I want to be
wild –
to roar at the sky
and sing with the wind,
to bloom alongside the flowers
and reach like the trees.
I want to be
free –
to think in cycles
and centuries,
and dance with the darkest memories,
and shine like the brightest stars.
I want to
see –
to feel it all,
hold it all,
to cradle it
here in the palm of my hand,
and know that I know
so little,
and everything.
Rain, rain, rain
through April to May –
could it be you’re here to stay?
It certainly feels that way.
************
Yes, friends, it’s yet another rainy day, and it’s set to be a rainy weekend. I like rainy weather – it’s good for book-reading and tea-sipping and nap-taking. But…it would be nice to see some blue skies for more than a few hours at a time between rain clouds. I shouldn’t complain, though. Everything is so lusciously, livingly green.
If the weather keeps this up, it’s going to be a very vibrant summer.
Why,
oh why
does it always
feel like
I have more
demands than hands
and
tasks than time?
Home,
and more.
Mother and Maker,
from the good dirt
to the blue water,
the mountain
to the shore,
this place is ours.
Our only place,
from solid ground
to deepest sea,
to be.
In all of space
and time,
this earth
belongs to us,
nurtures us,
gives to us
and takes,
brings life and death
and all things between.
And in turn,
we belong –
to land and sky,
to ocean and sand,
to each other
and this planet.
How great
and terrible
a lesson to learn:
that here,
we have
everything.
My other favorite sign of spring here in Virginia: the Virginia bluebell.
Just like the bright, striking pink of the redbud tree, the calm blues and purples of these little beauties just make so happy. And when you happen across a field of bluebells, it honestly feels a bit like stepping into a fairyland.
I wrote a poem about them last year, which I’ll share at the end of this post, just below.
I tell ya…there’s just something a little bit magic about Virginia in the spring.
Blue Belle (A Poem)
Lady Blue,
now ring your bell
through forest, field, and fairy dell,
from riverbank to village green:
the time has come for growing things.
All things have
(and take)
their time –
to go fallow
and then rise
from root to sky,
to bloom and grow.
Nature shows us –
there is no shame
in a patient cycle of
quiet moments
and many tries.
Here’s another one for the monthly poetry challenge over at Fake Flamenco. April’s challenge is to write a Prime Verse – a brand new form – around a theme of the wonder of experiencing the universe or the earth.
Here’s mine:
Look at the night sky –
the moon, stars, and velvet dark –
and know: you’re looking out, into, on, not up.
Do you tremble to be small?
Does it frighten you?
Or, instead, do you marvel,
find wonder, splendor, in the vastness of it?
Look at the night sky
and know: a whole world, the universe, is nigh.
I love this form that Rebecca has created! It’s got a nice ebb and flow, and feels just really fluid and lyrical. And of course, the theme this month was fun, too. If you want to participate, the deadline to post is April 10th at noon. I think you should! It’s always fun, after all, to try new things. 😊
A dance of
sound and silence,
the cadence of
word and rhyme
in perfect time.
A cry, a chance,
an exclamation.
The joys and sadness
of one
or a nation.
Light and dark and lyrical,
or halting and still.
The will to write,
the fight to find
just the right
turn of phrase
to break through the haze
of day and night
and step outside
the endless circle.
Poetry is power:
yours, mine, and ours.
Poetry is home,
and away,
and longing
and knowing
and looking
and seeing –
all that we are,
and all that we can become.
Be careful today
and heed these words
and save yourself some pain:
To play the fool
is quite the game,
or sometimes,
not a game at all –
the Lord of Misrule
is cunning and cruel
and rejoices in a fall.
*It’s coming a bit late in the afternoon, I know, but if you indulge in a little April Fool’s trickery today, please remember this: It’s only a joke if everyone’s laughing.*
I write poetry
to leave a piece
of me
behind.
I write to
look back and
forward,
to dance
on the edge,
to quiet the
frenzy
in my head.
Or just to sit back,
and look
and see.
There’s no wrong
reason,
I think,
to write poetry.
A slant
of words,
a twist
of the tongue,
can change
the world.
How fortunate
are we,
the writers,
that such a
magic
can be ours?
A Virginia Writer's Diary 