opus

I look up to the sky
and feel my heart open
to the birds silently winging
so full of grace and purpose in their mission

I notice the trees
where the squirrels ramble
playful, elfin 
they melt my heart into a smile

On the mountain path
the elk and the bear and the snake
surprise my heart, filling it
with beauty and power and mystery

The ocean churns with its deep secrets
where a glimpse of the whale
captures the breath of my heart
in a moment purely wild and free

My heart beats with all of life
a radiant symphony,
the inspired strains of all beings,
each part essential,
melding into this profound work
complete and whole and perfect.

first star

I stand before my window, gazing out into the deepening night skies, searching for that first star upon which to make my wish. There it is — winking happily at me, as if it is not beyond comprehension in its beauty and mystery. My lips move silently with my tender wish. The star listens and sparkles reassuringly. I gaze long, slowly taking in this star, and then that star, and stars beyond. Ah, look there! I see my wish as it sails on through the galaxy, blessed by all.

question not

No matter the church doors shut,
science is the new religion.
Cover your face, humble yourself in solitary contemplation,
bow in fear of the awesome power of your new god. 

Believe! the white-coated preachers call.
Faith and money will save you.
Proffer ample gold at the altar of the chosen science,
then bring your body and soul to the sacrifice.

Bow before the altar,
turn not your eyes toward any other. 
Make outcasts of those who would be scientists 
with data or ideas deemed unholy by your master.
Mingle not with heretics
no matter how learned.
Spit on them, damn them, gag them
in deference to the one true deliverer of science.
Shun the neighbor who questions.

Open your throat and
extend your arm for the sacraments.
Place your children on the pyre of the appointed science, too.
Empty their minds and yours of other notions.
The proclaimed science does not query, 
nay, it commands the natural world.
Question not.
The homeless, the unemployed, the lonely, the struggling, the ostracized, the injured, the ill, the once-free —
see how the saving arms of the only true science make it all so deserved.
Believe and be grateful.

turtle in the pond

turtle in the pond
live free
and happy
while the sun shines down
and the leaves flutter in the breeze
and the fish swim by
and the birds dip low
and the dragonflies skitter past
and the greenness of growing things surrounds you

turtle in the pond
live free 
and happy
until day the researcher bands you
or the birds and the dragonflies mysteriously disappear
or the fish die off from pollutants
or the agricultural run-off chokes your lifeblood 
or the net dips down for you
or the bulldozers come

turtle in the pond
we are not so different, are we?
live free
and happy
we are all turtles in the pond

carefree

The sails gently pulled us along under sunny Caribbean skies. The piercing blue of the ocean was almost indistinguishable from the heavens above.

Always one to be absolutely in the moment, Jim nevertheless took nothing for granted.

“June, too soon,” he laughingly told me. “July, stand by.”

I looked quizzically at him. 

He continued, “August, I must. September, remember.” He finished with, “October, it’s over.”

“What’s that all about?” I asked. 

“Hurricanes. As gorgeous as this day is, we still have to think about where we’re heading. When hurricane season hits, we want to be sure of a safe harbor.”

###

Jim’s words in the drabble above are a rendition of the old sailor’s adage regarding hurricanes. Apparently, it is based on the “Mariner’s Poem on Hurricanes,” found in the book Weather Lore by Richard Inwards, 1898, which goes:

June too soon.
July standby.
August look out you must.
September remember.
October all over.

Many thanks to Eugie’s Causerie for the inspiration of this week’s prompt, “August.”

lullaby

The early morning rain sings softly to me. Like a lullaby, it calls me back toward dreamtime, pulling me there with its whispery voice. 

The rain suggests a pause, a delay to the usual commencement of ‘getting things done.’ It reminds me to let go. It reminds me some things are beyond my control, so just let go. 

It is a knowing letting go, an almost rueful letting go that must suddenly remember and admit, after all, what matters. 

The susurrus of the rain cradles me in a hallowed space with all the gentle attentions of a doting parent. I am soothed by this quiet listen to the earth, sky, and air that are my home, suffused with the glow of love and trust found there.