Nature Therapy

This bog of mine comes from a trickling brook surrounded by ‘the ancients’, tall and majestic trees of old; beyond is a local river filled with memories untold-good and some evil doings- along miles of open prairie filled with bustling, busy butterflies sipping nectar from a field of wild flowers drenched in morning dew; further and above are foot hills below the towering mountain peeks, still snow capped, they see all things; even the rough, ragging waters of the seas (many have drowned in trials and sorrows from the evil world around them); yet, knowingly, they are resilient as the waves of the sea calm, the mountains stand FIRM, the Prairie sings a lullaby, the RIVER moves on, the trees WILL continue to grow! As for my mellow, marshy bog… I will sit, still knowing there is Someone so much greater than I and linger in the wind.

“ I will love You, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer; My God, my strength, in whom I will trust; My shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold. I will call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised; So shall I be saved from my enemies.” Psalm 18:1-3

P. Wolf linking to: https://earthweal.com/2021/06/28/a-prayer-for-hard-times/

The Art of Seasons

Woven one-by-one,
Spring nest ready for new birth;
rests on cracks of life.

Come, mid-summer flight,
a journey of full, frail life;
wings like stained glass.

Drama in the skies,
clouds layered, heaped, piled;
in Autumn twilight.

Bittersweet winter,
laced flakes of icy snow;
no two are alike.

To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven:

Ecclesiastes 3:1
P. Wolf linking to: https://earthweal.com/2021/05/31/earthweal-weekly-challenge-earthcraft-a-way-of-working/

Mizzle, Drizzle Day

Leaves tremble in the slightest of breeze, like a tea cup in the hand of an old man. Mizzle, drizzle drips, drips from cloudy sky were wisp of fog swirls in a creative dance.

Spring rains bring a melancholy mood, except for the wiggly, squiggly worms who stretch high about earth to moisten their tight skin, like slathering cream on wrinkles.

Birds nestled deep, deep in fresh nests covering, hovering atop precious young; eggs intact waiting to hatch and one day fledge like all our young will also do.

What silly, willy nonsense runs through a poet’s mind on dreary, dreamy days? Lilacs know as their sweet syrupy scent drift in empty spaces; to enjoy a moment in time.

It’s been a long few weeks of Covid. I’m tired, but my brain seems to want to see the best of the things around me. I’ve written kid’s poetry in the past. This is dedicated to the young writer. 😉

Wings

The call is long and lonesome, as he circles in rounds of rigorous flight. I squint to see his form drift on mild currents; a shadow searching for prey, predictor or partner?

Power emerges from his pristine wings, talons sharp and curved to cuddle prey, aquiline nose -hooked beak- for tearing flesh or perhaps, tenderly feeding young, needy chicks?

Robust red-tailed hawk, you’re fond to the falconer. Easily trained at youth, more common of the species and capable to be coached a hunter; you prefer the open skies.

Defend your territory, screech in full flight and announce to the invader they need go elsewhere. A mouse for a meal or a mate perched atop the trees is not to be taken.

Dwelling is no easy thing, as trust rings loud and clear. Our Defender is not the gracious hawk soaring on air currents, but He who made bird, wind and the man who sees.

“He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress; My God, in Him I will trust.”

Psalm 91:1-2

February’s Thaw

Soften snow swelters
beneath my snow shoed feet,
as sun glistens then stirs 
each brisk February season.

It’s a time of sharing hearts,
of throwing kisses in the wind,
as length of days chatter
my drowsy woodland awakens.

Icicles drip, drip, drip rhythmic
tapping upon snow, echoes the
woodpecker a symphony of sounds
down lazy land, pastoral paths.

I still my stride in hopes of more
a robin, a bumblebee, a violet;
but only red tailed fox sneaks
across my winter wonderland.

It is said, February thaw melts a
frozen heart which beats for spring;
perhaps, the earth itself groans
then chills for a bit longer

all waiting in “time out” thinking
about its care endowed to each;
hearts blown in by spring breezes
grateful to gather thawed crocus.

