Friday, March 20, 2015


He skids into my heart, stands guard
at my moist pillow in the night;
and when the moon shines bright,
Owl knows the curriculum
I climb onto the owl's wide back;
we whoosh up to the sky,
away, higher
Lifted by a mighty Nor'wester gale
we sail in interstellar channels
and beyond

The breath of God whirls us toward
sacred places, to a land I once knew,
but had forgotten - far, far away
My feathered chariot, my
benevolent chauffeur grasps
trailing blue ribbon reins
He ferries my cargo of memories,
tales gleaned from generations
before, brought to bear through
gritty legacies

I slumber as he croons
with the voice of an opera tenor
I feel to my core his thunderous
wings flapping - We soar,
skirting the milky way
to a place called home
Ascending to a high cloud, he
rests me down upon the banks
of a roving river; I capture a fallen
feather, hold it close to me

My feet alight in cool yet warm sand
I sift it with my toes
Then, in a quiet boat drifting,
my hand dips into clear
water and glides
Grateful for all the living I've done,
for deeds and promises kept by me,
and for me,
for gifts I gave to others,
gifts given  me, for all we shared,
I am thankful for the return ride
dVerseStrong verb usage today...

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Wind song..

In honor of March we are writing about wind many ideas came to just a little refresher about wing   

A gentle breeze overturns twigs,
plays with a pretty lace curtain
Prevailing winds are usual,
nothing extraordinary
Moderate winds are perfect
for kite-flying weather
Strong winds, gusty gales reek havoc
in our lives
Then, once in while, A Mighty Wind
gives us reason to pray
Unless caught in a jet stream,
we go about living, 
an instrument of time,
bending, swaying, as if
life is but a dream

Depending on what's happening,
we heed the winds of change -
but must we Surrender to the Wind,
remember the Winds of War, or
be Gone With the Wind?
When the wind blows, 
the cradle will rock,
how scary
They call the Wind Mariah,
just one of many
Baby, the Rain must fall, 
baby, the wind must blow
my heart is yearning
Baby I must go

When love is in the air,
Love is like the wind
For love some will conquer Windmills 
Love is Written on the Wind;
we sometimes go Against the Wind
we will go Any way 
the wind blows
You are the Wind Beneath my Wings
a Candle in the Wind
but oh, how I love that Summer Wind!
After all, the answer,
 my friend,
is Blowing in the Wind

Sunday, March 15, 2015

Foul weather..

Tried my hand at today's  Sunday Swirl where each week 11 words are posted as a prompt for a wordle. A wordle is the name for a short composition using all the given words.


Early morning I smell sweet hay,
hear a cock crow,
then a rustling raises dust clouds
The threat of rain I see nearing
What do the hens know of weather?
A dry summer rendered cows
parched and useless; word spread
there might be some kind of  plague
Then, sounds like wild banshees
or monkeys screaming
come from inside the old barn
Whole nests filled with fresh eggs
topple from their perches
as chickens fly against barbed wire

Flying higher than the pen itself,
the only way out, but that would just
make them more vulnerable
to the coyotes that appear,
just past the field below,
beyond  the knoll
Dogged and weary they growl
and slink away
We have prayed for a break
from the blasphemous heat;
it feels no different in the shade
- if only we could sit awhile
on the porch with a deck of cards
drinking cool lemonade

But this is home,
we've endured many years
in all kinds of weather
Our small farm is dear to us
although we cried many a tear
not for just flying feathers
The losses of horses and pets
was the hardest to take
The toll taken is well worth the
nasty cotton thorns
Why I always look past winter
into the spring
For I know all begins anew,
food and water will easily keep
Green grass grows, the well is full,
and the only activity is birdsong
and cries of babies being born

Thursday, March 5, 2015

A shepherd's life..

There is a danger to overgrazing
a pasture, 
staying too long in one place
There is much satisfaction in 
the pattern of transitioning,
of establishing small encampments, 
moving between seasons,
in a nomadic way of life
For some there is a draw, a willingness
to trade well-known identity to become 
a soul living close to nature
Indigenous people of Northern and 
Eastern Europe, Mongolia, or North 
Africa might trade meats, wool and cheeses, 
own nothing,
but find peace in leaving the past behind

Free from living en masse, 
the grind of everyday commutes and 
psychic pressures of modern life where, not 
uncommonly, a young innocent girl
could be a violet stepped on
in a park and it's true -
in western culture there are always sheep 
in need of a shepherd
It's a comfortable transition for 
independents, we loners who shrink 
from this world and live
with fresh pastures to graze on,  
where unknown shepherds keep their flock
in tact, protect it. 
Yet it is a lonely life, when the name has died, 
buried long before the body 

Indeed, the life of a shepherd is on
a higher plateau, 
the distance between summer and winter
The herding of sheep, goats, or yaks leads one 
to a virtuous soul
Instead of homeless in a city, 
a camel trader might fall sleep one
bitter, chilly night to wake up on a 
slope of the flowing Steppes of Hungary
on a night clear and find the moon lying 
on its back,  
Instead, a young woman on an alpine 
hillside milks her reindeer, surrounded by 
fields of wild cloudberries
An awkward shepherd boy treated badly
by the village people can stand proudly 
with his herd and upon reaching the curve 
of a mountain, find a beach covered 
with snow

Starting our new week with new pub tenders over at Anna has asked us to write
creatively to experiment using one philosophy to describe another. i.e... to write about something totally different using baseball terminology.