How now, brown cow
in the front yard
around the bend
moo to you, too
my bovine friend
How now, brown cow
On Poetry
Blue-eyed bunny
Each day offers gifts
pure as a child’s smile, rare as
a blue-eyed bunny
Families often bring pets to school at dismissal, usually dogs happily greeting their beloved children. This is the first rabbit, a Lionhead named Benny. His pure white fur is silky-soft; I was awed by his beautiful blue, almost-human eyes. Thanks to the family for letting me take his photo.
Spiritual journey: Community
When I think of community
two words come to mind:
commune
and
unity.
To commune
implies awareness
listening
appreciating
expressing
from a wellspring
in one’s soul.
Sometimes with words
sometimes with actions
sometimes in just being
and being
deeply connected.
Unity implies a connection
so profound
that many become one
a whole made strong
because of its parts
because of the desire
to be together
seeking the good
of all.
Unity wears the cloak
of altruism
and walks with
amazing grace.
That brings
another word
to mind…
communion.
In the end
community is
infinitely more
than proximity.
It’s a true work
of heart.
*******
1 Corinthians 1:10, various translations:
I appeal to you, brothers, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same judgment. —ESV
I have a serious concern to bring up with you, my friends, using the authority of Jesus, our Master. I’ll put it as urgently as I can: You must get along with each other. You must learn to be considerate of one another, cultivating a life in common. —The Message
I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree with one another in what you say and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be perfectly united in mind and thought.—NIV
with thanks to Maureen Ingram for offering the prompt of “community” for our Spiritual Journey Thursday community of writers
Ten months
My beautiful Micah, this is what you are like at ten months old:
noticing everything, babbling (na na na is, in fact, part of Franna)
mimicking, clapping, squealing, discovering your tongue
and crawling down the hall to see where I’ve gone
—I am right here, little beloved, rejoicing.
My beautiful Micah
Happy fungus
Pareidolia:
it’s not hallucination.
That shroom is smiling.
Should I wonder why?
Nah. It’s just a real fun guy.
—ba dum tiss. Sorry 🙂
Photographed during a neighborhood walk.
Fun prompt: What makes the mushroom so happy?
Something sacred
Summer evening
after dinner
the three of us
are riding home
through the countryside
late-day sun
is amber-bright
when giant raindrops
begin to slap
against the windshield
Raining while the sun shines,
says my husband
from the passenger seat
(I’m in the back;
the boy is driving)
—there’s got to be a rainbow
around here somewhere
The boy makes the left turn
—There it is, he says
wide shimmering bands
hanging in the air
like a gossamer curtain
touching the road
right before us
breathless, we ride
right through it
to find another
and another
just ahead
so many rainbows
gleaming down through
the trees
over the fields
heaven’s glory bending
to caress the earth
a prismatic promise
poured out
all along
our way home
At the end of the rainbow. Mara ~earth light~. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.
I didn’t get photos, alas, but the rainbows touching the road before us yesterday evening happened to be near the spot where my husband and I saw an eagle sitting majestically by the roadside back in early 2019. In this picture the background is dark whereas our scenery was vivid green in the amber-gold light of late day… but there’s an eagle, and the sojourning child carrying solace and security in the form of a teddy bear in a backpack speaks to me.
Something sacred is in this place.
Keep going
pencil pouch advice:
keep going. you are awesome.
trust it can be done
Poem of perspective
On the the fourth day of Ethical ELA’s Open Write, Ann Burg invites poets to “Think of a moment in time— an historical moment or a personal one. Place yourself outside yourself — as a favorite tree, a flower, even an inanimate object who has witnessed this moment…”
The Upright Mahogany Howard
(c. 1920s)
I grow old
I sigh
I know you hear
my bones creaking
as you walk by
I have no mirror
but your eyes
and there I see
my beauty
is not faded
although
I’m scarred
and snaggle-toothed…
you may not realize
my proclivity
for touch-memory
but I tell you
that baby on your lap
presently pounding
my ivories
has the feel of her
—one day,
she will play
and I will respond
living on and on
in the song
for the chords
never broken
vibrate once more
stirring the dust
of five generations
in my bones…
I am
your reliquary.
The piano was my grandmother’s most-prized possession. My grandfather bought it secondhand sometime during WWII. My grandmother intended to bequeath it to my aunt, who also played; my aunt contracted MS in her 50s and died before my grandmother. Grandma then offered it to me. I do not play, but my youngest son is an extraordinary pianist with a degree in worship music. His brother’s baby, my granddaughter Micah, ten months old, is already showing an affinity for music. She sat on my lap ‘playing’ Grandma’s piano last week, thoroughly enchanted.
Art into words poem
On Day Three of Ethical ELA’s Open Write, Margaret Simon invited participants to “transform art into words” by “choosing a work of art or creative practice and explore phrasing, spaces, and repetition.”
My mind immediately went to Van Gogh and the Immersive Experience I recently attended. The last two lines of my poem are Van Gogh’s own words, written in a letter to his brother, Theo, referencing other artists who were known for painting specific flowers: “You know that Jeannin has the peony, Quost has the hollyhock, but I have the sunflower, in a way.” My poem’s title comes from Van Gogh’s artist friend Gauguin, who loved Vincent’s sunflower paintings in a time when many artists thought they were too rustic a subject. Van Gogh, however, was fond of the flowers. Newly-invented pigments of yellow oil paint enabled him to experiment and innovate, creating the two series of seven paintings collectively known as Sunflowers. At his funeral, the flowers graced his casket; a friend later planted sunflowers on his grave.
“Completely Vincent”
Van Gogh, painting sunflowers for Gauguin
Yellow
and yellow
thirty shades
of yellow
new
alive
wilting
dying
returning
with faces
forever turning
toward the sun
light shining
in darkness
returning
returning thanks
for my friend
for the beauty
of these flowers
growing in
wild array
by the paths
I walk
day by day
I offer them
to you,
my friend
can you see
in my oil-bouquet
all the shades
of gratitude
so much
I cannot even say
whether it’s still
in me to pray
be that as it may
today
today
I have the sunflower
in a way
Grass poem
On the second day of the August Open Write at Ethical ELA, Margaret Simon shared “a photo that wants to be a poem.”
Here’s mine.
Release
I savor
the secrets
of grass
in its returning
again and again
to a scarred surface.
I savor its growing
here in tangled profusion
with yellow foxtails
beckoning in the breeze
in the knowing
that when there comes
a mowing
the inner balm
ever-flowing
secretes itself
across the brokenness
releasing its sweetness
in the air.
What I savor
most of all
is breathing
the fragrance of grass
healing itself.
Photo: Margaret Simon
lit bits and pieces 