Poem inspired by: https://earthweal.com/2021/02/01/seasonal-changes-1-imbolc/

Then God said, “Let there be lights in the firmament of the heavens to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs and seasons, and for days and years;

Genesis 1:14

Indian Summer

Dusk settles as dust across earthen land,

as warmth seeps slowing from woodland

stretched before me like a downed comforter.

Come warmth, come and slip between

leaf’s edges, slide down empty limbs as

luminous sun grins across the autumn sky.

Indian Summer charms man’s inner soul,

tricks the body’s brisk well being;

but the mind knows this is November!

Breathe in the last of lingering warmth;

let it radiate, resonate, regurgitate before

the killing frost returns to blanket the earth.

“Lyric night of the lingering Indian summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing. Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper’s horn, and far off, high in the maples The wheel of a locust slowly grinding the silence, Under a moon waning and worn and broken, Tired with summer.” -Sarah Teasdale

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) was an American Poet

The perfect weather of Indian summer lengthened and lingered, warm sunny days were followed by brisk nights with Halloween a presentiment in the air.” -Wallace Stegner

Wallace Stegner (1909 –1993) was an American novelist and historian

An Indian summer is a period of unseasonably warm, dry weather that sometimes occurs in autumn in temperate regions of the northern hemisphere September to November.

This year it has come rather late in Wisconsin. Most of the trees have shed their leaves, we have endured freezing temperatures and seen a dusting of snow.

October’s Final Dance

My soul is still

as late October’s

sun glows above

fingered bare branches.

My heart is chilled

as Autumn clings

tightly to daylight.

My mind wanders…

as darken cornfields

twist, trembling their

fibrous dried stalks.

Yet, happiness comes

from chattering oaks

dancing in November.

“Let them praise His name with the dance;

Let them sing praises to Him with the timbrel and harp.”

Psalm 149:3

https://dversepoets.com/

Why Wolves Howl

Between a sentinel of trees, in the deepest of twilight an image lurks down moon lit path. A chill in the air ruffles thick fur. He is alone. Each step leaves paw prints in the dirt as evidence of his presence, under a dangling moon. He finds a knoll. There he sits waiting as time ticks slowly by until the moon, a blood moon, ascends to its highest point in the autumn sky.

When no one listens,
howling wolf calls to another,
as blood moon rises.

Cease listening to instruction, my son,

And you will stray from the words of knowledge.”

Proverbs 19:27
https://dversepoets.com/2020/09/28/haibun-monday-9-28-20-to-the-moon/
It is a myth that wolves howl at a full moon. They howl to communicate at anytime. It is thought people noticed their howling more during a full moon, because extra light brings people out at nighttime. We do a lot of howling in our house even on moonless nights!

As Time Goes By

“I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.”

Psalm 27:13-14

The coolness of the forest on a hot sunny day,
Embraces my very soul and warms my heart,
It is where I ran when you no longer breathed the breath of life.

The birds sang, as ripples of sorrow stained supple spots;
Embarrassed for the tears which lingered along the brook,
It is there grief washed away with dirt, dust and debris.

The scent of autumn leaves crackled with each sauntering steps,
Eager I was to forget, move on and leave behind my mourning;
It is what I want you to do, as it’s my turn to return to the earth.

Linked to:
https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/2020/09/weekly-scribblings-37-last-messages.html

The Dwelling

DSCN7474_edited-1

On mucky, cloudy days
there’s poetry in my pond.

From solstice to equinox;
it crosses winter’s ray.

Admired the woodchuck,
on his groundhog’s day.

Yet, the busy muskrat
chases Eternal clouds away.

Grassy tower stands…
it stirs, shifts, and sways.

Till… last of days.

“As water disappears from the sea,
And a river becomes parched and dries up,
So man lies down and does not rise.
Till the heavens are no more,
They will not awake
Nor be roused from their sleep.”
Job 14: 11-12

We know so much about the groundhog, but it’s the muskrat that stays awake all winter at water’s edge munching on grasses. He’s a busy little thing piling up a tower of reeds and marsh debris to make his cozy abode. I’d say there’s poetry in that… just as you will find over at dVerse, as poets use their imagination with a form of the word “poem”.