EarthPoem Archives
Artist/Naturalists
Site Map
Teacher Resources
Teacher Resources
Learn Ecology
Kids' Earth Art
Members' Writing
John Caddy
Homepage
Contact MorningEarth
 

Morning Earth Healing Images
by John Caddy
December 2011



click thumbs to enlarge


12.1.2011

thin peninsulas of ice
grow across the lake

bays deep with autumn
tremble shore

 


12.2.2011

INVITE to WRITE #31 and RESPONSES to INVITE #30

 

A November gull flies above a breaking wave on the Pacific Coast. I suspect this photo, absorbed for a time, may take a person’s writing in unexpected directions. See where this photo of power and fragility takes you.
Entries are due on Wed. Dec, 14, and will be published Fri. Dec. 16. No attachments, please. Email to morning.earth@earthlink.net

Responses to the previous INVITE are intriguingly varied and wonderfully strong. Thank you, and enjoy. Below you will also find a missed response and another, who chose a different photo for his response.

we have flown
together
before

both of us
leaning
toward
sky

sighting
each,
alone
flight
from
dark

we have flown
together
before

both of us
exchanging
faces
so fast
we flew
together
~~Diego Vazquez, Jr.
.....................................
Paper Spectre

Head full of light

Celtic curves

Ovals, circles

Of clan and tribe

Spun through time

Against all civilizing

Eye full of fury

~~Tom Bacig, Minnesota
..........................

The colt steps forward and sniffs my hand
Apprehensive
Alert
Ready to bolt at the first sign of danger
His tiny muzzle brushes my palm
Soft and warm
Baby whiskers tickling my skin
He fairly glows with potential
His large warm eye
A little wild as he cocks his head to get a better look
I stifle a laugh at his quizzical expression
And he explodes,
Turning in mid-air to run back
to the warmth and safety of Mama.
 
 ~~Lou Ann Todd Mock , Texas
..........................................
A Procession of Lanterns in Truro

Many hands lightly made effigies –
Polar bear, dolphin, giraffe, peacock,
Baboon, rook, a Maasai woman –
 
She turned above our street –
Endangered symbol, sculpted,
Drummed through town to plant
A thought in spectative eyes –
 
We stretch strings of unhurt hearts
In carnival, images spread, snaked,
Dance and bow, the art is clear,
All workings honestly shown,
And intent hangs in the air –
 
We scream for extinction to beware
As if it is a force, and our hand,
Not on trigger or trap, but held
Flat-up: 'Halt! Halt Smuggler!'
 
We applaud our artistry, children
Laugh and dance – and a warrior woman
Of paper and cane looks far, far
Into our tomorrows to not see
Her narrow shadow between dunes –
 
Above us a clock strikes an hour –
Paper, stone and scissors and a bell
Solemn in its measure, a shadow fades.

~~Bert Biscoe, Bard of Cornwall, Great Britain
...................................

Dear horse, I admire your structure.

Is it willow? Is it vine?

Your outer covering, could it be white samite?

No matter. I will comment on the light
that
radiates from the inside,

and the thrust of wildness in your eye.

As I gaze upon you, dear shining horse,

I perceive a certain straining at your tether,

part of you wants to go.

May I guess your fervent wish?
There are horses pure and graceful

carved in chalk upon the downs,

who run through time from time unknown.

One discovered new by process called luminescence,

spied through grass and soil and thus rebirthed.

Do you seek that one, light finding light?

So you can run together, toss your heads in fresh winds

blown from the sea.
I wish you well dear horse,

knowing that my ardent admiration

touches you not. I will think of you

when rain falls upon

green grass and makes it shine.

~~Mary S. McConnell, once of England, now of Wisconsin
.....................................

I Dream Horses    
 
rushing through the walls    
shaking the bed
 
whipped by a fury somewhere behind—   
horses warping the dark   
 
as they pass,
driving the throat’s pulse
 
starlit-muscles    
thick flesh rippling 
  
night after night horses thunder
out of the roots of an innocent tree  
 
out of angry grass, stained asphalt  
bare-dirt of the playground, swings
 
twisting on chains in the wind
out of my father's grey wasting
 
out of his old-man sunken face
out of my mother's colossal 
disappointments
 
out of the humming ground  
where my grandmothers lie
 
under immigrant names
cut in stone—every night  
 
the horses, the horses, the child
kneeling, repeats her lies
 
her disobedience unbinds them
she sets them free   
 
 
~~Mary Kay Rummel, Minnesota
.....................................

The Light Horse

She appeared as a shooting star
Across
The velvet blue-black sky

The celestial dust from her hooves
Created what you
Refer to
As the Milky Highway

Down She came at a speed
Unknown
To
Man

The Light Worker
And her Faithful Stead
Of course
Named
Illumination
galloped toward earth

Atop a peak the rider dismounted
Greeting the gathered populace

I am Light she said
Holding her arms high
Tiny Crystals dancing about her
Head

I am Life she said
And Illumination
Nodded in acknowledgement

Then looking straight at the people
Light softly said
I am Love
Illumination whinnied
Her gossamer mane dancing about her neck

Then alighting on Illumination’s
Back
Light whispered

I am Peace

Know me…..

Illumination Stood on her back legs
In Exclamation

Then mounting up the two as one
Rose up to the heavens in a  swirl of Color

Leaving behind a multi colored ribbon
A symbol of Promise
A bridge bow for the horizons

~~Kathleen Huntley, Montana
.................................
Golden horse
Christmas horse
Your eye a jewel
Set in curves that mark the plains
Of your translucent being
 
Who was your maker?
What  the plan?
What mind, guided  by grace
Willed you to being?
 
Perhaps  you shine
A memento of another birth
A gift that of the Supreme Imagination
 
But It took a human hand
To gently sculpt your form
To fill your fragile self with light
 
 Just  as the first incomparable birth
Came to fruition by a mortal means
So all miracles are wrought
 By the natural law of things.
 
