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Sweet The Arrival. . .
The Necessary Journey Breath was taken as wind whipped itself to a literal frenzy and the waters ripped the edges of shore. The moss flew at right angles from the branches of the Spanish Oaks. . . so beautiful the eyes could only tear with awe. The girth of the trees no tape could measure.…
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Toward Greater Life. . . .
Come Dance. . . As children we are taught that unless it can be touched, or tasted, or weighed or measured in some way and above all, tested in a laboratory, then it isn’t real; it is imagination. And yet to dismiss the emotion that has our heart and mind expanding to give us a…
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I Am The Tree. . . .
I Am The Tree. . . In man’s history, there was a time when his consciousness with Nature melded. Man did not look upon Nature as object to be observed, outside of himself, but was at one with it. It would be saying ‘I am the breath that blows through the trees and wind we…
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There Are No Words. . . .
There Are No Words There are no words in this limiting lexicon to tell of the place where heart proceeds to the precipice to touch the face of eternity. To tell of the unsteady stance ready to drop the knees at the altar of worlds begging for recognition. This they say, these giant oaks in…
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The Night Before We Put Beau Down. . .
As family members separate to find their independence, or to find work in a mobile society, the premises from which these souls wander still requires a caretaker. We found in our domesticated animals an adaptability to our need for companionship when these members left. These sweet creatures become part of the family. For those…
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Sweet Morpheus. . .
In reading today’s post of Maria Wulf’s fullmoonfiberart.com she talked of dreams and how one does not question the dream nor truly its significance. Or one’s presence in it. It brought to mind my own questions during my life’s journey at about the same age as Maria and a poem I have not thought…
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Mother God, Father God. . . .
Mother God, Father God. . . We sit side by side, shoulders hunched toward each other, stealing glances like children do looking for approval. Mother God, Father God, love me they say. I am good. I try. And they grow up and away looking at reflections of their faces, so much like us. I steal…
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I Break Bread. . .
I Break Bread I break bread with these my brothers deep into who we are and what we have been. . . . Not much, I hear, but the faith is dear, held tight to the heart. For free it never was. But come. It is time now, again to break bread. It will be…
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At The Gates. . .
At The Gates They stood as Amazons, great and glorious in their largess, in their girth. . . With moss flowing horizontally from their branches, thick as trees themselves. These Spanish Oaks stood their stance, worshiping at the shores of the waters whipped to a froth. . . Their centuries told of standing at the…
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All Worlds Become An Altar For Kneeling. . . . . . .
Is It The Water? Is it the water, he asked, this youngest son of mine as he watched me mindlessly wording wow, oh wow, oh wow. . . . or is it the trees, he continued, as I looked through the veil that had separated me from a lifetime of what I knew. The oaks…