Ocean Song

Ocean Song

Just breathe.
Just breathe.
Listen.
And breathe.

The ocean and the sky
Touch.
Kiss.
Love.
To sing a song of healing
over you.

To sing.
Over humanity.
Healing waves
of Mercy.
Love.

The ocean is wise,
understanding
of human folly,
foolishness,
selfishness,
sin.
The ocean will heal us
if we let her.

But we must also
heal her.
We have polluted her patience,
treaded on her tenderness,
broken her bravery.

The whales,
keepers of the deep Mystery,
weep salty tears
over us.
Do we hear their cry?

When will we listen?
To the ocean?
To the whales?
To the song of time?

When will we breathe
and understand
healing
mercy?

Or will we let time
run out
on our planet?

Listen.
And breathe.

 

 

Image Credits: Pok_Rie.

Cloud Eyes

Cloud Eyes

Depression falls around me.
A streaming cascade of gray droplets clouding my eyes.

How will the mist rise
                                up
from the valley of hardship
and wisdom?

Clouds hide behind white orbs
and green crysalides.
My eyes
      wait
for wings of spirit
to fly
with clear sight
of heaven and earth.

Cataracts,
Surgery,
the Doctor says.
Thick black glasses
                    perching
on his white hawk nose.
Thin black pen
                    opinionating
on the white chart paper.
Slim black hand
                    ticking
on the white clock. read more

The Dandelion and the Truth of Love

The Dandelion and the Truth of Love

It is quickly becoming winter here in Minnesota. We even had our first snow flurries today! But as I walked on an errand, I saw some brave dandelions still raising their gray, fluffy heads to the sky. I wrote a blog post some time ago about the brave dandelion, and here I revisit the flower with this poem.

Blowing dandelions
in the wind,
cottony white puffs,
softly shining joy and hope,
reminding me of childhood
against a cloudy and bleak sky.

Each seed is a promise,
which will grow into a yellow youth,
deepen into a furry white old age,
and finally give itself up,
in another cloud of seeds,
in love,
in the cycle of earth.

The dandelion whispers to me,
cajoles me gently,
asks me to pause and listen,
as I pass on my hurried way.

Her words are faint, but clear,
“Stop, rest, take joy.
For this moment.

“Ponder, wonder, learn
the natural cycle of love.”

Oh, that we would all take time
to see the little dandelion.
That we would not scoff its simplicity,
or, worse,
call it a weed,
call it the unwanted.

For only in contemplating
the small and the unwanted,
and in drinking the cycles
of the natural rhythms
of season-time,
can we ever discover the Truth
of Love.

Photo used freely, courtesy of Jo Brown on stock.xchng

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