 
~~Peggy Osborne, Montana
.................................

INVOCATION TO BEUKEPHALOS

with golden inner fire,
and great bones, bulging muscles
shouldering winged withers,
barrel belly too great a cylinder
for delicate Arabian legs—

with stars twirling like snow 
in your barnstorming mane—
fly through December's
dark geometry, and bring us
back Apollo and his light!
~~ Denise DuMarier, Washington State
.............................

The Seasonings of Life
I’ve been around enough to know

the subtlety of the seasons.

Fall is stark and stunning

it’s deep beauty is most pleasin’.
Rich colors ground me to the earth

reminding me of home.

It bridges warmth with coming cold,

a perfect context for a poem.
I have to say, were I to choose

a season that has most impressed,

but one emerges from my heart -
I love the Fall the best.
But if there were another time,

to rival my affection,

I have to say, it may surprise,

Winter is my first selection.
Some think it dreary, dark and cold,

and though it be, it speaks to me.

I relish more the chance it brings,

to contemplate serenity.
There is no brightness greater than

the brilliant sun on stolid snow.

It takes my breath and holds it taut

and teases me ‘fore letting go.
I have to say, were I to choose

the season most engaged,

I’ll tell you with my wizened  heart,

Winter is the best I’ve braved.
But, if there were another time,

I’d be pulled to select,

without a doubt, one jumps out,

Spring in retrospect is best!
How can one not be captured by

the raucous possibility,

as the whole earth is renewed

laughter and joviality!
The colors change in quick array

that span the spectrum of delight.

The rapid shift from dark to light,

Springtime is the best invite!
And yet, if asked to deeply think

about the finest time of year,

there is no need to hesitate,

Summer ‘s what I hold most dear.
Living’s easy, life’s a breeze,

with warming days that last so long,
Everything that happens here

is captured in a luscious song.
So, to consider carefully,

what it’s really all about,

I’d have to say, of this I’m clear,

it’s Summertime, no doubt!
Yet....

when you stack them end to end,

considering this quest,

it is an easy thing to know,

I do love Fall the best!
~~Bruce Peck, Minnesota
.........................

The Parting of Waters
 
 
Here in a stream too cold to wade,
a slant branch like butter knife  
stripped to  burnt orange
cuts "dolphins" from rivulets of gunmetal grey.
 
These watery dolphins from a buttery blade
turned up next in Monterey Bay,
footnotes to mammals that would not blow
but the ride was fine as I stood at the bow,
 
recalling a scene in Moby Dick and
pleased to be upright, not seasick.
The motor is cut. They’re here, all around.
Silence grows in our surround...
…….minutes are hours….
 
WHALE! on the starboard - two, no, three, a few feet away.
Oh, the parting of water as great sides of barnacled grey
rise up to Bach's B Minor Mass.
With a heave there's the hiss of vapor hitting air,
bad breath smell of krill,
dimensions we never  see in lumbering cavort.
A sentient eye  looks  into mine, harpoons my heart.
 
They disappear and we scramble to the other side.
My camera catches nothing,  but everything is caught inside.

~~Pegatha Hughes, California

12.5.2011

After frost, cattail leaves bow down
to make gentle shepherd hooks
aimed at their return to mud and time.
In breeze dry whispers of their fate.

Among gnarled roots, sleeping and alive,
curled leaves journey through decay
into food again for roots to push
new green sunward once again.

 

12.6.2011

Orange capsules split into winged parasols
that dangle plump red fruits of native vine bittersweet,
ripe for the season against blue December sky
gifts for grouse and pheasant, wild turkeys that can leap.

At this moment hands are busy coiling gathered vines
into wreaths complete with clustered berries,
faces replete with clustered grins by no means bittersweet.

 

12.7.2011

When cold night embraces soil
moisture freezes and swells,
lifting bangles and bracelets
into sunlight that jewels frost, but
as quickly disarms their sparkle
even as it warms them, the bargain
winter makes with our perception.

 

12.8.2011


Wild geese harmonize fall sky,
geometry and conversed poetry
honked loud and high.
It dives complete inside
the space it fills in me was ready.
Wild geese will always tilt my skull
up and around to search with eyes
until the ragged V is seen, even if
already fading into distant sky,
a point of faith and honor.

 

12.9.2011

Freezing ice took a mossy stone
for the hub of its star last night
and quickly grew a crystal wheel,
each edged spoke stretched out
until it touched some thing in its way,
a twig or ice crystal difference
when the crystal stopped its growth
out of pure crystalline delicacy,
as if it had made a chime in cold night
so soft that no ear of denned mouse
or roosting chickadee could hear
but broke the sacred silence
night ice is sworn to never break.

12.12.2011

A moment trembles
Night ice sees morning sun
Becomes an unsure sky
Night’s curves absorb dawn
Slip toward melt but
Sky will always blue

 

12.13.2011

Out of shadowed gloom
a log festooned with lights appears,
each lamp a textured moon,
half outside the wood, half within.
Moonlight inside glows in micro-tubes
that soften wood to ease return.
Half-moons on the bark and white
splotches where moonlight spilled
soak up day and glow it later
into night to create an ambience
for four-toed creatures of the dark
who wish on crackle leaves to dance.

12.14.2011

The sculptor must have been water
filled with milky grit rubbed off
this land the glacier ploughed so long.
The sculpture insists we see organic forms,
faces, hollows, terrain of body without fur.
This limestone began as seafloor
epochs before it lifted into continent
and this chunk broke off, swallowed by ice
nearly forever until the melt began
when it fell into the river-roar below the ice
that rolled and tumbled myriad stones for
centuries more until the river died
and the sculpted stone fell into light
where pattern-seeking eyes wonder how
the glacial river knew we would come to see
connection: organic faces, hollows, curves,
topographies of body without fur.

