poetry for a new epoch

Posts tagged ‘optimism’

A Call to Alms

eternity drum


Author: kozmikfish
Creative Commons Licence


Weeping Willow

My heart leaps up beyond the wishing excursions
of Summer when I see you standing alone in the
solitude of your ancestor glade, with tender tears
you weep to the tempo of this land’s rural architecture,
Weeping Willow, your beauty is a memory too green
to stay, too rare to last beyond this season’s late
sensitive spurs, still your spirit is embalmed in
rustic strength as your ageless roots drink the
milk from Gaia’s deep bosom, it rushes through you
-amber hot and amber cool-but as I look at you
content in your simple living I am left to wonder,
Weeping Willow, why does your sweeping leaves hang
down like tears, forsakened to this weary low,
weeping, ever weeping, why do you weep so, Willow?

Is it because you’re crying for the child who once
played among the timber sighs of your cradle branches,
but has now abandoned such blithful fare with
Summer’s hot and juicy end? If this is the reason
for your grieving then cease your perennial fears,
though the child is gone and though you may think
his laughter and the recess of fun he shared under
your protective boughs were but fond illusions,
falling onto your reprieve of Silence like the
falling Autumn leaves…his spirit remains behind
leisurely light and free, and the laughter that
has died into a bittersweet memorial of what was
will echo among the pretty lapses of your ivy tresses,
and even if he doesn’t return with the slow-evolving
of the Seasons’ tide his childhood shade will stay
to mingle with yours, and the weeping spray of your
leaves will remember as they shed trinkets of pleasures
now pale, vanishing with the delta Dusk, and I will
remember as I gaze at you, Willow, my fond friend.


Author: Jewel MoonSilver Knight

© Jewel MoonSilver Knight – All rights reserved. Full restrictions apply.

September 11-13, 2002


I know not the shape
this sorrow makes,
elusive, bleak, unknown,
or what resolve it takes
to seek and taste it’s edge.
Scrape at this place of heartbreaks
and face myself, alone.
Feel my furtive way,
steal some silent grace.
To chase this empty grief
down to the real heart bone.

We seek the shape of what is lost
and keep alive, through speech,
the spirit of all we do not own.
Win redemption by giving voice
to each name of all that dies.
Rejoice in the joy of living,
of giving, forgiving, leaving behind
the names of all those things
we thought we required
but can, safely, leave behind.

Reach this moment. Now.
I find my soul is heart shaped
and inspired. Contained
yet unbounded. It sings
unrestrained, the things of life
and finds all fear unfounded.
So dance! This sacred dance.
in which we all play our part.
Yearning, deep rhythm rooted
in the turning of the earth,
the seasons and the tide.

Eternal Birthbeat of my ever giving heart.
This breath. My Heart Voice.
Speaking now. My Soul Song.
I long, simply, to make contact,
nurturing the hint of grief
present in every loving act
and know the relief, human needs,
in touching something, someone
outside of myself. That is not me,
yet is me. To just Be. To know
the Eucharist of each risen sun.
The Beltaine moment. To bring
forth hope and love. Fix seeds
into the rich soil of my sorrow.
and above all, feel faith to know
in that moment a rose has begun to grow
and it will brighten my tomorrow.

Author: kozmikfish
Creative Commons Licence