Little Tree

Last evening, the computer and Chromebook were in use, and I hate to type on my phone, so I let yesterday’s prompt–to write a poem titled “Little (_______)“–go until this morning.

The little apple tree is a doorway,
a liminal space between here and beyond.

When you open the door of your heart
and walk beneath her branches,

you might find yourself not in cultivated fields,
but in the wild woods of the Lady herself.

Though she stands alone in this world,
her roots run deep in the soil of the Sacred Grove.

Her branches brush the branches of her sisters,
there in the world where she was truly sprouted.

Listen for the voice of the One who calls you,
open the quiet spaces within you,
and settle in silence at the base of her trunk.
You, too, may feel the winds of another world
rustling through your own branches.

Seeking the Wildest One

Today’s prompt is to write a roundelay or and anti-form poem. I sort of pooped out on the rhyming bits and struggled to make it mean what I want to, but it was an interesting exercise. I need to practice more forms. The Wildest One is one of my names for the great mystery some people call God.

O Seeker, you must simply start,
and follow the road toward the sun.
No sign, no map, no guide, no chart
will tell you when your road’s begun.
You must enter the forest of your heart
to find your way to the Wildest One.

No sign or map, no guide or chart
will tell you when you have begun.
The search is inward, no science or art
can tell you when the journey’s done.
You just enter the forest of your heart
and find your way to the Wildest One.

The inner search is both science and art.
No one will tell you when the journey’s done.
In solitude, you’ll wander apart
from the villages where tales are spun.
You must enter the forest of the heart
if you seek to find the Wildest One.

In solitude, you’ll wander apart
from the shining village, where tales are spun,
but you’ll return to take up your part
when the journey’s over, the race is run.
You’ll walk through the forest of the heart,
seeking always the Wildest One.

You Are My Favorite


Today’s prompt is to write a favorite poem:

You are my favorite color:
that golden shine of sun on the trees in the morning,
that deep cotton grey of dusk,
that rich mocha brown of turned earth,
that silvery sheen on blue waters.

You are my favorite sound:
the sigh of a breeze through the sycamore,
the quiet hum of a child at play,
the full-throated song of a joyful choir,
the chorus of birdfolk at dawn.

You are my favorite feeling:
this tingle of warm sun in spring chill,
this shiver of the spine at a memory,
this sigh of soft satin on the inside of the wrist,
this ease of rest at the end of an aching day.