No One

… just me

“A man’s heart plans his way,

But the Lord directs his steps.”

Proverbs 16:9

I’ve waited seasons,
through times of bitter cold
months of sweltering heat.

As the red-wings return,
the flight of Canadians 
fly toward southern lands.

I’ve waited seasons,
through times of marketing 
changes, changes, changes.

As publishers pick people,
writers with a popular standing
and social following, I waited.

I’ve waited seasons,
through long decades
of hibernation, like the bear.

But the season for Wolf
has come with self-publishing,
a “no one”, can be heard.

https://dversepoets.com/2020/09/24/mtb-protest-poetry/

Perhaps, a gentle protest after waiting decades to birth a book. Self-publishing has now made it cost efficient and possible. Jemi’s Noble Quest, (Whispers of Messiah) coming soon at Amazon.

Skylark

A quivering lyric
plummeting, plunging;
trilling tune toward
meadow nest!

A warble in wind
tumbling toward field;
feathers rumbling,
trill lingers.

A trumpeter’s tune
melodious melody;
true herald
of bright skies

A caroler’s call,
seized then snatched;
swallowed in firmament.
Skylark higher, higher still!

“Your lovingkindness, Oh Lord, reaches to the heavens, Your faithfulness to the skies.”

Psalms 36:5
Posted for https://dversepoets.com/
A 44 word post including the word “sky”

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

Resting Place

It was ancient, their home, tall and stately. There they stood still staring through the veil of night. Waiting, wondering and watching each taking their turn while others rested. 

It was said by many, “In their dreams they sleep with the moon.” But it was of no concern for soon break of day would come. Their silhouettes would stretch wide against cloudless sky.

Silently, with massive wings they would dive to feed. Raw carrion (caribou, cougar, coyote); it made no difference to the vultures. They had waited under a pale moon dreaming of this moment.

One may wonder of their care-free lifestyle. Perhaps if a day, week or year without the work of the messy vulture we would realize their need in our communities. There are stains upon the earth and it’s a vulture’s dirty job to do a janitor’s difficult work.

The Roost

“In their dreams they sleep with the moon.”

Mary Oliver’s, Death at Wind River

Prosery Prompt at dVerse

144 words or less including the quote

The Nature of Things

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I drench my pillow with salty tears,
as night shadows loiter – slowly lurk;
till twinkling stars map promising hope.
 
Down woodland lane and sturdy oaks,
past thick meadow spills new growth,
toward endless surf and eternal sands;
 
all so much greater than I am.
There I whisper a longing prayer;
God’s creation with each rising sun.
 
“The heavens declare the glory of God;
And the firmament shows His handiwork.”
Psalms 19:1

Over at dverse we’re taking a look at nature’s healing touch.

Dirge for a Tree

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my camera’s lens captures unusual qualities
scoured by flood and drought’s full vengeance
a hundred trees, precious trees, now stand dying

lush woodland slipped away, no longer speaks is dying
why is it the present holds hand with faults of past qualities
ripping with revenge, pouring payback and venting vengeance?

wind whipping loose bark from trunk with vengeance
brittle branches breaking, crackling under foot still dying
is tree’s charm mislaid or making way for new emerging qualities?

my eye captures new qualities
with vengeance,
no longer dying

 

Written in Tritinas Form (a,b,c…c,a,b…b,c,a…abc) in reflection to finding beauty in dieing tree and photographing them. Inspired by Emma’s dirge to Summer’s end. Linking up at dVerse.

Silent Night

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The nightingale’s last cry;
a still born child at twilight.
A bundle of feather scattered,
tattered on parched ground.
Silent is the bleakest night,
till in prayer I cry out…

“Hear my prayer, O Lord,
and give ear to my cry;
do not be silent at my tears;
for I am a stranger with You,
a sojourner, as all my fathers were.”

Psalm 39:12

Not the feathers of a nightingale, I know, yet the music of one I no longer hear.

Garden Sweat

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Today, sweat is upon my brow
cooled by cloudy breeze.
Russian olive trees, in full bloom.
wafts ancient scent in cords.
 
Cake-like dirt clings on my knees,
joints ache from digging.
While crows call, call, call…
and last of cricket frogs simply sing.
 
Their melody is of comfort
for they’ve found a mate;
as little wren sits on nest
built by man-made hands.
 
The garden is my cozy home;
where wild rose stretch and climb
wired peaks I cannot and amethyst
pansies wink then give a little grin.
 
The primrose fades, as does
lacy lilacs busy setting new buds.
What comes of the ‘marrow;
I know not… for its only now.
 
My garden planting, weeding,
tilling, as abundant drops do fall.
refreshing my brow, the earth,
and dance among gay blooms.
 
Today… garden sweat’s upon my brow.

Linking up at dVerse where we are looking at everyday things. The shower felt good!