GOODBYE WINTER ...

I began this posting of a daily poem in myredberrypoetree.blogspot.com back in December as the winter descended. Surprisingly, I have put out a collection of 75 poems. Stephen and I are heading out for a breath of southern air and blossoming trees and I'm hoping when we return, winter will be all gone. I plan on self publishing this blog and will dedicate it to my mother…Phyllis Ballou who began her 90th year the day or two before I began this process…and to my cosmic mother, Mother Earth…who like my mother seems sick and exhausted. She still deserves to be celebrated, cherished and appreciated in every way possible and every effort should be being made to save her health before it's too late. I hope it is not too late. And I pray.

ONE HEART

All the dead wet leaves
are lying on my heart,
pressing down,
heavy on my love
and the worms are busy
making soil,
and I am raking.
Raking away years
of brown decay--
and as I rake,
I sweat
and as I sweat, I smile
because everywhere,
I am unearthing
small red tipped shoots
and tiny greens
pushing upward;
hard working for the light.
A dawn of recognition
as I bring them out from under--
hopes, plans for better love,
prayers of growing peace,
a cleaner place to live…
these are the shoots
that I release to light;
by raking, preening Mother Earth
helping her shed her skin
helps me shed mine
into understanding
the common boat we are in.
As her losses are pulled away,
put in the compost heap,
her springtime gifts of growing things
emerge from winter's sleep
and she redecorates our home
with love,
and vibrant color;
poems of waxy petals shimmering with dew,
sketches of greening landscapes reaching out
for a wider view
and ah…the music
trilling birdsong
that can lift the heart
to nod in recognition
of the unity that bonds
my little aching single heart
to the planet we live on.

TALKING LEAVES

Trees make the firm commitment
to be rooted where they stand…
digging in, drawing down
the taproot burrows underground
seeking moisture, sweet sustenance of life.
Growing closer to the core
the web of rootlets spreads
weaving beneath the obvious
in fragile fabric threads
a net for all creation.
Trees reach beneath the surface
seeking depth and fertile soil
absorbing with their roots
what nourishes the soul.
They seek the deep connection
with the breast of mother earth
and move through the circle of seasons
without complaint, sure of their worth.
They teach us to be flexible in youth,
to set a multitude of buds
to bend and yield to forceful wind
but yet, hold to our ground.
They teach us to be broad leafed
in adulthood, openminded,
using every surface to survive…
they teach us to go deep
so our crowns might reach the sky.
And in the fall of life,
they teach us not to care too much,
prompt us finally, to dare
to show our brilliance, colors true
and then in faith
to set our leaves upon the wind
before our cycle starts again.
Once we've given all to the beyond,
the winter of our life begins its song.
We dig in,
return to Earth--
we recognize the beauty of bare bones,
comprehend the music of the stars…
piercing the black velvet dark of night
with startling melody, laughter and light.
The joy travels swiftly deep into the root
and spreads through root webs underground
sending heavenly music through
Earth's fabric of color and sound.
Yes, trees stand rooted, firm
silent teachers at the center,
sacred instruments mediating exchange
between pulse of earth
and the primal dance of stars,
receiving the universal light,
they spread understanding,
encourage what is right.
If we listen, we can hear
creation's sermon loud and clear
delivered by Earth's minister, the tree
breathing love into eternity.

AMERICAN BITTERN

This bird is actually a heron...

Plunk, plunk, strange
otherworldly voice
balking from the bog.
Lonely hiccuping sounds
more like frog than bird…
more like me
than my own species.
My heart knows oddness,
the loneliness that goes
with having a deep voice,
bitter horn croaking through fog.
None listen
enthralled by the music
of your song,
but Bittern,
that does not mean you are wrong.
Keep croaking
plunk plunk in the bog.
Let out your bittern song
mysterious language
rhythmic prayers to God.

UNFINISHED BUSINESS..memorial for Dad

The are no words-
no frills to cover the pain…
no snares to contain it
no traps to confine it
no dictionary to define it.
My heart writhes
a river of aching,
longing, wishing…
this daughter's heart breaking.
I miss the nearness of you-
the smell of rough tweed,
the peeling leather elbow patch,
your roast-beefy hands
drawing lines on a napkin
to make a point.
The way you cherished
that noon balloon,
the perfect viscosity
of a crafted martini…
the way some men appreciate
a beautiful woman.

I was so hungry for those lunches
when I had you all to myself.
I was careful
to dish up the best of myself…
me the thinker
me the listener,
the cautious balancer of facts--
I showed you the wise woman
I might become.
I showed you the defiant individualist
and the soother of souls
but never, never
that needy little girl
who needed more of your light
illuminating her world
because she was the one
who frightened you away
by her yearning tears
that begged you to stay
to hear her out.

The door slammed against churning emotion,
unbalanced demand for attention.
Thats all she wanted…
the being near you that wasn't planned
sustained her soul,
affirmed her wholeness.

