Earth Shaman’s Plea
I cast my thoughts to the heavens,
seek succor from the stars,
that they might hear my plight,
send solutions to a soul
wounded to its core, yet unwilling
to cast from its presence the scourge
that has brought this plague upon it.
Are not all elements essential to being,
each one a part of my whole? While some
have fallen to circumstance, making way
for others with a nature more fitting
to my own, these place upon me
scars that cannot be erased,
that jeopardize their own existence.
Should they exhaust all that I have
to offer, leaving nothing but desolation
in their wake, what is their next course?
To die with me? To leave me behind,
leaping from world to world, then on
to the very stars to whom I beseech?
Are they destined to know the same fate?
This poem is my response to Wounded Healer: Songs of the Earth Shaman, where Brendan says, “I can’t help wondering if the wounded healer for such global malaise is the Earth herself, a damaged wholeness, borne of human madness and the terrible spells of the Sorcerer’s Apprentice — air conditioning and solo vehicles, plastic wrappers and nuclear bombs. Maybe the song we need to hear and emulate is the wounded Earth’s?” “What and where are the wombs formed in the wounds of sea level rise and wildfire, mass extinction and ocean acidification? What then are the Songs of the Earth Shaman?”
Image source: vox.com
Following the Roots
Long past its prime
a mighty oak stands, still.
In a forest of green,
no leaves grace these branches.
Time and the elements
have taken their toll,
yet its majesty can be traced
along every one of its limbs.
Witness to hundreds of years
of mankind’s history, its own
can be seen in each of those lines,
every branch a tale of its environs.
I wonder at its thoughts, formed
as each new bud opened, transitioned,
and fell to the ground to nourish
its own roots, food for those thoughts.
My own thoughts follow the poetry
of those paths, falling to take shape
on the page, in the hope to capture words
that stand as tall, and for as long, as that oak.
Off prompt for Day 13 at napowrimo.net, this poem is in response to earthweal weekly challenge: TOWARD AN ECOPOETRY. Brendan asks us to consider how our poetry works or doesn’t in regard to six offered questions. I tried to touch on the following:
3. If our inner lives echo natural rhythms without, how can we come
to understand the inner by growing closer to the outer?
~ Day 13 ~
This Fluid Connection
I’ve paddled to the middle of the Niagara River, drifted
along a sandy shore to see a green heron among watery roots,
heard egrets high in a tree call my name.
When I sat on the shore of Lake Ontario sifting pebbles
in search of beach glass, my thoughts echoed
in each wave lapping at my feet.
Even here, far from those blue waters, I sit
on a quiet stream and know all that surrounds me
is speaking to me with my voice.
I talk to the water as if to myself,
learn from my own responses.
This poem is a response to earthweal weekly challenge: THE TEEMING, although I’ve missed the Linky window for that. Also, I’m off prompt for Day 11 of napowrimo.net. On this 11th day of National/Global Poetry Writing Month, this is my 16th poem of the month.
~ Day 11 ~
A mere fork,
a simple choice.
One direction or the other.
Along one trail,
majestic oaks. On the other,
moss-covered limestone formations.
Either one with its rewards,
yet, just beyond that fork
lies a disturbance,
the wrapper of sweets
consumed by another,
left with no regard for the beauty
of the surroundings.
I choose that path,
stop to right what is wrong
placing it in my pocket.
The other way can wait
for another day.
This poem is my response to earthweal weekly challenge: TURNING POINTS.
The Nature of Poetry
Paddle at rest, stillness
on the water induces thoughts
that weave through the moment.
A leaf floats by, the passing of years,
and a poem takes shape.
Memories and dreams filtered
through the eye of the moment
have their place on the page,
whether read or not, for who
would argue that thoughts, poetic
to the hand that writes them,
should not be expressed,
should not be shared
with the world at large
when they bring satisfaction
to the writer, as they should.
Pen to paper,
fingers to keys, words flow
and a heron takes wing.
This poem is my response to earthweal weekly challenge: THE NATURE OF POETRY,
which is to write about the nature of poetry.
A Whisper in the Mist
The voice of a lifetime, yours,
calling to me through the years.
Some would say it’s a roar.
That’s hard to deny, but
it can also be a whisper.
Those moments beside your brink,
wrapped in my father’s arms.
Your mist reaching out
to gently caress my cheek, a whisper
even there beside your might.
Floating, bobbing in the current
at your base, you towering above,
your sound drowning out
all else, while we drown
in the torrents you rain upon us.
A bright summer day, standing
beside you, drinking in the rainbow
held in the mist that embraces us,
a whisper within the roar that speaks
all languages to all visitors.
Even now, a thousand miles away,
I hear that whisper, your call to me.
I take any opportunity to travel,
to stand beside you, to continue
the conversation of a lifetime.
I’ve read many responses to “earthweal weekly challenge,” but this poem is my first time participating. To quote earthweal weekly challenge: NATURAL FORCES:
“Personify, magnify, glorify nature… How have natural forces shaped you?”
~ One of my earliest visits to Niagara Falls ~
~ The view from the deck of The Maid of the Mist, at Niagara Falls ~
~ Visiting Niagara Falls with my wife ~