Inspirated by B. W. Yeats with a Nod to C. S. Lewis

Turning and turning in a widening gyre

The falcon hears the falconer;

Things fall into place, the centre holds;

Mere Christianity is loosed upon the world,

The blood of the lamb is offered;

The ceremony of innocence bathes all;

The best are full of passionate intensity;

The worst lack all conviction.

Revelations are at hand.

Inspiration from Yeat's The Second Coming

And click HERE for more Mornings with Mary

Unexpected

You looked so different today.

I hardly recognized you.

Do I know you?  You've changed.

More changed than I could have imagined.

Yes, you had lost 65 lbs and were working on more but,

it was the spiritual and emotional change that  completed the picture.

You told me your story.

I felt blessed that you shared so openly.

Thank you for the chance to reassure you.

That woman at church is so wrong.

You are welcomed and loved.

Next time, tell her to talk to a priest, not you.

Leave the back room.

Come sit in the main sanctuary again.

You are loved and wanted.

Poem dedicated to a woman I've known casually for a long time

 and chanced to meet again today.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Infinity circle wrapped me up

and led me back 

to Casa de Flores.

East Ave. detour after deciding 

not to decide.  Parking spaces missing so

turned right in the street and arrived back

at Casa de Flores.

Flowers?  Where are the flowers?

Old stuff outside.  Recycled. Upcycled.

Waiting for love.

How does this birdcage open?  No matter.

I'll figure it out.  And another.

Another you say?

I have three now.

That's a collection.

Putting on the brakes.

Leaving Casa de Flores, I drove down East Ave. again and spotted three parking places at Sacred Heart Thrift Shop so I turned left across traffic again.  I walked in keeping my fingers that I would find another Mary waiting for me. And - there she was.

I think she fits in beautifully with my other thrift shop Mary's,

And all this happened BEFORE I finally accomplished the reason for going out in the first place.   That done, I went home and avoided the heat as it rose up into my personal red zone.

Challenging My Writing Self - Day Six

Yearning for Fall

November arrives, welcome relief from heat, now cool,
Misty morning sunlight with its companion, smoke.
Stepping out onto the porch, lungs expand, air is crisp.
I inhale the tang of harvest burns.
Rocking in my chair, my thoughts recall annual visits to the hills
and friendships bound together with cornhusk rope and cider apples.

Twenty-six years past, trees planted, our children like young apples.
Now a time for jackets, gloves and socks to combat the autumn cool.
I smile as I recall and anticipate the annual trek to the hills.
Bright sunlight faintly shadowed with harvest smoke
Within - my soul burns
For banks of leaves - dry, brown, crisp.

"Peach cobbler time has ended", Barbara proclaims, preparing a sweet fruit crisp
made with love and filled with cinnamin, sugar, flour and apples.
Her backyard houses a growing debris pile for the yearly burn.
My porch to hers, I breathe in the morning cool
and the repeating tang of harvest burns.
I relax knowing that for a short time I am in the hills.

Our friendship has been a gently rolling hill,
A soft series of never-ending swells punctuated with moments of crispness
or the smothering pall of vampyric smoke
heavy with the loss of one of OUR apples.
Inner life sags and cools
but then slowly rebuilds and explodes in a life affirming burn.

Back on my porch, I lose myself in the burning
desire to run to the hills,
to surrender to the autumn coolness,
to splash through leafy mounds of golden brown crackle and crisp,
to learn the secret of squeezing cider from apples
and pumping bellows on sausage, making rings of smoke

Autumn is smoking.
Orchard caretakers fire up the burners.
Smells waft, roasting green apples.
Friends tramp through golden rainbow hills,
have fun in the kitchen baking a sweet crisp
and breathe in the evening coolness.

Rocking on my porch, I dream of days at Apple Hill
wrapped in memories of drifting smoke and tears that burned,
binding friendship over fruit-filled crisps and cool evenings.

Postcards from Paradise

Yesterday I was at a seminar on Agenda 21.  Feeding my mind is as important to me as feeding my soul and spirit.  I was in a little corner of paradise yesterday and hence this statement of my stand for freedom and individualism.

An invitation to study

to expand the mind

to gain knowledge and insight.

