Birthday Hike and River Talk

What a lovely day of doing nothing important in celebration of my birthday. Here is a poem written after hiking the Athens Park trail, sitting in the shelter listening to the river. Photo is from because my camera/phone battery was dead. Enjoy the poem and your life of unimportance.

Athens Park photo from Athens WI website

Athens Park Trail Hike and River Talk

Boots clunking
on wet leaves
forest of hemlock
and naked stems
red oak, maple
corralled by Black Creek,
a chatty creek
alto voice
telling the same stories
gurgling over rocks
louder than rain drips
off needle tips
and sullen littered leaves.

Day of calm
droning brook
white sky
smell of sodden earth
opening to the moist chill,
a chill that settles
into my body-water.

I am the creek too
telling my story
moving yet going nowhere better
a fine life of unimportance
on a day of no goals.

This is the dream life
same, simple,
stretched out
between invisible sky
and molten earth
moving but going nowhere better

because here is where
I am born, live, and die.
Here is where
I babble over rocks
and move in unison with the seasons
in all my ages.

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Birthday Eve Day Musings with Sean Connery

Birthday time for yourself and with loved ones should be more than a day. Today, I am celebrating my birthday eve day watching Sean Connery James Bond movies while making book makers, low-carb cooking (for my genetic pre-diabetes) and hanging laundry in the delicious autumn breeze. Enjoy my musings poem!

Birthday Eve Day Musings with Sean Connery

Birthday Eve Day Musings with Sean Connery

Commemorating the 52nd anniversary of the day
before I breathed my first independent breath
on this soft earth,
with Sean Connery
in the Bahamas, Jamaica,
Japan and Russia.
The handsome, hunky Scotsman
lived until age 90 this Halloween.

Letting my diagnosis sink in
so I can live past 90.
No sugar, bread, potatoes, or pasta.
More green and growing,
more red in wine and venison,
more intense movement and stronger muscles.  
My bond girl body will resurface
from under the cush of complacent middle age
rearing up and ready for adventure.
Wildness Tammy’s post says,
wildness midlife when duty has been fulfilled.

With the cock of an eyebrow
wrestling with “Bambi” and “Thumper,”
fears to suppress,
I set my mind to reeling at possibilities.
Intrinsic adventures when travel is limited to virtual
or local
explore lakes and woods
explore spells and ritual
exploring across time, forward and back.

Tomorrow is the day of my birth and rebirth
because you only live twice.

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Halloween Fire Circle

What a wonderful experience celebrating Halloween/Samhain night with local women. Spiritual, connecting, female and moon energy rolled in with learning a Druid Dance (seen in Outlander) and ancient songs to the beat of circling drums. Below the poem is a time exposure photo of our dance. Enjoy the poem!

Samhain fire circle 10.31.2020

Halloween Fire Circle

Druid dancers
saged clean
with candles a loft
bless the earth and sky
in Celtic rhythm
under the blue, hunter’s moon.

We are the lorekeepers,
fire drummers,
women of the moon.
Gather on Samhain night
encircle the wind-whipped fire
“Come sing with me.
“Dance by the fire tonight.”

Lavender tea on our lips
sharing gratefulness
and stories of the hero’s journey
lying in the ivy scented grass.

All is one
conferring with ancestors, ancients and goddess.
In truth,
we are the goddess
we are the trees,
wind and moon.
Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.

Druid Dance Samhain night 10.31.2020

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Halloween Blue Moon

Halloween, Samhain, All Hallows Eve when time changes from our self-focused linear concept and stretches us across generations, across space and time in the repeating cycle of nature.

To celebrate, Mom and Dad and I visited family graves yesterday. We visited four generations as well as our own waiting plots. We touched their stones and their hearts touched ours. To make the day, and the moon by which we drove home, even more special, the last Halloween Blue Moon was on the day Dad was born in 1944. It’s a birthday moon. A moon that links generations, that remembrance in our bones. Happy Birthday Dad!

Orion pointing at the Full Hallloween Blue Moon 10.31.2020

Halloween Blue Moon

Full Halloween moon
blue moon of my father’s birth
76 years ago
that precious light
on the night of the hunter
hunters moon
Orion with drawn bow
venerating this minimoon
swung far from earth
pulling us heavenward
calling all Saints
calling all Souls
calling ancestors
to commune
in the light of love
of trees and sky and genetics
Rutting bucks
led by moonlight and ancient instincts
trip through the cemetery
where waiting
near the windchimes and gnomes
our chariots
where our bones will rest
and our souls
will rejoin the moon.

