recuerda mi corazon

walk in beauty

 

today

may you

open wide the door to your heart

walk in beauty

immerse your hand deep

in the honey pot of creativity

know inspired brilliance

 

fill the hearts of those around you

and dwell in the land of 

JOY.

 

come away with me for dia de los muertos 

and meet the enchanted colorious world of 

Anado Mc Lauchlin

 

Flare

 

Flare by Mary Oliver

1.

Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.

It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;

it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;

it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward,

or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth;

it is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence,
will go on sizzling and clapping
from the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms,
that are billowing and shining,
that are shaking in the wind.

2.

You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your
great-grandfather's farm, a place you visited once,
and went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and
talked in the house.
It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor,
and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was
a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing
a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild,
binocular eyes.
Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of
animals; the give-offs of the body were still in the air,
a vague ammonia, not unpleasant.
Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high
up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain.
You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner,
on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed
empty, but wasn't.
Then--you still remember--you felt the rap of hunger--it was
noon--and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back
to the house, where the table was set, where an uncle patted you
on the shoulder for welcome, and there was your place at the table.

3.

Nothing lasts.
There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is,
now.

I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers.

4.

Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings
of the green moth
against the lantern
against its heat
against the beak of the crow
in the early morning.

Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
of self-pity.

Not in this world.

5.

My mother
was the blue wisteria,
my mother
was the mossy stream out behind the house,
my mother, alas, alas,
did not always love her life,
heavier than iron it was
as she carried it in her arms, from room to room,
oh, unforgettable!

I bury her
in a box
in the earth
and turn away.
My father
was a demon of frustrated dreams,
was a breaker of trust,
was a poor, thin boy with bad luck.
He followed God, there being no one else
he could talk to;
he swaggered before God, there being no one else
who would listen.
Listen,
this was his life.
I bury it in the earth.
I sweep the closets.
I leave the house.

6.

I mention them now,
I will not mention them again.

It is not lack of love
nor lack of sorrow.
But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.

I give them--one, two, three, four--the kiss of courtesy,
of sweet thanks,
of anger, of good luck in the deep earth.
May they sleep well. May they soften.

But I will not give them the kiss of complicity.
I will not give them the responsibility for my life.

7.

Did you know that the ant has a tongue
with which to gather in all that it can
of sweetness?

Did you know that?

8.

The poem is not the world.
It isn't even the first page of the world.

But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
It knows that much.

It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everything.

9.

The voice of the child crying out of the mouth of the
grown woman
is a misery and a disappointment.
The voice of the child howling out of the tall, bearded,
muscular man
is a misery, and a terror.

10.

Therefore, tell me:
what will engage you?
What will open the dark fields of your mind,
like a lover
at first touching?

11.

Anyway,
there was no barn.
No child in the barn.

No uncle no table no kitchen.

Only a long lovely field full of bobolinks.

12.

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.

Live with the beetle, and the wind.

This is the dark bread of the poem.
This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.

 

 

gracias mi amors

 

tucked in the heartbeat of every mexican mercado,

you will find a shrine.

enamored in a sea of languid flowers until the pungent musk of chilies call you out,

turning to answer

you are just as quickly seduced with mountains of

tropical fruits, brilliant ripe vegetables, irresistible frescas, 

 strands of la musica vida

weaving enticingly through out.

 hot pinks, mysterious indigos, seductive magentas, day glow orange, 

a thousand bright distractions in the treasure laden mercado of life.

sooner or later chasing the tail of desire you arrive.

she may be flanked with a choir of white winged angels,

or perched solo on a half moon

a pearl of patience served straight up on the half shell,

a perfect soul siren in a sea of candles;

 no matter how distracted, no matter how long we follow the

atlas of our lives,

she waits

ever ready 

for the moment we are willing to pause.

demure in her quiet robes, eyes full of mother love, 

hands clasped in compassion for the teaming life around her,

armfuls of flowers at her feet

blooming to be near her.

and i wonder 

why does it take so long to pause before love?

to lay down diversions and

stand in awe of the miracle of living?