 

12.15.2011


A small stream shivers in the cold,
and my skin decides to join it.
Splash ice grows on all
that juts from the surface of flow
and the water surface whole
looks as though it trembles
between liquid phase and ice,
thickening like jelly on the boil.
Seems the creek may sudden freeze,
and this whim seizes my boreal heart.
Gooseflesh skin goes pale as
blood pulls toward the core!!

The Minnesota melodrama rides again
in secret fear. The sad end of
being made to read “To Build a Fire”
in my gawky seventh grade.

 

12.16.2011
INVITE to WRITE #32 and RESPONSES to INVITE #31

Hoarfrost adorns with crystal the top twigs of an oak while a cold blue sky deepens behind. Tree branch crystals of hoarfrost grow directly from water vapor seduced by cold air. They exist but a brief time; sunlight soon begins to dissolve them again into transparent air. If a breeze grows the crystals fall to ground in a shower. Contemplate this winter gift of hoarfrost against blue and see where it takes your writing.
Entries are due, given the season, on Wed. January 4th. I will try to remember to remind you. No attachments please. Send to
Morning.earth@earthlink.net
Responses to the gull flying across a breaking wave are wonderfully varied, and I’m pleased to say that kids’ poems are back. Enjoy.


Emerald marble grained with foam
surges beneath a  tiny gull
skirting immensity.
 
In Santa Cruz, surfers
wait in the troughs
to ride a powerhouse
and when it comes,
propelled into ellipticals,
they iron out the wrinkles -
tiny black cut-outs
intimate with immensity.

~~Pegatha Hughes, California
.............................

Infinity soars
the ocean roars harmonic
to a point in time

~~Jane Jackson, New Jersey
..........................

racing waves
intent on freedom
smash against
cold black faces of rock.
undaunted,
laughing,
they fly forth in foam,
minting sunlight
into diamonds.
 

~~Ellen Collins, Virginia
............................
The wave swells and throws itself around.
|
I feel the coolness of the water. In mind

I join the wave and feel at home,

rejoining the mothering sea.

As part of this great sea, what happiness to burst with energy,

to surge, to rise, to fling drops high and rain them down.
As I play I meet the bird.

Now mind says to admire

how powerful wings move it

through the spray,

to love this fellow traveler.

Warm bird, I fly with you,

to sing the beating of your heart

and your wing

I will be loud with joy.

~~Mary McConnell, Wisconsin
.................................

toppling breakers
stir ocean contents
--dinner revealed

~~jarm11, California
..................

You see a wave cresting
I discern a cloud of doom
Distant birdcall permeates
Pass through unscathed
grace transcends paradox

~~Mary Rose Betten, California
...................................

Nature's Metaphor

Bird braves the elements,
Man has brief, bold encounters
With his true creator -
Not the comfortable figure on a heavenly throne
But the source of all power
And,
What makes everything possible,
The exuberance of love.
These I see in the mighty wave
That dwarfs but does not daunt
The solitary bird.

~~Sylvia Waugh, England, UK
............................

My heart flies close to a flow of doubt.
Icy tentacles reach to depress me into failure.
Tired wings, pull up! Summon lift!
Sunshine waits on a distant shore.

~~Jan Hammett, South Carolina
............................

NATURAL FORCES

closing in toward shore
the swell swells its massive swell
rolling in to rub a few more molecules
off the rocks
or to pulverize some sand a few microns smaller

the heave of muscular breakers
flings drops and feathers of mist
to be suspended a few moments
above the surface

outward, the great plain of ocean
prepares its next assault

mighty mighty mighty mighty

but the lone shorebird
living its life
winging over the crest
is a reminder, a notice, a plain reply

to the watermass
still earthbound

this is impossible
without the wind

~~John Calvin Rezmerski, Minnesota
............................................

Ah what freedom
winter bird winging over wild wind whipped wave

and I remember - the width of my dreams back then
when all was elemental and clear
that wonderful moment
when ideals were what we were
untainted by all the stories
the realities of the other
the wisdom that pulls me back to earth

when again to fly?

Bev Reeler, Zimbabwe, Africa
....................

Sea Glossary

At just dark, the sea translucent,
a gull cloud dissipates
into a blue that means lapis,
mystics, angels of old manuscripts
an old painting restored
a vision in air
of islands rising from smoke
defined and telling what’s beneath
layers of waves,
where sun, crackling
means a quest for what breaks
while skeins of pelicans,
in thin hieroglyphs unravel
the shadow shape of all meanings
above the sea’s salty concentration.

~~Mary Kay Rummel, Minnesota and California
.....................................

The Big One
 
It’s natural to be mesmerized by breakers
that coil, tumble and catch light.
Each wave ruptures in its own way
united in sound ebbing and flowing continuous.
Seabed and coastal boulders raise the sea up
and there is that moment between rising
and falling, the cessation of movement
unknowable as the notion of perpetuity.
You’ve been taught never to stand
with your back to the surf
in case a big one comes
and takes his way with you.
Even lesser waves can pull
the world from beneath your feet.
Yet sea birds, pelicans and such, seek the interval
behind the swell, in air that fills where the sea was.
They shadow those exposed by the predictable. 
In front of the wave sanderlings feed
where sea foam begins to fade. 
Up and down the shore on black motor legs,
they chase the surf fleeing wave
thrust at the last moment,
now to drop again and pursue the ebb.
Escape and safety.  We fool ourselves
into believing that there is fulfillment
in constant watchfulness
when there is the wave to be ridden
and the surf to tumble into.
 
Jenny Wolpert, British Columbia, Canada
..........................

