Rebirthing Storm
Aug. 29, 2016
Across those dark clouds
jagged zippering lightening
One, one thousand
Two, one thousand
Three one Boooooming
Rumbling bowling ball thunder.
Phew! So close!
Open the window.
Smell — smell the rain.
Earth will live again!
“Some of the ancients, divining the truth
. . . reckoned that the soul knows things
because it is composed of them.”
Thomas Aquinas, 13th Century philosopher and Theologian
“And those crickets last night? What?
They know what their soul is composed of: singing creates love!”
“Or, so much of what we really need to know, like who we are,
is already profoundly within us. Knock and it shall be opened to you.”
Plumlover
“He that hath never fed of the dainties of a book, he that hath not eaten paper as it were, he that hath not drunk ink, his intellect is not replenished.” Shakespeare
Plumlover says, “Eat and drink great books and thrive!”
Aug. 11, 2016, morning journal notes. Sitting under grape vines in the arbor. Already summer flirts with autumn, courting with cooler mornings, boldly coiffed clouds, sweet showers, and the strong perfume of scented breezes.
Last evening, the crickets; how do they play those scratchy violins all night long? I wonder, did their mates enjoy their love songs?
And if I had not been outside last night, to hear them in the dark of a summer evening, would the cricket songs have serenaded the night? The crescent butter moon shine above the pine tree? I believe so — their existence, crickets and moon and more, their sight and sound, do not depend on me to hear or see them. That is the beauty and flow of nature, this hymn of the universe. The hymn I passionately adore, revere, and love. Adore because every creature in nature is a warrior, one who is not afraid to live true to oneself, yet not arrogantly narcissistic nor selfish. I revere them because in their essence they teach us a lesson of interdependence and detachment; if so self-conscious would the cricket dare sing such a raspy song? The moon show off? And love, as I hold an affection for their beauty, simplicity, and consistency of their natural world.
In the arbor and under these vines I see how rogue and self asserted the vines with canes stretch out new growth wherever they find purchase; those thread-thin green tendrils, as if they have eyes in their ends, seek out and lasso, then curl around any wire or plant or thing, to clasp to tightly in green curls, thus giving the cane a strength and hand hold to grow forward.
I know I should organize and control the growth pattern of the new wild canes but a caring search within finds me listening to a chirping voice that tells me to let the canes grow where they want and be wild in their own song. Amen. Chirp on crickets, I’ll be listening for you tonight.
Last Friday, May 6, 2016
when I gave a poetry workshop to middle school students
a hand shot up, a voice asked
“Why do poets write so much about nature?”
I said, “All of you, hold out your hands,
now touch your face. Stand up, sit down.
Energy, life. From nature. Everything we are
has come from nature, and with foods grown
from the bounty of Mother Nature, we thrive.
Poets know this. We all have a very important
physical and spiritual relationship with nature.
We value our spiritual, for many poets, sacred,
connection with nature and express this in poetry
and song. That is why, if you want to be a good poet
you have to write about more than selfie ego poems.
You have to find within yourself, your love and respect
for nature; observe, write/interpret, and share
Mother Nature with others. Eat a juicy bite of watermelon,
let the juices run down your chin, slurp it all up,
swallow. Nature Rocks!
A note to all,
from Feb to now,
despite my vow to write here
(everyday)
because we, Mary and I,
have been working non-stop
to open another
Hooked on Books bookstore
in downtown Colorado Springs
other than my journal writing,
my pen has been silent.
Saturday, April 23
Shakespeare’s 400th,
we held a grand opening
and I now will make time for
more of my writing and blog posts,
cheers to all,
Friday afternoon,
at my neighbor’s house
I was watching
tree surgeons
(ironic name for them)
with howling growling chain saws
cutting down big elm trees
.
I remembered, someone told me,
“it takes days and days
for a large tree to die.”
From chainsaws?
this growling, howling, screeching–
or from the trees?