I accept

Introduction to wise woman

Knowledge opening outward

Dots like DNA thread

Being shared.

Rosa Koire

Key words vex

Land control, Water control,

Environmental resurrection

Disturbing
Shocking

Cause a revolution

Take a seat, set me up

Dots percolate and settle

Change and transformation

Create my own vision meeting

Gathering of friends

Groundswell revolution
Salvation's goal

Rebirth of sovereignty

So pick your poison

Fascism, Nazism, Communism

All rolled into one

Allied, linked, akin

Wilderness of ideas

Greed's path a vanguard to failure

Shocktroops of commonality

I remain the voice for individuality

For more Postcards from Paradise, please click HERE

Contrition

Lent has always been a difficult time for me. I have an idea of how Lent should go but I've never had a firm grasp of the rituals nor the discipline to pursue the rituals in seeking penance and forgiveness. This Lent, however, I resolved to do something that is, for me, very different. I have not given up anything. What I have actually done is try to develop a ritual of enriched reading and improving my prayer life. To that end, I've been reading A Treasury of Catholic Wisdom, For the Greater Glory of God, and of course, The Bible.

Three weeks into Lent, I am starting to gain some insight into recognizing and then facing habits and rationalization that lead to sin. Once these negative habits are acknowledged, it is surprising how quickly the solution can come to changing the habit from a negative behavior to a positive. I have no doubt that I would have gotten to this point eventually if for nothing else than my conscience would have started nagging me. However, I believe it is the books above that have provide a more clear path to change and hence, forgiveness.

I have also learned that even though we are very insignificant in the larger scheme of things, we are all truly unique and have a voice that God will hear. And more than that, we have ears that will hear His responses. We need only talk to him with an open heart and mind and spirit to hear what He has to say to us.

CONTRITION

Motes of dust on specks of sand
joined as shoreline of land
waiting at the water’s edge of God's mercy,
our gathering place.

Alone, I am, in this gathering place.
My sin my own, an offense not to be compared to any other's.
All insult of sin so great, a rejection of God's friendship,
infinite goodness and grace.

Feeling love for Him, how could I not love myself?
Neither is possible alone.
Loving patience, forgiving and infinite -
His only demand? Embrace good, reject evil.

White room, adorned in nothingness,

becomes my slate, my learning place, of recognition.
Sins un-recounted, forgiveness a plea. Accepting God's mercy,
we unwrap His gift of our uniqueness.

Mote on dust -
Dust on sand grain -
Grain in a sea of sand grains -
Alone but known
and, heard.

A First and a case of serious nerves

Just when you think that life has no more "Firsts" for you to experience, one comes along. Granted, I know in my heart that "Firsts" are always within us. After all, a pulse equals life and life equals actions of one sort or another. So - today - I committed an action. Today, at 60 years of age and counting, I have committed a "First".

Today . . .

. . . I submitted poetry for publication. In fact, I submitted TWO poems. And along with that, I submitted a photograph as well.

Oddly enough, it isn't the end result that I'm looking forward to. Now that I've committed to submitting, the results will be what they are. For me, the hardest part was and still is, the actually submitting. I may not ever break that particular nut entirely but I have certainly given it a good crack.

Writer's Island - The Dream

I have yearned for most of my life to live by the ocean. I lived in San Diego in my teens so have wonderful memories of the beach. Of course, this was over 40 years ago and much has changed in San Diego and it definitely would not be the place to which I would return to live. However, the dream of a home near water hasn't changed.

This week's prompt at Writers' Island is The Dream. This prompt fit quite neatly into a beautiful series of aboriginal words recently posted at Annie's "Bimbimbie" blog. Annie is in Australia. Please click here and here for some background.

As I looked over the words (second click), admiring their magical and lyrical sound and images, it came to me that all the words worked together to create a perfect poem of my dream place. I share it with you here and wish you all many blessings on this Thanksgiving Day.

Weeona emoh ruo
Mirri-Mirri illalangi

Karribi givinganna
Oodlawirri, Wambiri
[Merge]
Aroona and Bultaroo
[Brother & Sister]
Elanda

[Peace in]
Weeona emoh ruo.

The shelter

High up home on hill

Headland lookout

Hill and tree country, seacoast

Merge

Running Water and North Wind

Brother & Sister

Home by the sea

Peace in

The shelter.