Festival of Elements

 

The Celebrants gather to hear Terra’s music

Earth sounds lifting to the heavens

Waves rhythmically drumming against the shore

Steady as they set the aorta beat

Above, lilting is the audible soprano note

Soaring clearly above the bass percussion

Heralding the day’s fire ball

The contrasts weave a united atom front

Celestial stardust of black and white

Large and small

Creating a stunning tapestry of sound to view

And Earth exhales

Appreciatively

~~Kathleen Huntley, Montana

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
KIDS’ POEMS

From Tim Deyle’s 5th grade classroom, Roosevelt El, Fargo, North Dakota

Ocean
 
This ocean is calm.
Waves gently, swaying, pulsing
Like all the water is connected.
In unison they splash,
Wave after wave.
Birds chirp, waves splash,
The ocean is beautiful.
 
~~Dexter Conlin
 
The Ocean
 
The waves are bounding from side to side.
Mist rises from the sea.
Sea gulls fly through the mist.
The waves move back and forth.
The beach is a fun place to be.
 
~~Evie Latunski
 

Washington
This reminds me of when I was on the ferry in Washington State.
Whoosh, crash the waves would hit the side of the boat.
All the seagulls looking for food.
We were in the ferry to go to Seattle.
It was really windy that day.
We went to the aquarium and all the seals stayed underwater.
All the while the wind blew rapidly.
We had to leave early because my cousin Natilie was just a baby.
She wanted to go home.
We rode the ferry back through the wind.
Back to the shelter of our home.
 
~~Hannah Devine
 
Ocean Breeze
 
I hear the ocean and see the gull soaring overhead.
The gull will probably swoop down and catch a fish.
Birds are very unique.
There are so many kinds of birds.
I’d really love to go to the beach and watch birds and crabs go by.
For now  I can only imagine what it would be like.
You see, I have never been on a beach.
 
~~Paige Roquet
 
This is a great wave to surf or just to watch,
But this wave isn’t meant for that.
King Triton owns this area.
He controls the water,
He can either make it nice and calm,
Or into a huge disasters.
(so you can blame him for water disasters like hurricanes.)
If you make King Triton mad,
Something bad is going to happen.
I suggest to not make him mad or
There would be a huge Uh Oh!
 
~~Selena Sanchez

12.19.2011

Withered fronds of bracken fern
catch and hold the parasols
of annual airborne seeds. Soon,
weight of snow will press
these seeds to littered leaves.
A few will kiss cold soil.

Spring melt will swell the few
with wet, sun will warm soil
until seed cases crack
and white threads seek
a way toward gravity’s core
while greening buds unwrap
to seek the burning bright above.
Meanwhile, fiddleheads of bracken
will shove fuzzy shoulders into air
completely unaware that Mum
last winter worked a second job,
catching dreams for strangers.

 

12.21.2011


A trailing plant spreads red
on a boulder cracked by
water-seep and time and cold.
A maple seed rests upon it.
Each plant that grows here dies
and leaves a bit of soil behind.
Enough soil will gather somewhen
that a maple seed can push root
into riven stone and grow a tree
above that will in fall spread leaves red
above this boulder cracked by root
and water-seep and time & cold.

 

12.22.2011

Clear ice just above the running stream
becomes a blurry magnifying glass
but the winter waters rushing past
breed more of a kaleidoscope:
russets, yellows, green and tan
dappled all with liquid shadows
shifting as the flow revises shapes.
Sun strikes sparks off
hoar crystal rows that dare
to pierce the freezing air.
My eyes are filled and fed.

Happy Solstice!


12.26.2011

A hungry beaver dropped
a young red oak.
Her technique is textbook,
without fault,
built into genes by
some million generations:
First she cut her notch,
wide from top to bottom
as a yawning mouth,
then from above the notch
she gnawed her back cut
straight in until the tree
fell where she had pointed.
Now that’s a well cut oak.
Squirrel taught us to tap a maple.
Did beaver teach us to drop one?


12.27.2011

Those suction cups that tip their toes—
One time way back when,
a baby green frog leaped onto my arm
right from a branch.
I saw those toe cups. Wow. Just like the ones
on sticks I shot from a toy gun
but the frog’s stuck on.
Fool frog would not depart my arm
no matter how I swung about.
I was lost in love of frog and biomimicry.

We enter now that winter month
when reflection helps.
An autumn warm and so blue-eyed
it frightened us,
Now a snowless solstice season drab.
Small but crucial lives
will die confused, out of sync with food.
Small bodies vanish quickly
under last fall’s leaves.
We won’t see.

Picture one warm November night.
A gray treefrog hunts
late moths on window glass, to gain
more grams against the freeze
that has not arrived, so, unfrozen still
it burns reserved fat now…..

Then there‘s times reflection doesn’t help.

 

12.28.2011

Twin pairs of pintails paddle
easy down the pool
in performance mode.
the girls no doubt aware
their drakes insist on
the best lighting, for
elegance fits them
like a glove of fine silk,
Fred Astaire reincarnate
as twin pintail drakes.
It would take twins.
Look at those beak curves,
the smooth lines of neck,
the formal tails,
carriage unmistakable.
Any moment the pairs
will whirl water white
and ascend in grace.

 

12.29.2011

Water purls below smooth ice.
Ice shadow draws itself on flow,
change without end, although
the drawn line stays, and will
move only with sun’s transit.
A close look shows a bubble trio
in a row behind thicker edge ice.
The bubbles of trapped gas
call up in me pleasure:
Soap domes in bathtub play
so long ago—their rainbows.
That was warm. This is cold,
but beauty has its fires.


12.30.2011

Someone threw a good-sized stone.
It broke thin ice and splashed
chunks out onto solid ice beyond
the hole blasted by the stone.
A simple sequence of events.

One chunk of thrown ice rides atop another. How?
Read the sign:
He threw a second good-sized stone
into the dashed pool he made.
Moral:
A stone in a male hand will be thrown.

