First Song
Posted: August 21, 2014 Filed under: Meditation, Yoga | Tags: compassion, First Song, freshly pressed, gratitude, Joseph Stroud, love, Mindfulness, passion, Poetry, Prose, yoga 4 Comments…
That long-ago morning at Ruth’s farm
when I hid in the wisteria
and watched hummingbirds. I thought
the ruby or gold that gleamed on their throats
was the honeyed blood of flowers.
They would stick their piercing beaks
into a crown of petals until their heads
disappeared. The blossoms blurred into wings,
and the breathing I heard
was the thin, moving stems of wisteria.
That night, my face pressed against the window,
I looked out into the dark
where the moon drowned in the willows
by the pond. My heart, bloodstone,
turned. That long night, the farm,
those jeweled birds, all these gone years.
The horses standing quiet and huge
in the moon-crossing blackness.
the spill
Posted: August 14, 2014 Filed under: Meditation, Yoga | Tags: blogging, Charles Bukowski, Graditude, kindness, life, love, Omaha, passion, Poetry, Prose, writing 3 Comments…
the jock’s horse
the 7 horse
clipped the heels
of the horse
in front of
him
stumbled and
fell
throwing the
jock
over its
head
and onto the
track before
some
oncoming
horses
most of
which
avoided the
jock’s
still
form
except for
the 9
horse
who gave him
one step
in the middle
of his
back
you could
see
the hoof
dig
in
then the
field was
past
and the
ambulance was
on its
way
the jock wore
Kelly green
silks,
black
sleeves.
3 or 4
people were now
gathered around
the
still
jock.
as the ambulance
moved in
the man behind
me
said to his
companion
“let’s go get’
a
beer.”
Summer’s Elegy
Posted: August 7, 2014 Filed under: Meditation, Yoga | Tags: blogging, compassion, exercise, fitness, free range, freshly pressed, gratitude, happiness, health, Howard Nemerov, kindness, meditation, natural, nature, Omaha, passion, Poetry, Summer's Elegy, writing, yoga 2 Comments…
Day after day, day after still day,
The summer has begun to pass away.
Starlings at twilight fly clustered and call,
And branches bend, and leaves begin to fall.
The meadow and the orchard grass are mown,
And the meadowlark’s house is cut down.
The little lantern bugs have doused their fires,
The swallows sit in rows along the wires.
Berry and grape appear among the flowers
Tangled against the wall in secret bowers,
And cricket now begins to hum the hours
Remaining to the passion’s slow procession
Down from the high place and the golden session
Wherein the sun was sacrificed for us.
A failing light, no longer numinous,
Now frames the long and solemn afternoons
Where butterflies regret their closed cocoons.
We reach the place unripe, and made to know
As with a sudden knowledge that we go
Away forever, all hope of return
Cut off, hearing the crackle of the burn-
ing blade behind us, and the terminal sound
Of apples dropping on the dry ground.
The Raspberries in My Driveway
Posted: July 31, 2014 Filed under: Meditation, Yoga | Tags: Erica Jong, gratitude, love, nature, Omaha, passion, Poem, Poetry 10 Comments…
The raspberries
in my driveway
have always
been here
(for the whole eleven years
I have owned
but have not owned
this house),
yet
I have never
tasted them
before.
Always on a plane.
Always in the arms
of man, not God,
always too busy,
too fretful,
too worried
to see
that all along
my
driveway
are red, red raspberries
for me to taste.
Shiny and red,
without hairs—
unlike the berries
from the market.
Little jewels—
I share them
with the birds!
On one perches
a tiny green insect.
I blow her off.
She flies!
I burst the raspberry
upon my tongue.
In my solitude
I commune
with raspberries,
with grasses,
with the world.
The world was always
there before,
but where
was I?
Ah raspberry—
if you are so beautiful
upon my ready tongue,
imagine
what wonders
lie in store
for me!
small boy
Posted: July 24, 2014 Filed under: Meditation, Yoga | Tags: compassion, kindness, love, nebraska, Norman MacCaig, Omaha, Poem, Poetry, small boy 12 Comments…
He picked up a pebble
and threw it into the sea.
And another, and another.
He couldn’t stop.
He wasn’t trying to fill the sea.
He wasn’t trying to empty the beach.
He was just throwing away,
nothing else but.
Like a kitten playing
he was practising for the future
when there’ll be so many things
he’ll want to throw away
if only his fingers will unclench
and let them go.
CultFit 