*****************************

And for one of the nicest and most heart-felt Thanksgiving Day thanks I've ever read, please click here and say hello to my dear friend, Biene.

Remembering George and so thankful that he has this day with his family.

Twilight

Ten minutes after five Wind sends gentle ripples In soft undulations Lightly across water's surface In endless eddies, Going round in rings, Hastening The setting sun.

One Deep Breath - Loneliness

Di'mond hardness chokes,
Weighed breath forages within,
Lonely ache waiting.

Mysterious world,
Wonders, curiosities,
Walking through wide passages,
Walls too far to reach.
What fun to twirl and dance
Lean through walls -
Reach for what lay on the other side -
Crushed leaves
Wafts of smoke
Incense of autumn dreams
Looking back. Youth gone.
Younger days ahead.
Passages widen,
Walls crumble,
Joy and dreams wave a greeting.
A step.
A leap.
A flight
into the end of the beginning.
Or is it simply the beginning of
A new beginning?
No matter -
I wave back.

Remembering George in Prayer

The Journey Home - Part I

October 18th

I haven't done much posting or reading of blogs recently and I've noticed that many of you are semi-hibernating too. I've managed a few bits here but not much in the way of poetry has been emerging. It is definitely the Fall seasons and as things slow down, I find myself traveling inward again. But while my fingers here may be slowing down, my mind has been going lickityslip. I've been blogging now for 19 months and I am discovering that writing has its own rhythm just as the seasons do. I've noticed less traffic to my blog but then I have not been visiting as regularly either. My thoughts and activities have been quieter.

I wonder if this quiet has come over me because of my mother's death? Next Monday the 22nd will be the one year anniversary of her passing. October this year has visited us with the news of George's returned melanoma and now Quanah and Erin's decision to pick up their lives and return prematurely to Oregon where Erin can be near her brother and family for the time he may have left. These three things weigh heavily on my heart and all I can do is pray for a good conclusion for all concerned. I pray for healing, new teachers for Bishop Loers School and jobs for Erin and Q.

I am also praying for a peaceful good-bye to my mom from Krista and also for Krista's return to Mass if not necessarily the Sacraments right now. She's like her father in that way. Perhaps if she has a lifetime in her future with Chad, that will change. Don certainly has become more able to articulate his deepest thoughts over these last 29 years. I'm still surprised though when he opens up in a big way. So - back to Kris - I pray she finds some closure and peace with her grandmother's death. I know she has been avoiding thoughts of her passing and the pain she felt. Coming six years after my dad's death, it has been a lot for her to digest. Add to that the death of a high school from by suicide and the death of Aaron, the son of our closest family friend, it has not been easy. All of this happening during her teen years to early young adult years has been a lot to deal with. I never had to endure this sort of pain in my youth.

Interestingly, my mother DID and so now has Kris. Did it skip a generation, this suffering, confusion, and sadness? So it would seem. But for me, my fate seems to be the requirement to be strong for others. I gladly accept that and hope that with maturity, Kris will have the strength and wisdom to eventually do the same when life calls on her to be strong again.

And speaking of deepest thoughts and Don, this turn of season has me reflecting on faith, reverence, and devotion again. Like this seasons, this comes in a cycle for me too and each turn I feel I come a bit closer to being centered and at peace.

I have had two things on my mind lately

1. The Sacrament of Reconciliation and
2. The altar free-for-all that plagues the Church these days.

I am a Catholic of a certain age and can clearly remember the Latin Mass. We lost the Latin Mass in 1962 just as I was entering high school so I an recall the change back to its beginning. Forty-five years later, what seemed like a good idea has actually become a divisive and great disappointment.

October 18th

I remember

The scent of incense

Burning candles reflecting

red and lights embrace.

The hush before Mass

reverence that is missing

Yearning for return.

I remember

Bowed heads, hats removed

Black mantilla covering hair

Modesty, good sense

Faces were well-known

Even those without a name

All met with greetings.

We shared something

in common -

The Mass

I remember

Seasonal vestments

Colors that changed with the

Church calendar.

Or, with mourning

Celebrations, and

Holy Days.