BoulderthrowB10.jpg

 

 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


12.1.2011

thin peninsulas of ice
grow across the lake

bays deep with autumn
tremble shore

lakeicegrowing10.jpg
12.2.2011
INVITE to WRITE #31 and RESPONSES to INVITE #30

A November gull flies above a breaking wave on the Pacific Coast. I suspect this photo, absorbed for a time, may take a person’s writing in unexpected directions. See where this photo of power and fragility takes you.
Entries are due on Wed. Dec, 14, and will be published Fri. Dec. 16. No attachments, please. Email to morning.earth@earthlink.net

Responses to the previous INVITE are intriguingly varied and wonderfully strong. Thank you, and enjoy. Below you will also find a missed response and another, who chose a different photo for his response.

we have flown
together
before

both of us
leaning
toward
sky

sighting
each,
alone
flight
from
dark

we have flown
together
before

both of us
exchanging
faces
so fast
we flew
together
~~Diego Vazquez, Jr.
.....................................
Paper Spectre

Head full of light

Celtic curves

Ovals, circles

Of clan and tribe

Spun through time

Against all civilizing

Eye full of fury

~~Tom Bacig, Minnesota
..........................

The colt steps forward and sniffs my hand
Apprehensive
Alert
Ready to bolt at the first sign of danger
His tiny muzzle brushes my palm
Soft and warm
Baby whiskers tickling my skin
He fairly glows with potential
His large warm eye
A little wild as he cocks his head to get a better look
I stifle a laugh at his quizzical expression
And he explodes,
Turning in mid-air to run back
to the warmth and safety of Mama.
 
 ~~Lou Ann Todd Mock , Texas
..........................................
A Procession of Lanterns in Truro

Many hands lightly made effigies –
Polar bear, dolphin, giraffe, peacock,
Baboon, rook, a Maasai woman –
 
She turned above our street –
Endangered symbol, sculpted,
Drummed through town to plant
A thought in spectative eyes –
 
We stretch strings of unhurt hearts
In carnival, images spread, snaked,
Dance and bow, the art is clear,
All workings honestly shown,
And intent hangs in the air –
 
We scream for extinction to beware
As if it is a force, and our hand,
Not on trigger or trap, but held
Flat-up: 'Halt! Halt Smuggler!'
 
We applaud our artistry, children
Laugh and dance – and a warrior woman
Of paper and cane looks far, far
Into our tomorrows to not see
Her narrow shadow between dunes –
 
Above us a clock strikes an hour –
Paper, stone and scissors and a bell
Solemn in its measure, a shadow fades.

~~Bert Biscoe, Bard of Cornwall, Great Britain
...................................

Dear horse, I admire your structure.

Is it willow? Is it vine?

Your outer covering, could it be white samite?

No matter. I will comment on the light
that
radiates from the inside,

and the thrust of wildness in your eye.

As I gaze upon you, dear shining horse,

I perceive a certain straining at your tether,

part of you wants to go.

May I guess your fervent wish?
There are horses pure and graceful

carved in chalk upon the downs,

who run through time from time unknown.

One discovered new by process called luminescence,

spied through grass and soil and thus rebirthed.

Do you seek that one, light finding light?

So you can run together, toss your heads in fresh winds

blown from the sea.
I wish you well dear horse,

knowing that my ardent admiration

touches you not. I will think of you

when rain falls upon

green grass and makes it shine.

~~Mary S. McConnell, once of England, now of Wisconsin
.....................................

I Dream Horses    
 
rushing through the walls    
shaking the bed
 
whipped by a fury somewhere behind—   
horses warping the dark   
 
as they pass,
driving the throat’s pulse
 
starlit-muscles    
thick flesh rippling 
  
night after night horses thunder
out of the roots of an innocent tree  
 
out of angry grass, stained asphalt  
bare-dirt of the playground, swings
 
twisting on chains in the wind
out of my father's grey wasting
 
out of his old-man sunken face
out of my mother's colossal 
disappointments
 
out of the humming ground  
where my grandmothers lie
 
under immigrant names
cut in stone—every night  
 
the horses, the horses, the child
kneeling, repeats her lies
 
her disobedience unbinds them
she sets them free   
 
 
~~Mary Kay Rummel, Minnesota
.....................................

The Light Horse

She appeared as a shooting star
Across
The velvet blue-black sky

The celestial dust from her hooves
Created what you
Refer to
As the Milky Highway

Down She came at a speed
Unknown
To
Man

The Light Worker
And her Faithful Stead
Of course
Named
Illumination
galloped toward earth

Atop a peak the rider dismounted
Greeting the gathered populace

I am Light she said
Holding her arms high
Tiny Crystals dancing about her
Head

I am Life she said
And Illumination
Nodded in acknowledgement

Then looking straight at the people
Light softly said
I am Love
Illumination whinnied
Her gossamer mane dancing about her neck

Then alighting on Illumination’s
Back
Light whispered

I am Peace

Know me…..

Illumination Stood on her back legs
In Exclamation

Then mounting up the two as one
Rose up to the heavens in a  swirl of Color

Leaving behind a multi colored ribbon
A symbol of Promise
A bridge bow for the horizons

~~Kathleen Huntley, Montana
.................................
Golden horse
Christmas horse
Your eye a jewel
Set in curves that mark the plains
Of your translucent being
 
Who was your maker?
What  the plan?
What mind, guided  by grace
Willed you to being?
 
Perhaps  you shine
A memento of another birth
A gift that of the Supreme Imagination
 
But It took a human hand
To gently sculpt your form
To fill your fragile self with light
 
 Just  as the first incomparable birth
Came to fruition by a mortal means
So all miracles are wrought
 By the natural law of things.
 
 
~~Peggy Osborne, Montana
.................................

INVOCATION TO BEUKEPHALOS

with golden inner fire,
and great bones, bulging muscles
shouldering winged withers,
barrel belly too great a cylinder
for delicate Arabian legs—

with stars twirling like snow 
in your barnstorming mane—
fly through December's
dark geometry, and bring us
back Apollo and his light!
~~ Denise DuMarier, Washington State
.............................

