awaken

crickets chirping.
a bird’s clear note.
a star-filled sky
slowly giving way
to the sun 
spilling pink into the horizon
reaching toward
ever more blue.
trees standing in silhouette
until the light infuses
every growing thing
and the air
whispers everything awake.
these, at least, are truth.

###

Stand for Freedom

round the world


man would hold that sparkling orb
in his clasp of iron
to covet and to pillage
emboldened by
the might of his arm and voice
drawing on that glimpse of mind 
he espies from the shore
never cognizant 
those verdant greens and vibrant blues
are but the edge of all that matters
beautiful and resonant with 
joyful purpose

###

Thank you once again to Eugi’s Causerie. This week’s prompt, “Round the World.”

Stand for Freedom!!

soaring

i tread the soft path at river’s edge
where trees reach up
birds flitting between them, 
the quiet and the joy
of this wild place brings me back 
to wholeness, 
it fills me.
my spirit sings and
spirit answers
lifting me up
carrying me on wings
soaring ever higher
past the leafy canopy of trees
above the ever-changing clouds
we sail through the infinite blue
and become the explosion
of stars and shimmering dust 
and mystic tunnels of space,
so far beyond, 
all there,
at the river’s edge.

###

Many thanks to Eugi’s Causerie for the delightful prompt, “soaring.”

heartstrings

these strings are tied to the pearly moon
taut and limp with the pull of the sea
humming out a thread of jazz bass in the winter deep
or funky folk on a cigar box guitar 
maybe singing the long, sweet notes of summer

these strings they reach to the wind
flying along with the birds and the clouds
sweeping around this globe of colors
wet with rain or frozen with dizzy heights
or sailing amidst the whispered prayers persistently rising

these strings are still attached
though seemingly broken again and again 
deliberately snipped or frayed to bare spindles with tension
somehow and always tied securely underneath
the heavy load of lonely emptiness

###

before the light comes

The birds begin to sing before the light comes. The voices reach me through the windows opened to the soft rustles and creaks of the dark hours. They pierce the magic time of furtive shadows, clear and urgent and free.

Is it song? Or is it speech? Is it utter joy? Do they call lovers, call children? Do they call me, call us, call all?

The strain oscillates through the air, an abstraction, cryptically enfolding me. The darkened space in which I lay irresistibly expands to the trees, the skies, the stars. I flutter up to the birds and sing with them the chaotic anthem of our souls. No beat, no refrain, no syncopation, no rhythm at all but we thrum with the cadence of life.

The birds begin to sing before the light comes. They sing the primal language, the one we all know. My feet and hands speak it, the tongue of the breathing earth, the pulsing star. We are all there together, for that brief moment before the sun snaps its fingers before our eyes, at the feral edges.

So dreams will have to do for now. Imagination defies the story to which we have agreed. Later, I will remember what we all know to be true, and sing again with the birds at the outer fringe of night.