I remember

Confession on Wednesdays and Saturdays

When we had more priest,

Enough priests,

A surplus of priests.

Bloglandia Ball - September Full Moon

Today...this Full September moon, is the Bloglandia Ball...hosted by Elizabeth Bunsen, of Be...Dream...Play... After much thinking, a push from Lady Lea, and a bit of inspiration over coffee and knitting needles, . . .

I decided to
play
whirl
spin
and dance.

I decided to
lay in a bed of flowers
wear my pretty red shoes
visit and share secrets with girlfriends
and let Summer chase me into Fall.

I decided to

try something new
sip nettle tea
nibble herbal cookies laced with
lavender, lemon, and mint.

I decided to

laugh at the party
laugh most hearty
no sitting in corners for me.

I decided to

howl at the moon
fall into a swoon
and then wake again
to a now waning moon.

FRONT DOORS

I took a walk through your neightborhood today
and discovered that we had something in common.
We both live on quiet streets, mine public, yours private.
Similarities ended there.


My front door opens to the world welcoming friends and family in.
I strolled by houses on your street and could not see a front door,
so well-hidden were they.

Casual landscape of brilliant flowers, shading trees, and cobbled walk
set out a welcome mat that lead to our front door.
The intricate and formal arrangement of trees and shrubs formed
impenetrable walls that kept your front doors out of sight.

Basketball hoops and tetherball poles sit in the church parking lot -
unused throughout the week, explode with activity on weekends -
a moving picture across from my ordinary home.
I stopped for a moment staring in the direction of where
I can glimpse the roof of what must be an imposing building.
Is that a stand of tall fieldlights I see?
Do they illuminate a private court?
What games are played there?

Basketball?
Tetherball?
Tennis anyone?

I am a visible invitation to take a moment to rest
on my front porch, to any who pass by.
But looking at the entrance of the road that leads
to the roof of the hidden house,
I wonder how long that driveway is;
and is there a gatekeeper, a final wall to penetrate,
near the front door?

I have church bells, a school, a parking lot;
all signs of life in motion.
I see none of that near your front door.

But we do share that one thing in common - the quiet.
My quiet is the gentle buzz of life.
Your quiet is the quiet of protective walls.

Perhaps we both have what each of us needs most of all,
after all.

THE GIFT OF FAITHFULNESS

I love the taste of your skin – warm, a bit salty and always the sweetness of pulled taffy.
I smell the warm taffy and I want to take a cooking class with you.
A candied dessert would be perfect.

I love the way your hair curls at the nape of your neck
drawing me to the smell that I love of you fresh from a shower
before you splash yourself with aftershave.

The world doesn’t exist when we tuck into the corners
of our sofa - talking, sharing silences,
lingering over our coffee and tea.

I love it when you surprise me with a tender, unexpected touch;
your voice whispering like some 19C woodsman -
slow, thoughtful, slightly nasal;
your eyes the memory of some ancestral Welchman come to life.

I curl into you,
folding my hand into yours and I go to sleep
lulled by the sound of your breath.

You make me feel safe;
I finally believe that you will never disappoint me,
never betray me.

Writer's Island theme this week - The Gift

THE NOTE

Unprepared girl without armour
hugs roses and a note like a shield
sits cradled in the corner of a lonely sofa
on an empty stage.


Tears wet the victory of an unknown battle
waged over three nights of applause.
High expectations dashed.
Low expectations fulfilled.

Sad girl! Didn't you know you were always a winner?
Hot lipstick hate messages slashed on dressing room mirrors
can't change that.

Words of greeting from an absent father drying her tears
from a backstage far away.
Four brief word, "Knock 'em dead, baby".

Revising

I posted this poem last year and this week's lesson is on revisions. I tore into it and updated it twice more before posting it again. I will miss this workshop when it ends.

CONVERSATIONS I HAVE OVERHEARD

I - Emergency room

One room, two beds
A curtain in between.

Conversations overheard, unwhispered,
The curtain is too thin.

Children shriek in fear and protest,
The curtain is too thin.

Deafening sounds, beeps and pings,
The curtain is too thin.

Smells assail, sharp and astringent,
The curtain is too thin.

Quietly my daughter sobs,
Pressed against my heart.