The Seasonings of Life
I’ve been around enough to know

the subtlety of the seasons.

Fall is stark and stunning

it’s deep beauty is most pleasin’.
Rich colors ground me to the earth

reminding me of home.

It bridges warmth with coming cold,

a perfect context for a poem.
I have to say, were I to choose

a season that has most impressed,

but one emerges from my heart -
I love the Fall the best.
But if there were another time,

to rival my affection,

I have to say, it may surprise,

Winter is my first selection.
Some think it dreary, dark and cold,

and though it be, it speaks to me.

I relish more the chance it brings,

to contemplate serenity.
There is no brightness greater than

the brilliant sun on stolid snow.

It takes my breath and holds it taut

and teases me ‘fore letting go.
I have to say, were I to choose

the season most engaged,

I’ll tell you with my wizened  heart,

Winter is the best I’ve braved.
But, if there were another time,

I’d be pulled to select,

without a doubt, one jumps out,

Spring in retrospect is best!
How can one not be captured by

the raucous possibility,

as the whole earth is renewed

laughter and joviality!
The colors change in quick array

that span the spectrum of delight.

The rapid shift from dark to light,

Springtime is the best invite!
And yet, if asked to deeply think

about the finest time of year,

there is no need to hesitate,

Summer ‘s what I hold most dear.
Living’s easy, life’s a breeze,

with warming days that last so long,
Everything that happens here

is captured in a luscious song.
So, to consider carefully,

what it’s really all about,

I’d have to say, of this I’m clear,

it’s Summertime, no doubt!
Yet....

when you stack them end to end,

considering this quest,

it is an easy thing to know,

I do love Fall the best!
~~Bruce Peck, Minnesota
.........................

The Parting of Waters
 
 
Here in a stream too cold to wade,
a slant branch like butter knife  
stripped to  burnt orange
cuts "dolphins" from rivulets of gunmetal grey.
 
These watery dolphins from a buttery blade
turned up next in Monterey Bay,
footnotes to mammals that would not blow
but the ride was fine as I stood at the bow,
 
recalling a scene in Moby Dick and
pleased to be upright, not seasick.
The motor is cut. They’re here, all around.
Silence grows in our surround...
…….minutes are hours….
 
WHALE! on the starboard - two, no, three, a few feet away.
Oh, the parting of water as great sides of barnacled grey
rise up to Bach's B Minor Mass.
With a heave there's the hiss of vapor hitting air,
bad breath smell of krill,
dimensions we never  see in lumbering cavort.
A sentient eye  looks  into mine, harpoons my heart.
 
They disappear and we scramble to the other side.
My camera catches nothing,  but everything is caught inside.

~~Pegatha Hughes, California

12.5.2011

After frost, cattail leaves bow down
to make gentle shepherd hooks
aimed at their return to mud and time.
In breeze dry whispers of their fate.

Among gnarled roots, sleeping and alive,
curled leaves journey through decay
into food again for roots to push
new green sunward once again.

cattailhooksB10.jpg

Morning Earth Healing Images 12.6.2011

Orange capsules split into winged parasols
that dangle plump red fruits of native vine bittersweet,
ripe for the season against blue December sky
gifts for grouse and pheasant, wild turkeys that can leap.

At this moment hands are busy coiling gathered vines
into wreaths complete with clustered berries,
faces replete with clustered grins by no means bittersweet.

bittersweetskyB10.jpg

12.7.2011

When cold night embraces soil
moisture freezes and swells,
lifting bangles and bracelets
into sunlight that jewels frost, but
as quickly disarms their sparkle
even as it warms them, the bargain
winter makes with our perception.

frostsoilBB10.jpg

12.8.2011

Wild geese harmonize fall sky,
geometry and conversed poetry
honked loud and high.
It dives complete inside
the space it fills in me was ready.
Wild geese will always tilt my skull
up and around to search with eyes
until the ragged V is seen, even if
already fading into distant sky,
a point of faith and honor.

geesesky10.jpg

12.9.2011

Freezing ice took a mossy stone
for the hub of its star last night
and quickly grew a crystal wheel,
each edged spoke stretched out
until it touched some thing in its way,
a twig or ice crystal difference
when the crystal stopped its growth
out of pure crystalline delicacy,
as if it had made a chime in cold night
so soft that no ear of denned mouse
or roosting chickadee could hear
but broke the sacred silence
night ice is sworn to never break.
mossradiuscrystalsB10.jpg

12.12.2011

A moment trembles
Night ice sees morning sun
Becomes an unsure sky
Night’s curves absorb dawn
Slip toward melt but
Sky will always blue

iceseeingsun10.jpg

12.13.2011

Out of shadowed gloom
a log festooned with lights appears,
each lamp a textured moon,
half outside the wood, half within.
Moonlight inside glows in micro-tubes
that soften wood to ease return.
Half-moons on the bark and white
splotches where moonlight spilled
soak up day and glow it later
into night to create an ambience
for four-toed creatures of the dark
who wish on crackle leaves to dance.

logrottrametesBB10.jpg

12.14.2011

The sculptor must have been water
filled with milky grit rubbed off
this land the glacier ploughed so long.
The sculpture insists we see organic forms,
faces, hollows, terrain of body without fur.
This limestone began as seafloor
epochs before it lifted into continent
and this chunk broke off, swallowed by ice
nearly forever until the melt began
when it fell into the river-roar below the ice
that rolled and tumbled myriad stones for
centuries more until the river died
and the sculpted stone fell into light
where pattern-seeking eyes wonder how
the glacial river knew we would come to see
connection: organic faces, hollows, curves,
topographies of body without fur.

sculptedstone10.jpg

12.15.2011

A small stream shivers in the cold,
and my skin decides to join it.
Splash ice grows on all
that juts from the surface of flow
and the water surface whole
looks as though it trembles
between liquid phase and ice,
thickening like jelly on the boil.
Seems the creek may sudden freeze,
and this whim seizes my boreal heart.
Gooseflesh skin goes pale as
blood pulls toward the core!!

