White Noise

beside me races the brawny river,
Mother Earth’s lifeline cascading from snowy peaks and forcing its winding path
down, down, down,
it’s miracle reaching through the circle of all living things

rippling and licking at the pure mountain air,
it opens and closes its sunlit doors
as it folds and rolls over itself,
kneading and knotting the collective thread of the life it feeds, 
past, present, and future into one connectedness,
while projecting its time-ridiculing ROAR

I feel in my bones,
the reverberation of its irony –

fast, fast, fast,
it flows,
it’s commanding voice reminding me to
slow, slow, slow,
to listen

for we all end up back where we began
if we only
follow, follow, follow

our spirits are ROARING,
the lifelines feeding our souls, 
forging our winding paths,
speaking to us with powerfully pure voices,
ones which are not ever meant to become 
white noise

-image is mine; poem dedicated to my mountain friend; shared as part of dVerse’s open link night

Gifted

there’s a place where there is no sound
where breathing doesn’t exist
and awe is all that courses veins
where nothing unearthly is missed

there’s a place where past collides
with future on prodigious scale
where something larger than ourselves
infiltrates the heart, the holy grail

there’s a place where the soul is still
where oneness with all is felt
and reverence for life and love a’blooms
where once cold has dwelt

oh, Rocky Mountains, high
thank you for gifting my soul
for calling to my dearest friend
who helps to make my heart whole

I’ll miss you both

-photo is mine

Rain 

when the words came
they were a sideways storm
so dense she could hold them in her hands
like saturated clouds awaiting relief

she had no choice
but to wring them out like rain

-image via Pixabay

Patience

behind my lips
there is a song,
longing to be free

if I could just
not try so hard,
be patient with me

-photo via Pinterest

Gardening

the sweet glow of summer rests,
ripened to golden on cheeks,
as fastidious fingers tug and pull
that which is not meant
to take root

a curious breeze blows welcomed secrets,
as deliciously sore muscles
and hard-earned sweat
unearth truths once hidden
beneath the now upturned
soil and rocks

anxious leaves rustle a whispered concerto in the tree tops,
as she gathers herself in handfuls,
piece by organically grown piece,
leaving behind for fertilizer
that which is no longer useful
above ground

and when the work for today is done,
she rests,
under the blue light of the August moon,
ready for the change a’comin’

-image credit Pinterest; shared as part of dVerse Poets Open Link Night; also shared as part of Mindlovemisery’s tale weaver 

Talks to Angels

Although she wishes it were not true,
bedtime rarely means sleeping

Her pillowcase is often damp
with silent tears, solemn weeping

Whispering to Angels high,
in the quiet light of the moon,
she desperately seeks forgiveness,
morning coming far too soon

But, this morning, when she wakes,
ahh, hope has blossomed and bloomed!

So, tonight, just maybe, sleep will come,
no more penance, soul attuned

~art piece by my oldest daughter