to stop speaking because it is enough to hear our own breathing,

to practice mindfulness;

knowing even the garden wrestles with birth and ruin.

who among us does not rise in relief when the clean slate of a new day

erupts in the

large song of small birds?

who will not stop beside the fading cloak of winter to

marvel at the first bright crocus of spring?

everyday our lives are ripe with the fruits of life

some sweet some darkened with unbearable sorrow.

we can all use a caring heart,

new morning,

 voice of compassion,

candles in darkness

a pause for love tucked into the creases of hurried life.

taking time to stand in awe of each of you and

offer my deepest gratitude 

for being bright flowers in the garden of life.

gracias mi amors

you sweeten my moment

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

"love is the voice under all silences

the hope that has no opposite in fear;

the strength so strong mere force is feebleness:

 

the truth more first than sun,

more last than star."

e.e. cummings

 

wishing you the sun and stars,

with the love of radiant hearts

filling everything 

inbetween.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

collecting your love

sharing your hearts

 

on the road to belonging

i remember

that last frozen grey morning.

all my friends 

waking to familiar belonging,

our hands and laughter

all tied up in the patted roundness of

a single snowman.

beneath the enormity of night,

morning waved stark white sheets in cold wind.

they clapped like thunder

as life threw a dark ribbon of pavement 

before us. 

we were gone before 

the last star disappeared.  before

anyone woke with a pounding red thrill in their hearts 

to return to each other

and all that 

snow.

 

connecticut to california

lay before us, a travel log table cloth

unfurled

in the half dark morning.

i leaned across the back seat to

watch life as i knew it,  grow smaller and smaller

retreating from the dark window like a silver necklace pulled from view.

strange how fast everything

we know can

disappear.

 

 

tennesse.

look out mountain, pocketfulls of arrowheads

waiting in musky drawers. 

 old train tracks blowing past  

the textile mill grandfather managed

all of his working life, never missing a single day.

 my father rolled our car to a slow stop.

he looked up so fondly into the window of his youth.

 something filled his voice,  thickening it like honey in water.

words tempered with bright longing,

 forming stairs that took him back,

so perfectly back.

"we use to walk these tracks after school

and stand right below 

that top window where dad worked.

he always knew when we would be going by and 

threw us coins...copper, that rained down to jangle and bounce

like a hard summer rain at our feet.

we scrambled for them and flew off waving goodbye 

for the soda fountain and penny candy".

 

grandmother

 never cut hair and wore it in a halo of braids round

and round the crown of her head.

her kitchen was enormous,

as were her meals.

together at the round oak table

where all her now grown children once labored over homework,

celebrated birthdays,

and when times were lean,

hoped for the last piece of corn bread.

every christmas

an old round tin arrived from that

chattanooga kitchen all tangled up with the smell

of time, wrapped in brown paper,

tied with tired

twine.

 

 

for as long as she lived,

they arrived like the last chorus to an ancient song.

her handwriting on the brown paper

wore away the years

until it barely recognized itself.

fruitcake dense with the work of her hands,

pecans from her trees.

trees where my brother and i fed squirrels

kneeling together,

almost like a prayer, quiet for the touch of something smaller than ourselves.

beside the long covered porch,  

grandfather on the metal glider committing us to a memory

we had to leave too soon.

 

endless road stops, the unfolding and refolding of maps,

sibling quarrels, car games,

a sketchbook within reach to draw pictures

of what i was sure waited.....

open windows without screens,

begging me to reach out and pick from the 

abundance of always blooming flowers.

warm night air whispering under the hem of stars.

a new neighborhood to wake up in the 

company of friends.

 

california.

sarah jane and her husband dan.

ancient, childless relatives on my mother's side.

we filled their san diego bungalow 

with the clamor of family life, as our house was built.

she filled my hands with needle and thread,

 the endless possibilities of imagination, cloth, and creation.

she filled my heart with the miracle of making,

the grace of sharing, the mercy of caring.