The Minnesota melodrama rides again
in secret fear. The sad end of
being made to read “To Build a Fire”
in my gawky seventh grade.

shiverstreamB10.jpg

12.16.2011
INVITE to WRITE #32 and RESPONSES to INVITE #31

Hoarfrost adorns with crystal the top twigs of an oak while a cold blue sky deepens behind. Tree branch crystals of hoarfrost grow directly from water vapor seduced by cold air. They exist but a brief time; sunlight soon begins to dissolve them again into transparent air. If a breeze grows the crystals fall to ground in a shower. Contemplate this winter gift of hoarfrost against blue and see where it takes your writing.
Entries are due, given the season, on Wed. January 4th. I will try to remember to remind you. No attachments please. Send to
Morning.earth@earthlink.net
Responses to the gull flying across a breaking wave are wonderfully varied, and I’m pleased to say that kids’ poems are back. Enjoy.

Emerald marble grained with foam
surges beneath a  tiny gull
skirting immensity.
 
In Santa Cruz, surfers
wait in the troughs
to ride a powerhouse
and when it comes,
propelled into ellipticals,
they iron out the wrinkles -
tiny black cut-outs
intimate with immensity.

~~Pegatha Hughes, California
.............................

Infinity soars
the ocean roars harmonic
to a point in time

~~Jane Jackson, New Jersey
..........................

racing waves
intent on freedom
smash against
cold black faces of rock.
undaunted,
laughing,
they fly forth in foam,
minting sunlight
into diamonds.
 

~~Ellen Collins, Virginia
............................
The wave swells and throws itself around.
|
I feel the coolness of the water. In mind

I join the wave and feel at home,

rejoining the mothering sea.

As part of this great sea, what happiness to burst with energy,

to surge, to rise, to fling drops high and rain them down.
As I play I meet the bird.

Now mind says to admire

how powerful wings move it

through the spray,

to love this fellow traveler.

Warm bird, I fly with you,

to sing the beating of your heart

and your wing

I will be loud with joy.

~~Mary McConnell, Wisconsin
.................................

toppling breakers
stir ocean contents
--dinner revealed

~~jarm11, California
..................

You see a wave cresting
I discern a cloud of doom
Distant birdcall permeates
Pass through unscathed
grace transcends paradox

~~Mary Rose Betten, California
...................................

Nature's Metaphor

Bird braves the elements,
Man has brief, bold encounters
With his true creator -
Not the comfortable figure on a heavenly throne
But the source of all power
And,
What makes everything possible,
The exuberance of love.
These I see in the mighty wave
That dwarfs but does not daunt
The solitary bird.

~~Sylvia Waugh, England, UK
............................

My heart flies close to a flow of doubt.
Icy tentacles reach to depress me into failure.
Tired wings, pull up! Summon lift!
Sunshine waits on a distant shore.

~~Jan Hammett, South Carolina
............................

NATURAL FORCES

closing in toward shore
the swell swells its massive swell
rolling in to rub a few more molecules
off the rocks
or to pulverize some sand a few microns smaller

the heave of muscular breakers
flings drops and feathers of mist
to be suspended a few moments
above the surface

outward, the great plain of ocean
prepares its next assault

mighty mighty mighty mighty

but the lone shorebird
living its life
winging over the crest
is a reminder, a notice, a plain reply

to the watermass
still earthbound

this is impossible
without the wind

~~John Calvin Rezmerski, Minnesota
............................................

Ah what freedom
winter bird winging over wild wind whipped wave

and I remember - the width of my dreams back then
when all was elemental and clear
that wonderful moment
when ideals were what we were
untainted by all the stories
the realities of the other
the wisdom that pulls me back to earth

when again to fly?

Bev Reeler, Zimbabwe, Africa
....................

Sea Glossary

At just dark, the sea translucent,
a gull cloud dissipates
into a blue that means lapis,
mystics, angels of old manuscripts
an old painting restored
a vision in air
of islands rising from smoke
defined and telling what’s beneath
layers of waves,
where sun, crackling
means a quest for what breaks
while skeins of pelicans,
in thin hieroglyphs unravel
the shadow shape of all meanings
above the sea’s salty concentration.

~~Mary Kay Rummel, Minnesota and California
.....................................

The Big One
 
It’s natural to be mesmerized by breakers
that coil, tumble and catch light.
Each wave ruptures in its own way
united in sound ebbing and flowing continuous.
Seabed and coastal boulders raise the sea up
and there is that moment between rising
and falling, the cessation of movement
unknowable as the notion of perpetuity.
You’ve been taught never to stand
with your back to the surf
in case a big one comes
and takes his way with you.
Even lesser waves can pull
the world from beneath your feet.
Yet sea birds, pelicans and such, seek the interval
behind the swell, in air that fills where the sea was.
They shadow those exposed by the predictable. 
In front of the wave sanderlings feed
where sea foam begins to fade. 
Up and down the shore on black motor legs,
they chase the surf fleeing wave
thrust at the last moment,
now to drop again and pursue the ebb.
Escape and safety.  We fool ourselves
into believing that there is fulfillment
in constant watchfulness
when there is the wave to be ridden
and the surf to tumble into.
 
Jenny Wolpert, British Columbia, Canada
..........................

