Rolling in, rolling out,
breath of the earth,
heart of the earth.
From your depths
life first emerged,
and in your waters
is life still unseen.
You were there
before we existed,
and you will be there
after we are gone.
Rolling in, rolling out,
breath of the earth,
heart of the earth.
Calm and peaceful,
violent and rough,
serene and flat,
white-tipped and choppy,
murky and sandy,
clear and blue.
Breath of the earth
heart of the earth.
I love this poem by my fellow blogger LuAnne Holder and hope you do too.
It is reprinted with her permission.
Posted on by LuAnne Holder
I ask
When do I begin?
When is it time to stop?
When will we slow climate change?
When will there be peace?
Yet, When implies a future
I should live here Now
In the Now I can’t predict
if a third world war may come or
if climate change will annihilate the planet or
if AI will take over human life
Now allows me, however, to
take steps to protect the environment,
spread lovingkindness,
be my own kind of activist,
help others Now
A doom and gloom attitude
is not being here Now;
such an attitude
is being here When
When hasn’t come yet, though,
there’s still time right Now
What would it be like
to start each day with
beginner’s mind? To marvel
at a body that functions
without our control,
that feels and sees
and smells and thinks,
that communicates in a
language developed
centuries before our
births. What would it be
like to see each sunrise
and sunset as a miracle,
each wildflower with
new delight, each
redbud as a wonder, each
bird as a new marvel?
What would it be like
to wipe the mind clean
of all thoughts and opinions,
to see the spark of the
divine in everyone and
everything we meet,
and act from a place
of love? Just imagine
what it would be like
to start each day
with beginner’s mind.
Inspired by the daily meditations of Richard Rohr
Sun low on the horizon,
daffodils shimmering,
grape hyacinths opening,
lily leaves pushing through,
yellow forsythia flowing,
swish of pine needles
on the path, chill air
on my cheek, jingle
of the leash, the quiet
of a Sunday morning.
Delicate tendrils of
weeping willows,
white petals of
Bradford pears,
ripples on the lake,
and the redbud
producing beauty
off its gnarled branches.
Raucous voice of
a lone crow, soft
peeps of birds
foraging, the feel
of my foot as it
hits the ground,
rat-a-tat-tat of
a woodpecker
topped off by
the heron who
flew majestically
up as we neared.
Like ballerinas in a gentle breeze,
light green tendrils moving,
curving, swooping, dipping,
at one with the Universe,
with all matter and all beings,
part of the sacred circle of
starting at the end and
ending at the beginning,
filling my heart with hope,
rejoicing instead of weeping.
Photo by David Veksler on Unsplash
The earth was hushed
that morning and a light
snow was falling, uniting
ground and sky, the still
and the moving, brown and
white. Pine needles on the
path were covered by snow
highlighting an intricate
design like a fisherman’s net
or spider’s web, an encounter
between life and death.
The cosmos was showing off
its artistry in twisted bare
branches, in an ethereal
light on a skim of ice, in
things seldom observed.
Nature was sparking the
imagination with the
magnificence of creation
with no intention other
than to simply enchant.
Note: At a recent meeting of my 70+ (now 80+!) group of women, our assignment was to share “keepers,” in other words moments in our lives, past or present, that brought us joy. Mine are in this poem.
There was the time recently
When Luna and I were on
A visit to the County Jail
And she remembered a
Young man from another
Visit and curled up
Against him, and when he
Moved on to another dog
She went over and licked
His ear as if to say, come
Back to me, we have a
Special bond. And he grinned.
And on that same visit I
Can see the tattooed
Young man rolling on
The floor with a blind
Dog who knew him
By his smell and brought
To him moments of
Pure joy and a memory
Of the outside world.
And then there were
Those hours on a
Sunday afternoon when
We celebrated poetry
And women’s friendships,
A gift from my family
That will never be
Forgotten as I see
Each face and hear
Each voice and immerse
Myself in the memory
Of a perfect gift.
On a cold morning
with thoughts scampering
in and through, words formed
and then forgotten,
Luna and I walked
and mused, then stopped and
paid attention. We
saw poetry on a
twig, in frost-covered
grass, and flashing off
a mallard’s green head.
We heard it in the
bird song, and sniffed it
in the sharp, clean air.
A blue jay brings a vivid flash of color to
the reedy branches of a naked bush
beside the pond. Songs of a
robin sweeten the air and
a mallard couple, he with
his emerald green head
and yellow beak, swim
from the shore barely
missing four geese who
peacefully approach. The
heads of the mallard couple
begin to pulse up and down to
their own tempo. Hissing brakes
of a school bus assault the peace
and Luna swishes her way amidst the
pine needles and I wonder what she senses.
Surprised by you this morning
as you nestled among the brown
leaves and pine needles,
I was delighted by your
tans and greens decorating
a broken branch on the path.
Even in winter there is color
and joy. All you have to do
is keep your eyes open and look.
untangling the web 