 

 
for one languid summer,

i lost myself in the sanctuary of their yard.

where abalone shells nested in the roots of fragrant trees

...that tossed their white flowers

spilling over me, over me...

the iridescent shell pools catching the warm air,

the tiny flowers...

the quiet voice of  solitary yesterdays.

where life held me suspended like a bookmark between chapters,

while sarah jane embossed my heart in the perfect art of belonging.

before i dove once again, flat out into the gregarious life of growing up.

 

sarah jane

i will never know

who needed the other more,

the childless wife or the friendless child.

but i  know this.

she was the open window, the warm air. she was the abundance

of always blooming flowers.

she was shelter and love that never left me,

kindness, mercy and compassion on

my road to belonging.

***

in the autumn of my life

the metal glider on the covered porch is not large enough 

to hold all the people, now alive only in memories, who have their hearts all tied up 

in the making of mine. 

as my sarah jane took me into the contours of her heart so long ago 

may we all

open our hearts to the world around us. 

may we throw open the doors to the house of belonging,

sit close together and stoke the fires of love.

 

 thanks too for the black and white photographs

that helped me share these memories.

i hope you will click on each one and marvel at the 

exquisite work of their hands and eyes. 

***

 

simple gifts

abrazo

Mikhail Ioanidi

 A Cold Rush of Wind

Invites the Warmth of Embrace

My Gift to Myself.

--Noelle Renee

" I remember,

as a child, spending a lot of time alone.

I was often shy and took great pleasure in reading and in writing poetry.

It was difficult for other children to understand.

At the age of ten,

I wrote a poem about a brown and white spotted cow named Bessie

and submitted it to a section for children's poetry

in a local newspaper called The Pasadena Star News.

It won first prize of $25.00.

It was a huge achievement for a ten-year-old;

one can only imagine.

Even now

I have not forgotten what pride I took

in seeing my poem about dear Bessie in the newspaper.

When I see the photo

of this beautiful child with her arms about herself,

with such open joy in her face,

I think of the little gifts, like this,

that we can offer ourselves:

a memory of one great day that somehow encompasses much of who we are

and evokes that of which we are truly capable."

noelle renee

the angels wear fins

****

this photograph by

Mikhail Ioanidi

slayed me,

and then i read noelle's words.

her thoughtful reminiscing of gifts we offer ourselves.

simple profound gifts,

memories that encompass

"much of who we are"

while invoking

"that of which we are truly capable."

it is saturday.

two days of separation from our 

day of gratitude.

the world around us erupts in a campaign of consumerism,

making me love the simplicity of this wind blown picture

all the more.

today 

may life be warm arms wrapped close around you.

may you wake to a renewed sense of place

in the heart of life.

may you feel without a shadow of a doubt

your immeasurable worth.

may you know your bright light 

in the circle of love.

what simple gift will you give yourself today,

what greatness you will inspire in another?

 

the lightness of being

i have been quiet. looking within. contemplating 

the gravity of stone,

stars,

the colour of rain.

a long journey back to a life of

before.

a life when

every direction

seemed plausible, un-hurdled,

effortless with the languid joy of the untested.

i have been quiet, and i have been listening.

listening to stars and the secrets of

stones.

so ancient with heaviness....so weighty and cumbersome;

this great burden we arrive carrying

to the light of each dawn.

not one of us unscathed, not one of us carrying a heavier 

burden then the ones we have chosen

to hold on to.

 what if navigating the wild terrain of living

is more about

seeing the vantage point born from this very weight?

what if our work is the

sculptures seasoned practice of striking free the superfluous,

removing what is, to see what if?

pairing down so close to bare bones light emerges

translucent in every detail of our being.

what if we are struck like a bell that has 

waited a lifetime to ring out?

 
and all we carry is provided as a reminder of letting go,

so that the monolithic out-climb is just that,

a corner stone of strength to climb upon,

and from this great sheering up of heart

a song, a lightness, a realization, 

a perfect clarity of love.

 

 

each photograph taken with my phone, from one perfect moment

of my time in mendocino.

in the company of cherished friends, where

 Jon Fisher inspires,

unleashing the lightness of being out of ancient cumbersome stone.