And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles,
no matter how long,
She speaks slowly
with a voice like moss,
soft, deep and damp.
“Hieroglyphic Stairway” by Drew Dellinger is a poetic invitation into rising to the challenges of our times. It asks:
what did you do while the planet was plundered?
what did you do when the earth was unraveling?
This poem is a group poem written by the participants of the “Awakening Creative Flow” workshop Mary delivered at the Expressive Therapies Summit in Los Angeles, Saturday, March 30.
When you are 80 years old
and your beauty rises in ways
your cells cannot even imagine now
and your wild bones grow luminous and
ripe, having carried the weight
of a passionate life.
She had horses who danced in their mother’s arms.
She had horses who thought they were the sun and their
bodies shone and burned like stars.
She had horses who waltzed nightly on the moon.
She had horses who were much too shy, and kept quiet
in stalls of their own making.
Tell a story about why the sun comes back.
Sit still until the itches give up, lizards ignore you,
a mule deer holds you in her eyes.
Explain yourself over and over. Forget it all
when a scrub jay shrieks.
I will honor all life- wherever and in whatever form it may dwell - on Earth my home, and in the mansions of the stars.
Climbing through a dark shower I came to the edge of the mountain
I was a child and everything was there
with the animals dying around ustaking our feelings we are saying thank you with the forests falling faster than the minutes of our lives we are saying thank you
This woman loved a man and she breathed to him her damp earth song.
Walking, I can almost hear the redwoods beating. And the oceans are above me here, rolling clouds, heavy and dark, considering snow. On the dry, red road, I pass the place of the sunflower, that dark and secret location where creation took place. I wonder if it will return this summer, if it will multiply and move up to the other stand of flowers in a territorial struggle.
It’s the cedar – the mother of lingonberry – that is my tree.
It doesn’t need summer – rain and snow are enough.
Its top is high and ragged, no one hears its sound.
It has a tough, long root that it sinks into gravel.
The world is hungry for your beauty,
to bring forth
your deepest gifts.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
Connections are made slowly, sometimes they grow underground.You cannot tell always by looking what is happening.
When did poetry arrive for you? What is your relationship to poetry? Do you write it, read it? Where does it live for you?
A beautiful poem by Michael Havers that has us question our place in nature.
Give praise with hum of bees,Give praise with the little peepers who live near water. When they fill the marsh with a shimmer of bell-like cries We know that the winter is over.
I am the universe in motion,For I was born from stars.
Give me wisdomBeneath cool moonlight, And wild gypsies songs,
You, darkness, that I come fromI love you more than all the fires that fence in the world,
The terrain around here Is
The drums...dancing to the heartbeatMemories of long ago insights to the future I hear the winds whispering my sweat lodge dreams I see Sungmanitu tanka (the wolf) my guide
I bow my head before you as I look deeply and recognize that you are present in me and that I’m a part of you. I was born from you and you are always present, offering me everything I need for my nourishment and growth. My mother, my father, and all my ancestors are also your children. We breathe your fresh air. We drink your clear water. We eat your nourishing food. Your herbs heal us when we’re sick.
I swear the earth shall surely be complete to him orher who shall be complete, The earth remains jagged and broken only to him or her who remains jagged and broken.
In her bottled up is a woman peppery as curry,a yam of a woman of butter and brass,
One's throat must be like a gardenAnd one's eyes like windows through which love passes;
Time to go into the darkwhere the night has eyes to recognize its own.