TO MY IMAGINARY HORSE…"Drinker Of The Wind".

Shake your shining
silver mane,
let your nostrils
flare-
smell the damp perfume
of Earth,
drink the crisp
fall air.
Boulders steep
and threatening:
impulse of fear
cries
hold you back.

Instead,
I give you rein.
You take the hill
and in your own
wise rhythm
negotiate the stones.

As we mount the crest
touching level ground,
your flank sweats
beneath me
as we heave
a joyous sound!

SELF PORTRAIT

The hard facts
like lines
drawn upon the page…
a self portrait
a coming of age.

Contours rise and fall…
emerging image
steps out
from negative space
defining gesture
expression on the face.

The facts of my life
create me…
forces I cannot control
or even see
are lines upon the page
and sketching me
against the empty
field of white--
open to all possibility,
unable to fight
the hand of fate,
maker of the darkest line.

I soften it
with shading…
a specialty of mind.

GIFT FROM DARKNESS

The sun rises
from a dark silent void
named sky-
draped in robes
of blood orange
like a flag unfurled
she reaches,
reaches high
to share her light
with all of Earth.
She penetrates
our mantle of sorrow
with her unconditional love
and quiet mirth.
Her radiance cares not
for how we call on God
but that we sense
divinity waking
in her wide approving nod
in her persistent rising grace
in my daily being able
to look upon her face.
Morning sun
shining light
on all who grieve and mourn,
on all those passing over
and on all lives being born…
your humble sacred gift to us?
This life,
this day,
this morn.

PRAYER

Hear me Stars…
hear my voice rise
from the volcanic force
that burns
within the core of my being…
from the fires of my rage
glean my song-
give my words strength
and shed light
that I might see
the beauty in the violence
that is me
and courage to create,
to know the place that brings tranquility-
hear me Stars!
Help me hold my power
and direct it toward
the greater good
that I can't quite see…and finally
show me how to heal
this gaping sore of me…
and Stars,
do it peacefully?

MY MAINE LOVE

Deep ancestral friend,
wild and green
my moose-eyed dream
spirit lover, Maine…
receive me, wide expanse.
Welcome me in,
enfold me in your love.
Let your big hands hold me
against velvet spruces
lacy
across western mountain breasts.
Let your cool, clear waters
babble through my yearning chest…
soothe me with rock polishing waves,
lick me with wild music
for I have craved your daily presence
hungered for your piny essence
laid my ear upon your mound
that I could hear your pulsing sound,
the comfort of your deep heart beat.
Gather me in and hold me close.
Wrap me in your working clothes,
your humble folk
your simple natural goodness.
Give me a bank
filled with ponds,
hills and trees,
the riches of woodland,
the sweetness of breeze. Blessed am I
returning to your arms again.
Hold me close.
Quiet my laboring breath.
And don't let me go…
oh, Maine!

SILENCE IS GOLDEN!!! O HOLY NIGHT!!!

WORDPLAY

Tintinnabulation…
sound of movement,
inner bells.
Joyous unseen
singing,
chiming
tinkling
whispered ringing.
Silence
harbors soulful love.
Listen
to the angels
winging,
tintinnabulation
sound of movement…
inner bells.

ICE ART

 Behold!
The ultimate artist's hand
has carefully coated
each tree in the land
in shimmering glass
and each bud on each tree
is a crystal ball-
magnificent shine
reflecting the love
of a sunlight divine
that sends prisms of colors
melting through time,
the music of droplets
that melt in the sun
whispering grace
to anyone who might listen,
who might pause
and appreciate
how nature can glisten
in sparkling sheen,
how winter can whisper
a sweet wistful dream
of the spring that will come…
the melting
and flowing
of form
into fun.

HOMECOMING

Wander no more, little one…
feel it now,
your time has come.
Your birthday shoes
sprout wings of flight
and in this deepest, darkest night,
a purple-silver blue
passing clearly through
the leaden crystal
hanging in your view
inspires love.
Blue unicorn on air moon beams,
a golden horn blows shadowy dreams
and you awaken in your home
with vision clear.
Warm honey sun
is laughing in your ear
with rhyme inspired.
Youth dreams sense
deep lucid eye of deer
and velvet nose of doe.
Feel them nudge you gently
to let go…
to trust your heart
to soar on wings of song,
sprouting from shoes that were yours all along.
Young dreamers awakening
finally see-
the present of birth
is permission
to be.