It's OK Dad.
Those days are gone
and so are you…
but the need hangs on.
Her ghost appears when I'm alone
except now it is me
who slams the door
in angry defense,
the final "No more!"…
yet still
she stands
begging
on the threshhold.

JEWEL IN A CROSS

(in memory of Will Shakespere's sister…be-
cause she left no name and never raised her voice.
She committed suicide and was in fact, buried at a crossroad. And with thanks to Virginia Wolfe who first told me Shakespere even had a sister.)


She died…
crippled by confinement
in a woman's body
in the middle ages--
never having felt the flow
of pen's blood
etching words on pages.
She was young
and yearning
for the great beyond
that lives just out of reach,
in some untouchable place
where the freedom of silence
can screech out
in peace,
breathe undisturbed
by needy voices,
the call of dusty furniture,
the constant droning noises
of a woman's life
in the middle ages.

She was buried at a crossroad;
cast no shadow over time,
left behind no legacy
no neatly ordered rhyme
nor prosaic reason
for her presence.
As if she never was.

Her only failure
was to follow "natural laws"
that stipulated every woman's move…
how to breathe
and who to love.
She had genius
and adventure in her heart
but qualities like these
were never written in her part.
And so, naturally, she broke the rules.

Dying,
she broke free…
somewhere in the glow of stars
the whispered soliloquy
of the female who failed
to be a mister…
jewel in a cross
the buried song
of William Shakespere's sister.

ODE TO IRIS

Tight furled in pointed spikes
your bud holds fullness
prayers of life inside.
You stand erect and
point your way to God
for opening to light
would never be denied.

Permission for your purple drapes
to open and relax in light comes not
from reaching high to up above
but from daily nurturing of corms
under a dark earth blanket tucked with love.

Years warm thy feet,
urge sensing roots to spread
weaving a fabric of elements
that intermingle-
friendship between air and light and rain.
Space for reaching deeper still
that you may not reach in vain
for something
you have not the strength to stand.

Your elegant velvet petals
open in memory
of fallen lives who fertilize
your souls eternally.
Love undraped, full open to the sun
was written in the dark void long ago.
Permission feeds the roots beneath the soil-
the hard labor of building, the physical toil
of spreading ashes, dung, digging in decay;
All…informs this passionate purple blossom
shining ephemeral in light this day.


Easter blessings of spring, growth and fertility upon all….

DOING NOTHING

I am riveted
to one stark
beam of light
as it pierces the dark--
it is the eye of the needle
demanding one point focus.
I roll my fingers
feeling for a thread,
something strong
yet tiny
like the lyric of a song
that I can grasp
between sweaty fingers…
push through
that beam of light,
that thread that binds
the essence of a dying life
to some unknown future time
when light and dark
again together play
on fields
or waves of dawn
as morning friends
and growth brings forth…
the darning
making one
of endings and beginnings
yet to come.

THE FEARFUL PLUNGE…a story poem

Down in the forests of Cherokee
flows a smooth stone river
telling stories for free.

The only payment that's due
is a listening ear,
an open mind and a heart that is clear;
for the stones tell a tale
of a youth in her teens,
who loved the woods,
the flowers and streams
and a little retarded girl
dreaming sun dreams.

She once climbed the cliffs
that border the river-
overlooking the swim hole
the height made her shiver.
Her knees were a-knocking.
Lord, she wanted to jump
and be like the boys she admired
but the lump in her stomach,
the fear that she felt
had her frozen like a statue,
iceberg that won't melt.

Down below the waters ran,
the falls filled the hole
as fast as it ran out.
The children were laughing,
the boys calling her name-
she wanted to prove she had guts
much the same as the boys. But
her delicate heart filled with fear and trembling,
was stuck on the cliff
as her mind tried assembling
the courage she needed to jump.

Alas one young man forced the lump
from her stomach into her throat.
He pushed her.
Fear had held her mute-
but as she fell
she let out a scream-
the long moment of falling
was out of a dream
she had had as a child.

Proving her guts was a failure it seemed,
but deep in her heart
a victory beamed--
that she leapt off the cliff
and joined river's flow
at the touch of a youth
that she didn't know
The fear was cracked,
the task was done.
Now, deep jumping might be fun
thanks to the boy who gave her a push.

Though her mind angered
that her guts were mush
compared to the boys,
her soul was elated,
not angry at all-
that it took the touch of a male
for the fall to come.
Losing her pride
led to her fun.

The stones sing lightly of moon's love for sun,
of a girl in her teens
who tried so to run
from her woman's heart,
her fear of heights
her deep inner passion
for laughter and light.

Yes. Down in the forests of Cherokee
wisdom flows from river to sea
and the stones tell stories of a heart
that is free.


I worked as an aid for a special needs 5 year old girl the summer I was 18. I traveled with the family on an extended camping trip. One favorite spot was a swimming hole in Cherokee National Forest.