Thin curtains do not matter

Simplicity - One Deep Breath

I've been away from One Deep Breath for a while and am very glad to be back. Here is my offering for the week on the theme of Simplicity.

Sim' pli' ci' ty's goal

To make life easily lived

Ah! Blessed relief.

Autumn Memories - from poetry workshop

The poem is structured on the sestina form. 39 lines, 6 stanzas of 6 lines each line ending in one of six repeating words. The final three lines close the poem. Two of each word is used in one line each to summarize the story the poem is attempting to convey.

November arrives, welcome relief from heat, now cool,
Misty morning sunlight with its companion, smoke.
Stepping out onto the porch, lungs expand, air is crisp.
I inhale the tang of harvest burns.
Rocking in my chair, my thoughts recall annual visits to the hills
and friendships bound together with cornhusk rope and cider apples.

Twenty-six years past, trees planted, our children like young apples.
Now a time for jackets, gloves and socks to combat the autumn cool.
I smile as I recall and anticipate the annual trek to the hills.
Bright sunlight faintly shadowed with harvest smoke
Within - my soul burns
For banks of leaves - dry, brown, crisp.

"Peach cobbler time has ended", Barbara proclaims, preparing a sweet fruit crisp
made with love and filled with cinnamin, sugar, flour and apples.
Her backyard houses a growing debris pile for the yearly burn.
My porch to hers, I breathe in the morning cool
and the repeating tang of harvest burns.
I relax knowing that for a short time I am in the hills.

Our friendship has been a gently rolling hill,
A soft series of never-ending swells punctuated with moments of crispness
or the smothering pall of vampyric smoke
heavy with the loss of one of OUR apples.
Inner life sags and cools
but then slowly rebuilds and explodes in a life affirming burn.

Back on my porch, I lose myself in the burning
desire to run to the hills,
to surrender to the autumn coolness,
to splash through leafy mounds of golden brown crackle and crisp,
to learn the secret of squeezing cider from apples
and pumping bellows on sausage, making rings of smoke.

Autumn is smoking.
Orchard caretakers fire up the burners.
Smells waft, roasting green apples.
Friends tramp through golden rainbow hills,
have fun in the kitchen baking a sweet crisp
and breathe in the evening coolness.

Rocking on my porch, I dream of days at Apple Hill
wrapped in memories of drifting smoke and tears that burned,
binding friendship over fruit-filled crisps and cool evenings.

The Poetry Thursday traveling roadshow

This poem is a first draft effort that grew from a free writing assignment in my poetry workshop. Thoughtful critiques are welcomed.

Second draft now appears below

Bordertown

Welcome to my border town world.
Dusty and dry, dark music and crazed taxis,
Narrow alleyways packed with piñatas,
Colors invite and entice.
Hanging sombreros, marble chess sets, BARGAINS
everywhere.
Donkey carts - “Hey! Peekchurs, CHEAP!”

My weekly visit leads me to panaderias, mercados, and carnicerias
I am known by the locals AS
a local. I am untouchable.
Helping hands, not groping hands
keep me safe.
Smells follow me and lead me on,
Sour, sweet, spicy and foul.

Hovels and mansions living side by side
Barrios and Jai Alai – homes of
Poverty and MONEY.
Smoke hangs like a pall
Over frenzied, sun-battered streets.

Sailors on leave. college boys prowling.
Men ogling, women distaining.
Turistas abound.
Midwest visitors wide-eyed in a foreign land.
Sex-seeking visitors score
“Hey! Pretty girls. VIRGINS!”
As orphanages spring up housing the offspring
of $5.00 for 15 minutes hotels.

The Breaking Window

Outward from my bedroom window the
drying field shriveled before my eyes
in the noonday heat.

Lofty tuffs of grass wave golden brown.
Sunflowers reach for the mid-day sun.
Small creatures shelter in burrows.

I gaze at my bed,
the burrow I created for myself, a small
creature huddled and hidden from the
coldness of a broken heart.

Called again to the view outside my window
tall, shadowy figure winds up, pitches and falls forward -
arms windmilling helplessly for balance.

Shadowy figures converge on the fallen one.
A burrow hole.
A broken ankle.
A pitch gone wild.

My window shatters, the glass
a rainstorm in my lap.