Full Halloween Blue moon 10.31.2020

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Magic Brew

During that hand-off between autumn and winter, it is often a damp cold. This seems the coldest of colds as it penetrates into your own body-water. A wet cold day is perfect for a mug of hot tea or even better homemade soup. The lees of the garden make great soup. We use chicken grown by a local farmer. Enjoy this delicious little poem.

Magic Brew

Magic Brew

That lovely smell
of leafy rot
is time for
chicken in the pot.
Boil and bubble
Shakespeare’s trouble.

Parsley, carrots, onion and kale
will warm you through an autumn gale
A magic brew
to stir and sup.
A magic brew
to keep immunity up. 

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Ancestors in Flight

You can feel the charge of the season hand-off from bursting autumn to wise winter. I am getting excited for Halloween, Samhain, all hallows eve when we can reconnect with our ancestors during the in-between of the hand-off. What can we learn from them? What mistakes did they make that we should not repeat? What talents did they pass on to us? Can we heal them and thus heal our wounds? Can we feel their love across that narrow space between living and dead?

Cemetary in Concord MA (6)

Ancestors in Flight

On Samhain night
ancestors in flight
I bid them well
and ask them tell
the secrets of the dead.
Only those passed on
far and yon
no longer fear
the cold, the wolf, the tear.

I will carry their flame
its fire to proclaim
that love will still grow
in the celestial flow.

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I Just Want to Listen to the Wind

This poem came after several hard days, long days at work. I just needed nature and no man-made stimulation. Luckily, the wind blew all night. Laying awake with that bit of moon light and the wind, was good medicine. Enjoy the poem.

I Just Want to Listen to the Wind

I Just Want to Listen to the Wind

No news of the world of people
or music or voices or noise
only the voice of the wind,
the whistle and gust,
the sound of last autumn leaves
on a ride
a few wild raindrops
ripping by with the leaves.

There is a bit of moonlight
arching between shale clouds
and bending trees.
All is movement.
Progress is not a climb
but a circle,
the wind that returns
every fall
to hurry the leaves
past the moon.

I just want to listen to the wind
that circle
and mark time in nature’s way.

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Lake View

Poem six and final of my time in nature at Marywood. I am late for checkout getting these babies posted. Forgive me Sisters. By the time this poem came to me this morning sitting on the dock, I had become part of the nature of the lake and the nature in and around the lake. Enjoy the poem!

Lake View

Lake View

A new day
born of night rain
sunlight splashed
across the silver surface
mottled by reflections of shore.

We reflect
like the gliding gulls
and leaning trees,
just another creature
part of the unfillable beauty
of water and sky,
light and eagle’s cry.

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Lake Wind

Poem five of my nature immersion at Marywood in the Northwoods of Wisconsin. This one came after a long kayak trip when the wind started to come up as I was quite a ways from the home dock. After putting away the kayak, I sat on the lake edge and took in the wind. We had another rain storm that night. Less electric but more thunder and wind. Enjoy the poem.

Lake Wind

Lake Wind

Lake wind
the leaves and I respond,
them quaking,
me steady.
That sense of resistance,
holding my ground
as hurried air hits my face
and rolls around me
swirling under my chin
a brush against my ears
nostrils flare with each gust.

Water pushed into peaks
that breast stroke to shore
slapping, slapping
nowhere to go.

I too have nowhere,
really, to go,
here, now
standing in lake wind
letting the rushing clouds
roll over my head,
the churning lake at my feet
and I
in the middle ground
with the wind.

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Gulls Fishing in the Fog

Poem number four of my nature retreat at Marywood. The morning after the storm was beautiful fog. So peaceful. I sat and watched the gulls and eagles as the fog lingered. Some self reflection in the fog. Enjoy the poem.

Gulls Fising in the Fog






Gulls Fishing in the Fog

Gulls fishing in the fog
like a merry-go-round
circling and floating up and down
round and round
hoping for a fish to surface in the white.
Claws graze the milky stillness
as if etching frosted glass
but the mirror heals
and the gull misses.

Only one gull remains now
He wings back and forth
in the blur between lake
and what would be horizon.
The liquid body beneath him
moves like jelly
holding spent pine needles
in its perfect tension.

Fog blurs my horizon too
past and present combine
as my spirit moves with the gull.
There is no time in moments
only perfect tension
and the cycle of leaves
showing in the mirror.

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