Monday, August 26, 2013

Height of summer wordle 123

the word comes gusting out
like a sigh,
like a telling breeze
from the South
with the rattle of dry leaves
in the slipstream.
Still the sun keeps belting out
'though the shade netting
no longer filters
the fierce long fingers
of light.
The cows move through
the bitter, burnt dust,
and the figs drop to the ground
half ripe,
with pieces taken out
by the golden orioles -
their cries fill the valley.
This is the time
when I dream
of taking the train North,
to sit by a mountain spring
in the rain,
surrounded by moss and ferns
and green.

(fierce, filters, keep, enough, pieces, train, cries, gusting, bitter, springs south, out.)

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

My lucky stars Wordle 122

There was a period in my life
- years -
when my heart was numbed
and nailed to the floor.
I persuaded myself
to live a vision not my own
and by degrees
be slowly driven into the ground.

A few short, sharp words
loosened the nails
and I flew home
to a place I had dreamed
was lost and gone.

And now I stay, nestled,
in this hilly space.
My heart grows
and soars like a hawk.
I give tribute to the stars that be -
If not for them
there would be no me.

Sunday, August 11, 2013

This is my Home! - Wordle 121

I've hitched my heart to a pocket of dirt
and my fragile, once,nay, twice, bruised self
cautiously grows tender tendrils
that twist around the trees and hills
and tangle me up 'til my pounding heart
beats to the same strains as the toll of cow bells
and the circling crows
on the edge.

'This is my home'
I nervously state.
Then louder -
This is my home,
and with wonder -
This is my home -

That in all my scattered days
I should have struck such luck
to find something concrete,
something whole,
which provides incentive
to grow.

The sun and the moon illuminate my days.
I feel my pace match theirs,
sowing seeds and growing roots
that tether me lightly
to this sweet place.

Sunday, August 4, 2013

Scene from Above

The landscape below us becomes familiar
and I have a sense of homecoming
in my adopted land,
as we circle Faro,
defying gravity in this metal canister.

I see our shadow race below us
as the salt marshes come closer,
looking like blue-green curds
their organic shapes held together
by threads of green salt bush banks.

Along the edge of the land
there is the golden sand
and the white, lacy froth
and the blue, blue sea
wrinkling into the far distance.

I hold my breath as we roar
above the runway
and press down into my shoes,
head down, gripping hands
I clear away all plans

Then we're stopped
and standing on the tarmac.
New plans are made. Prayers are said. 
Bags are grabbed
'Thank you God for our daily bread'.

(Gravity,plans, thread, salt, breath shadow, sands, shoes, bread, sense, head, landscape)