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)

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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.

Image by Mercedes Bosquet

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

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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?