Festival of Elements

 

The Celebrants gather to hear Terra’s music

Earth sounds lifting to the heavens

Waves rhythmically drumming against the shore

Steady as they set the aorta beat

Above, lilting is the audible soprano note

Soaring clearly above the bass percussion

Heralding the day’s fire ball

The contrasts weave a united atom front

Celestial stardust of black and white

Large and small

Creating a stunning tapestry of sound to view

And Earth exhales

Appreciatively

~~Kathleen Huntley, Montana

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
KIDS’ POEMS

From Tim Deyle’s 5th grade classroom, Roosevelt El, Fargo, North Dakota

Ocean
 
This ocean is calm.
Waves gently, swaying, pulsing
Like all the water is connected.
In unison they splash,
Wave after wave.
Birds chirp, waves splash,
The ocean is beautiful.
 
~~Dexter Conlin
 
The Ocean
 
The waves are bounding from side to side.
Mist rises from the sea.
Sea gulls fly through the mist.
The waves move back and forth.
The beach is a fun place to be.
 
~~Evie Latunski
 

Washington
This reminds me of when I was on the ferry in Washington State.
Whoosh, crash the waves would hit the side of the boat.
All the seagulls looking for food.
We were in the ferry to go to Seattle.
It was really windy that day.
We went to the aquarium and all the seals stayed underwater.
All the while the wind blew rapidly.
We had to leave early because my cousin Natilie was just a baby.
She wanted to go home.
We rode the ferry back through the wind.
Back to the shelter of our home.
 
~~Hannah Devine
 
Ocean Breeze
 
I hear the ocean and see the gull soaring overhead.
The gull will probably swoop down and catch a fish.
Birds are very unique.
There are so many kinds of birds.
I’d really love to go to the beach and watch birds and crabs go by.
For now  I can only imagine what it would be like.
You see, I have never been on a beach.
 
~~Paige Roquet
 
This is a great wave to surf or just to watch,
But this wave isn’t meant for that.
King Triton owns this area.
He controls the water,
He can either make it nice and calm,
Or into a huge disasters.
(so you can blame him for water disasters like hurricanes.)
If you make King Triton mad,
Something bad is going to happen.
I suggest to not make him mad or
There would be a huge Uh Oh!
 
~~Selena Sanchez

12.19.2011

Withered fronds of bracken fern
catch and hold the parasols
of annual airborne seeds. Soon,
weight of snow will press
these seeds to littered leaves.
A few will kiss cold soil.

Spring melt will swell the few
with wet, sun will warm soil
until seed cases crack
and white threads seek
a way toward gravity’s core
while greening buds unwrap
to seek the burning bright above.
Meanwhile, fiddleheads of bracken
will shove fuzzy shoulders into air
completely unaware that Mum
last winter worked a second job,
catching dreams for strangers.

bracken+seedfallB10.jpg

12.21.2011

A trailing plant spreads red
on a boulder cracked by
water-seep and time and cold.
A maple seed rests upon it.
Each plant that grows here dies
and leaves a bit of soil behind.
Enough soil will gather somewhen
that a maple seed can push root
into riven stone and grow a tree
above that will in fall spread leaves red
above this boulder cracked by root
and water-seep and time & cold.

redweedcrackB10.jpg

12.22.2011

Clear ice just above the running stream
becomes a blurry magnifying glass
but the winter waters rushing past
breed more of a kaleidoscope:
russets, yellows, green and tan
dappled all with liquid shadows
shifting as the flow revises shapes.
Sun strikes sparks off
hoar crystal rows that dare
to pierce the freezing air.
My eyes are filled and fed.

Happy Solstice!

redleafice10.jpg

12.26.2011

A hungry beaver dropped
a young red oak.
Her technique is textbook,
without fault,
built into genes by
some million generations:
First she cut her notch,
wide from top to bottom
as a yawning mouth,
then from above the notch
she gnawed her back cut
straight in until the tree
fell where she had pointed.
Now that’s a well cut oak.
Squirrel taught us to tap a maple.
Did beaver teach us to drop one?

beaverwellcutoak10.jpg
12.27.2011

 

 

Those suction cups that tip their toes—
One time way back when,
a baby green frog leaped onto my arm
right from a branch.
I saw those toe cups. Wow. Just like the ones
on sticks I shot from a toy gun
but the frog’s stuck on.
Fool frog would not depart my arm
no matter how I swung about.
I was lost in love of frog and biomimicry.

We enter now that winter month
when reflection helps.
An autumn warm and so blue-eyed
it frightened us,
Now a snowless solstice season drab.
Small but crucial lives
will die confused, out of sync with food.
Small bodies vanish quickly
under last fall’s leaves.
We won’t see.

Picture one warm November night.
A gray treefrog hunts
late moths on window glass, to gain
more grams against the freeze
that has not arrived, so, unfrozen still
it burns reserved fat now…..

Then there‘s times reflection doesn’t help.

treefrogwindow2_10.jpg

12.28.2011

 

Twin pairs of pintails paddle
easy down the pool
in performance mode.
the girls no doubt aware
their drakes insist on
the best lighting, for
elegance fits them
like a glove of fine silk,
Fred Astaire reincarnate
as twin pintail drakes.
It would take twins.
Look at those beak curves,
the smooth lines of neck,
the formal tails,
carriage unmistakable.
Any moment the pairs
will whirl water white
and ascend in grace.
twopairpintails10.jpg

12.29.2011

Water purls below smooth ice.
Ice shadow draws itself on flow,
change without end, although
the drawn line stays, and will
move only with sun’s transit.
A close look shows a bubble trio
in a row behind thicker edge ice.
The bubbles of trapped gas
call up in me pleasure:
Soap domes in bathtub play
so long ago—their rainbows.
That was warm. This is cold,
but beauty has its fires.

Iceedgedet10.jpg

12.30.2011

Someone threw a good-sized stone.
It broke thin ice and splashed
chunks out onto solid ice beyond
the hole blasted by the stone.
A simple sequence of events.

One chunk of thrown ice
rides atop another. How?
Read the sign:
He threw a second good-sized stone
into the dashed pool he made.
Moral:
A stone in a male hand will be thrown.

BoulderthrowB10.jpg

 

 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 




 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 


 

 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 




top of page