My Father's People

My Father's People

My father’s people walked here,

amidst the blue ridges and crystal waters;

slept here, loved here, long before.

Their whispers reached through the distance,

wound their way through the smog,

along the smoldering cement,

over steel and glass to wrap gently

‘round my heart.

Tone tightened, softened only when heeded—

heeded that voice of freedom, the voice of earth —

constricted and chattered when I forgot.

Call of my father’s people, my people,

guiding me home.

Home to the rivers, home to the mountains

home to my brother trees.

I sit amongst then now and can almost hear clearly.

I am here with hi-da-da-tse-li who labor

lovingly to remove the world, and flood with life.

My father’s people, my people, I walk here

amongst the blue ridges and crystal waters.

S’gi!

The Body Rejoices

So, I'm working on form and meter over on the writers site Writing Our Way Home.  It's really an inspirational site with a bunch of lovely people who are welcoming, warm, and supportive. Right now we're working on Heroic Couplets. For example:

True EASE in WRIting COMES from ART, not CHANCE, 
As THOSE move EASiest WHO have LEARN'D to DANCE. 
'Tis NOT eNOUGH no HARSHness GIVES ofFENCE, 
the SOUND must SEEM an ECho TO the SENSE. 

~Alexander Pope 

I didn't think the last one I did was very good, which is why I haven't posted it here. I 'try' to share only my good stuff-you'd thank me, really. 

So, I thought maybe if I just write and then re-arrange the piece to 'make' a heroic couplet. I struggled with that until I broke out in a cold sweat and before I stamped off and threw myself in bed, I quit. Here is the original piece, which obviously I like since I'm sharing.

The Body Rejoices

The body rejoices

Then it rebels

Sunrise meditation, deep morning mountain air breaths

Crisp, cool and damp with night’s sleepy dew.

Tai-chi stretches confident before mindful trees

Warms and caresses stagnant muscles

Breaking dead branches fallen to the earth,

Pulling overgrown horseweed

The bulk of being whispers

“Thank you”

Raking years of layered hickory nuts, shells and leaves

Closer to the compost, closer to the fire pit

Whispers becomes murmurs, turn to screams

Head reels and stomach churns

The body rejoices

Then it rebels

Hot water steams down and soothes into lullaby’s

Senses heightened, oxygen pumps robust,

Words tumble, poetry flows

The mind rejoices

The body—content.

Fairyland Haiku

 

Mists swirl about dancing

in the trees, through the forest

Creates a fairyland

Sunshine On My Table

Sunshine on my table

Plucked from my wild yard of weeds

To brighten my table, my day

Boxes to Burn

Boxes to burn

Time to remember

Slow, simple

Move      ment

Wordle #16 - White House of Hell

White House of Hell

Rusty prophets swept in last month

Foaming spittle, anticipation of the hunt

Morning rose tender with promise

And fate blew its seductive kiss

Soon the walk of talk stumbled and fell

Sun set on the white house of hell

Cement buckled and the veil shred

Torments of greed’s lusty bed

Take notes clearly dear people

Of the crawling scars in yonder steeple