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General Members' Writing

 

The poems that follow were chosen from submissions to Morning Earth.org. They remain the copyrighted property of their authors, and may not be reprinted without permission. All subscribers are welcome to submit their work.

 

 

The Day the Kids Got Out

by Juliana Howard

In poetry class we circle up
and talk about a dying gramma,
an empty doghouse, and no Santa Claus.
 
The air is heavy with our sharing.
 
Let's take a walk, says Sara,
heading for the door.
Sending that we all need air, I nod.
"Around the block, a square,
and keep your noses turned to
nature, take it slow."
 
Down the stairs they fly and
out the door.  With Tyler in the lead,
they leap across the snow.
 
Coatless, bootless, in a pack,
they canter 'cross the street
like horses out of the barn.
 
Out of my reach, they bound
beyond my cry, limbs flail
against the sky, a ragged V of geese.
 
They land in two's and three's
upon the frozen pond and
slide across the ice.
 
At the edge of their energy,
I beckon in big circles,
conducting the deaf air.
 
Off the leash at last,
their voices found, they dance
their own song back to class.

 

Black and Gold

by Pegatha Hughes

for Ilze Mueller, harvester
of neighborhoods and woods

 

Walking through my neighborhood at dawn
I came to a peach tree
and there was one fallen within reach
so I took it like a sacred thief.
It was Sunday, no one up,
only a dog who caught my scent.
I ate it.
Delicious!

Eight years ago along the west Irish coast
we grazed on blackberries.
Here the Gulf Stream of the Pacific
favors the same crown jewels.

Walking downhill during sunrise
I cupped one hand
and plucked black ones amidst the red
until my hand was full,
each drupe reflecting light like an eye,

like life, ripe when it’s ready,
sour if you rush it,
sweeter than you'd expect.

 

Intention

by Judith Blackford

Intention,
the energy with which
we gift all our offerings.
Selecting the fruits and vegetables,
grown with intention for good,
organically in the earth.
Tended by caring, loving hands
of neighbors.
Harvested with thanks
to the Creator God and Mother Earth.
Appreciating the color, shape,
line, texture, energy and health,
l, the culinary artist,
select the medium of creation.
Holding each loved one in my heart,
love is sent to each,
in the preparation of the food,
decoration of the table
lighting of the candles
and prayer of thanks and blessing.
Such intention touches each cell
of each Holy Being
present at the table.
Do we know the power
of our thoughts, our energy, our intention?
If we did, we would tread
so softly, so mindfully, so peacefully,
our bodies would shimmer with love,
and the angels and God and even our
wild brethren would pause at the vibration change.

 

So Many Geese by Mary Mostertag

My walk to the river
always brings wonders,
sometimes surprises.
Today it is the geese.

All summer
they share the walkway,
preen on the sandy beach,
waddle across the park,
explore the rocky shore.
But never so many before.

So many geese, yet so quiet--
no honks, no flaps,
just gentle bobs-riding the river.
I stop in awe at the top of the path
when I see them.

I’ve counted over one hundred
before they trail off,
hidden from view
behind the beach house.

Quiet suddenly broken,
honking in the western sky.
Two small flocks approach,
cause a stir in the water--
responding honks.
Will they join or fly through?
Will they light on the water
or lead in a mass exodus?
As they approach I am rooted.
Closer, closer,
lower, lower,
they land,
skidding across the water
to take a place in the crowd.
Today it is the geese.

 

 

 

Birch Fingers by John Arthur

Broken birch limbs
Like fingers of a mythical hand
reach up to caress the Moon
Deep blue of the sky deepens to black
Stars appear
Moon leaves the loving embrace of birch fingers

 

3-31-04 by L. J. Klueh

In the city nightsky
Only the strongest lights appear,
Planes and Planets.
But it's quiet tonight.
Birdlife has gone to sleep,
And this small yard seems lifeless.

But as I put recycling out,
The cat slips by me.

She examines the yard;
In her intent search
And alert foraging,
I read a yard alive
In ways beyond my sight.

 

Bear

Deep, deep, deep
the black bear sleeps
in its den of earth and root.

Slow, slow, slower
the bear's heart beats,
a cadence of retreat
in the north wind's blowing.

Faint, faint, fainter
the voices of the forest dim.

Silence circles Silence
again and again.

--Marcia McEachron

 

Heart’s Birth by Beth Waterhouse

He tumbles in the back door,
Wooden screen door slamming.  
Just learning the language, he stumbles out with
"Guess what, Mommy? Guess what!?"
And grace happens there.  

She smiles, looks up, puts down pen, s
Spoon, telephone receiver, perhaps computer mouse.  
And births a storyteller,
Right there in the kitchen in his third June,
With her simple waiting word--
"What?" 

Then joy of knock-knock jokes at five.
How two such simple words can make adults
Stop.  Look.  Wait.  
It is power, not lost on small souls.
Even if there is no punchline.  

He grows, slowly, into a storyteller:
A good Salesman, a Preacher, a Professor.  
He has learned to expect,
Just often enough,
His lover at the door with the delicious opening,
"Tell me..."

It is all round and warm and welcoming,
Often enough.  


 

 

In Blind Gratitude by Beth Waterhouse

If I were blind,
I might learn my way on this paved park path.
I would likely know the Cardinal’s call,
and hear his mate’s duet.  
But I would miss the quick search
For that miraculous flash of red
In the monotonous brown of April.  

If I were without sight,
I would know which side of the path the lake is on
Flutter of waves, cool breeze--
And I might find my way to the long wooden dock.
But I would miss the shock of acres of blue
Diamond waves,
And the miracle
of walking on water.  

Denied this blessed gift of sight,
I might know the fire of April sun through eyelids
Flinch at shadow--only tree.
I would recognize the two note off-key calls of chickadees.
But I would miss the incessant pairing of spring
urgent flight.  Beaks full of grass.
My pang of loss.  

Without seeing, I would know feet on asphalt,
On mud,  on sand...
Yet I would miss the burst of green at the tip of each twig,
And I would entirely miss this first
red
dragonfly.