SILENT NIGHT

The closest I ever got to my inner Goddess was in the process of birthing my two sons. 28 years ago today, after putting Sam to bed, I found myself in labor with the imminent arrival of William who stole in during the dark of the darkest night of the year. Born on the solstice,  I discovered what it meant to give birth to the son of light…and in celebration of my sisterhood with Mary, I wrote this poem.


He wasn't born to the beat
of rock and roll
in an adolescent scream-
or because of a majority vote
in a politicians dream
come true.
He wasn't born
with a press release
in black and white
to illustrate his coming.

He was born
on a still and silent night
from the quiet prayer
of a lone star's light
dancing on the water
like elves upon the fields,
no proofs to prove his coming.
His truth will be revealed
in the quiet passage of time-
in the rhythmic sounds of metered rhyme
that puts harmony
where dissonance has been.

His voice will whisper
 from within…
and I will listen, rapt
by his honeyed light-
trusting in his birth,
his love and life
on a still and silent night.

REGENERATION…for Grace Caswell

Great grandmother leans
into the green timeworn chair,
hugged by her own depression,
formfitting after years of silent support.
She settles in to listen
to whispering memories-
turns off the hearing aid to amplify
the stories lying gentle on her heart.

In the late afternoon sun
dangling prisms shoot rainbows on the rug.
Her head nods easy to the left-
a little sleep lifting the heaviness of time.

Into this peaceful pool
the boisterous noise of two small boys
bound slashing…they erupt-
the future!
Unselfconscious and alive,
They wake her and she comes to
without irritation or surprise,
but gracefully…simply opening her eyes.
She welcomes them and watches
with wrinkled lips smoothed by a smile
as her walker
becomes a race car
or a sleek lightening-fast spaceship to the stars,
and her cane
becomes the throttle
empowering their flight.

LUSTRATION LESSONS

Alas,
one must get lost,
wander lustful
glossed over…
a forgotten lotus
sensitive
to the hot breath
of critical bluster,
blast from the shadow dragon…
one must be blessed
by the foul smell.
Add years of irritation,
lest one pass through life
without lustre…
an unpolished stone glistens
beneath water, sunbeam...
tumbled by motion
seeking rest.
My surface shimmers.
Aging is a lasting lustration
lest I meet my maker
naked,
and without polish.

OPEN, SESAME

Open, mind-
to the unknown…
it's judgement that holds you in,
barring you from freedom's flight
on trough and crest of wind.
This cage is your creation-
it's within your own heart's power
to form a useful opening
to choose the perfect hour
to leave behind barred cage,
to soar.
Go ahead. Imagine.
Yes.
The unlocked open door.

WELCOME TO MY POETRY BLOG!!!

After many years of writing personal essays and scribbling journals, I have circled around to find I want to feature myself as a poet. I wrote my first poem at 12 when a dear friend died prematurely. I have written poetry ever since and have found some success…a few have won monetary prizes at Writer's World in The Festival Arts at Marblehead, Ma. and several poems have been published in journals including Sagewoman, Marblehead Magazine, The Blessed Bee, and Off The Coast…a journal of Maine poets. I have notebooks full of poetry and this year, as I step across the threshold of retirement, I am determined to begin the lengthy process of culling the dross from the pearls and setting these wild winged,  natural word-birds free. Perhaps they have been ripening on the shelf long enough for even me to finally appreciate them. And as I do, I plan to share them with you. Poems nourish me in my darker times. They feed a wildness in my soul. I have no string of academic degrees. I am not a world traveler or a witness to world conflict. I am a simple lover of word pictures, sounds and smells..I was a stay at home Mom who worked at jobs that allowed me to parent my own children. I grow our food and make medicines from the wild herbs and flowers of the woods and fields. I keep chickens and feed the wild birds. I make fairy houses and felted birds. I love deeply…passionately and I wither like dried fruit when I find my self expression blocked. I believe that anyone who gives voice to what they hear in their heart will inevitably give voice to a poem. I have stalled as a poet mistakenly believing that in order to be official, one must have a Masters Degree or be a teacher …or be schooled in the universe of verse. I have changed my perspective. There is value in the intimations of a quiet heart…there are songs  to sing about growing things…babies or vegetables. There is poetry in a woman's work whether she is homemaking, gardening, cooking, raising babies or being mystified by the challenges of marriage, parenting or just learning to make oneself happy. My Red Berry Poetree is aimed at the heart of the intuitive woman…the common villager, backyard farmer, lover of wild places. These poems grew wild
and came at times unbidden…like wild berries in the pucker brush. They have sustained me during times of darkness and confusion. They have been my friends. Welcome…and let me introduce you!