

No stem?

Are rays emitted by

No sun?

 

A heart is a quilt sewn with

One continuous thread –

Joy stitching onto grief,

Grief onto hope,

Hope onto despair,

Despair onto joy.

Forms have shadows.

What is a shadow without light?

A heart completes itself.

What is breaking is

Already mending.

 

Copyright©  2017/10/17 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.wordpress.com

Image: Original Art “Broken Heart” © Martha Harris See Martha’s Artistic Flarings @artisticflarings.blog

 

 

Audio · Poem · Poetry

Tame

Tame

Tame is life homogenized into

Sameness, dull conformity.

Each city, a blueprint,

Not a fingerprint.

Mom and Pop bakers

Fired for standard fare everywhere.

 

Each street, the same facades.

Each house, the same architect.

 

The unique, bullied

Into stock, chattel to Tame.

Tame makes a cage for

The Divine Feminine.

 

Work, the same tedious routine

Of manageable acts.

 

Colors, estranged by hue

And forbidden to touch.

 

Fear speaks Tame,

The language of the banal,

The literal.

The word of Tame

Must not be broken,

Lest one is shunned.

 

Yet no forest is tame.

A path must still be forged, but

Is easily consumed by Gaia.

 

Gaia raises weeds,

And roses can be wild.

Trapping rivers is

Unnatural.

Tigers make hungry pets.

Cancer defies the healer.

Dogs are still wolves.

 

Hummingbirds seek our nectar, but are

Elusive to our touch.

Hives are still dying in our care.

 

Laws are illusory templates left to interpretation.

Even God’s laws cannot tame.

We still have enemies who cannot be

Brought to their knees

By guns and bombs.


Life is an illusion

Enslaved to Fear,

To Tame.

 

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

Image: http://entertainment.howstuffworks.com/arts/circus-arts/lion-taming.htm

 

Lion tamer Dieter Farell of the Sarassani circus in Duesseldorf, Germany, in 1964.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Audio · Poem · Poetry

I Am Desire

I Am Desire

I am Desire in a broken cage.

I dare not feel the light

Dressing the bent bars and

Caressing my great mane.

I dare not smell the blooms,

The fragrance of my dreams.

I dare not touch the lambs

Curled at my feet

Just beyond my slumber.

Surrounding me,

Umber clouds of doubts.

Are those blossoms my soul’s yearning

Just out of my grasp?

Do they know my worth?

Dare I break free

Of this cage, my womb,

To witness my own birth?

 

Copyright©  2017/10/07 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.wordpress.com

Image: pinterest.com  

 

Audio · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry

The Poet Dreamer

 The Poet Dreamer

Our lives are nights bereft of cogent dreams,

Sleep of light thought of lines of poems

Forgotten upon rising.

We are poets searching for truth in all dimensions

Much less our own lives,

Our greatest dream and illusion.

 

The mind plays tricks as symbols contest each other

In active play as we slumber away our hours.

Our day dreams are adventures with abstract layers

Of indecipherable, chaotic images and

Archetypes creating a play of poems.

Elusive are the truths hidden on the stages of dreams within dreams.

 

In which dream are we?

We are dreamers fighting our minds

To make sense of signs and symbols.

Each day we dream our stories of

Mystery, terror, rhapsody, and salvation,

As we seek order in identity, our place in creation.

 

Our days are collages of metaphors and entanglements,

Battles with shadows, and fictional accounts of

Victory and defeat; glory and grief.

Truth is elusive and well hidden in then

Confusion of interpretations of our delusions

Of self and others.

 

Life is a play of art unfolding in a labyrinth of

Paths interlinking the past, present, and future;

This dream of life is not linear;

It is a chaotic muddle of symbols and

Lines of thought with no intersection for truths to gather

For directions on this journey.

 

Life too is a kaleidoscope of truths

Brought into focus in vivid moments of contemplation

In which we awaken to capture flashes of

Brilliant insights as lucid dreamers.

That is the irony;

That is the poetry.

 

© September 14, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Original Digital Art: “The Poet Dreamer” ©Martha Harris  See Martha’s Artistic Flarings@artisticflarings.blog

 

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/

4A197AA5-32F3-4ABD-8FE4-ADF960918485-706-000000A140088379

 

 

Audio · Poem · Poetry · Voices from the Veil

The Jewel

 

There is no date of my passing

On this cold stone,

Only my one name.

Those were tough times

When etchings in granite

Cost diamonds.

My name was a jewel

Captured from a life

Gone with the waves of time, as I.

I recall not my arrival or departure

As this jewel,

For it’s been ages.

I have many names now

As I have come and gone

More than once.

For each earthly visit,

We all leave a snippet of our soul,

Waiting for a kind voice

Uttering our names,

And once heard, we gather ourselves up

Like flowers for a new display.

This is how it is.

Names are themselves souls.

So today I will gather myself up

For a new coming.

Thank you, my friend.

 

Copyright © August 8, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: Pixabay     https://pixabay.com/en/shell-pearl-valuable-light-sand-1972980/

Shell, Pearl, Valuable, Light, Sand, Open, Jewellery

 

 

 

 

 

Audio · Ekphrastic Poetry · My Mother · Poem · Poetry

New Audio: Mother, Great Pine

Mother, Great Pine,

Stretching in her years.

Needles springing from craggy trunk

In need of water.

Branches reaching for cloud mist.

Perches for birds with nests

Gathered in crevices hidden by owls.

Her hair of needles

Cracks in Sun’s heat

And breaks in Sun’s breath.

Her roots dig into springs

Dried to stain on parched sand,

Blown to rock in forgotten forests,

Where memories remain.

Mother, Great Pine,

Life marks its initials

On tattered bark

Dressing her soul.

Her shadow marks a path

For Time to travel

Dawn to dusk

Without fail.

 

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: https://www.google.com/search

pine-tree-e1334339816520