Summer Poetry
Obeying the Impulse by Rosemary Wahtola Trommer
The world exists just fine without
our appreciation. It is not for us
that the dandelions bloom in tides of yellow
across the valley floor. Not for us
that the elk stream in a slow brown current before disappearing into Englemann spruce.
And then there are the tiny empires
of grasshoppers, ants and bees—
and the underground realms of prairie dogs
and worms and rhizomes and moles—
intricate and entirely oblivious to praise.
And still, this drive toward gratitude.
Still this tug to pull over the car and marvel,
this impulse to offer the world our attention,
as if being very still and alert is as vital
to the moment as scurry and swerve,
scamper and stride. Perhaps it is.
Appearances Can Be Deciving
We awake each day
with the dream world receding.
Some days we don’t remember
the visitors from this star world.
Some days the visitors stay with us.
Lingering,
Poking at our daylight world.
Saying, “Don’t forget these dreamscapes;
cows jumping over moons,
birds flying beneath the ocean,
messages from the ancestors.”
“This too is real,” they tell us as they
slip in between the meeting and the phone call
on the scent of warm earth or on the note of a song;
turning us upside down
as we are caught again
in the dream world;
Walking awake
but dancing with stars.
Painting: Blue Violinist, by Marc Chagall
Written in the Legacy Words for Healing group with Dawn Thompson 5/21/2021
M. Hartsook
Love Yourself
What if we each were medicine women;
bringers of elixirs and potions
through words and images
and bowls of soup?
What if we loved ourselves;
held ourselves as sacred bringers
of light in a spoon?
What if we wrapped in sacred cloth every morning
and scented the cloth with rose water;
to remind our tender hearts
of our power to weep and sing?
Written in the Legacy Words for Healing group with Dawn Thompson 5/21/2021
M. Hartsook
Gratitude List by Laura Foley
Praise be this morning for sleeping late,
the sandy sheets, the ocean air,
the midnight storm that blew its waters in.
Praise be the morning swim, mid-tide,
the clear sands underneath our feet,
the dogs who leap into the waves,
their fur, sticky with salt,
the ball we throw again and again.
Praise be the green tea with honey,
the bread we dip in finest olive oil,
the eggs we fry. Praise be the reeds,
gold and pink in the summer light,
the sand between our toes,
our swimsuits, flapping in the breeze.
How to Regain Your Soul by William Stafford
Come down Canyon Creek trail on a summer afternoon
that one place where the valley floor opens out. You will see
the white butterflies. Because of the way shadows
come off those vertical rocks in the west, there are
shafts of sunlight hitting the river and a deep
long purple gorge straight ahead. Put down your pack.
Above, air sighs the pines. It was this way
when Rome was clanging, when Troy was being built,
when campfires lighted caves. The white butterflies dance
by the thousands in the still sunshine. Suddenly, anything
could happen to you. Your soul pulls toward the canyon
and then shines back through the white wings to be you
again.
What did you notice?
The dew-snail; the low-flying sparrow;
the bat, on the wind, in the dark;
big-chested geese, in the V of sleekest performance;
the soft toad, patient in the hot sand;
the sweet-hungry ants;
the uproar of mice in the empty house;
the tin music of the cricket’s body;
the blouse of the goldenrod. (more)
Looking for Gold by William Stafford
A flavor like wild honey begins
when you cross the river. On a sandbar
sunlight stretches out its limbs, or is it
a sycamore, so brazen, so clean and bold?
You forget about gold. You stare and a flavor
is rising all the time from the trees.
Back from the river, over by a thick
forest, you feel the tide of wild honey
flooding your plans, flooding the hours
til they waver forward looking back.
They can't return: that river divides more than
two sides of your life. the only way
is farther, breathing that country, becoming
wise in it's flavor, a native of the sun.
Wonder
Your golden face tracks
with devotion
the suns daily rotations.
East to west,
your towering stalks
the size of my wrist.
Awash with Wonder
I watch.
Your only work
to grow,
to tower above us,
to bring your light
to children and weary adults.
It is in faith like yours
that we find our paths.
Easy to west.
Dawn to twilight.
Despair to Wonder.
Stay Inside the Rapture
Don’t rush; be a beginner; weave pearls in your hair; grow potatoes; light the candles; keep the fire; dare to love someone; tell yourself the truth; stay inside the rapture…
Marlene DeBlasi
August Modrning by Albert Garcia
It's ripe, the melon
by our sink. Yellow,
bee-bitten, soft, it perfumes
the house too sweetly.
At five I wake, the air
mournful in its quiet.
My wife’s eyes swim calmly
under their lids, her mouth and jaw
relaxed, different.
What is happening in the silence
of this house? Curtains
hang heavily from their rods.
Ficus leaves tremble
at my footsteps. Yet
the colors outside are perfect–
orange geranium, blue lobelia.
I wander from room to room
like a man in a museum:
wife, children, books, flowers,
melon. Such still air. Soon
the mid-morning breeze will float in
like tepid water, then hot.
How do I start this day,
I who am unsure
of how my life has happened
or how to proceed
amid this warm and steady sweetness?
