These crazy, trying days will pass. They always do. Looking back through some of my old pieces, I found this “Whisper” for you. I hope it encourages you through whatever challenges you face today. I will be spending most of my day planting seeds and preparing for a new flock of chickens…savoring every moment of that fresh spring air. Peace, love, and stay healthy!
whispers in the willow
through tender branches
crackling
inside ice-sheet wrappings
felt
a promise…
these frigid hours will pass
soon Nature will sigh
her warm spring breaths
that tender branches grasp
We were supposed to turn our swords into plowshares
our spears into pruning hooks,
I thought, as the bombs fell,
as the city fell,
as the dream fell,
through miles of explosions, carnage, blood
This was the wrong stuff haunting my dreams
Pedal on
Pedal on, pedal on
Pedal on
for miles through the end of nightmare streams
flowing like toxic sludge,
clogging the living artery
where hope
in heart-attacked, arrhythmic disturbance
beats on
Don’t stop in this dystopian flow
I never want that again
Don’t end it here
Beat on
Dream on
Pedal on
a road less traveled, rarely journeyed on
few find it
Pedal on
Take up the garden hoe, put down the gun
LOVE your neighbor
LOVE mine
Pedal on
Pedal on, pedal on
Pedal on
to clearly streaming consciousness,
visions stellar
Peace
Take up the garden hoe
and plant
Pedal on
through miles of mountains, valleys, stream
This is the right stuff filling my dreams
~
My response to the prompts from the following wonderful bloggers, taken collectively in Stephen’s Level UP Challenge:
Back from the dead
The tomb did not consume
I am being dramatic
It was just an MRI
It felt like a tomb,
except for the meditation music
I could have selected Alternative Rock
Is there a Spotify playlist across the River Styx?
What tunes comfort that lonely sail?
I don’t know; it was just an MRI
You enter an MRI breast scan face-down,
midsection supported by a narrow bar, breasts—
one still bruised from biopsy—dangling,
Don’t move, for 45 minutes
It is uncomfortable
I am not being dramatic
Technicians cover your eyes with a warm cloth before you enter,
pipe music through headphones
to distract you
from the loud bangs, clicks, whirs
of the mechanical tomb
You choose the tune,
The playlist, so you don’t forget
This isn’t a tomb
Don’t move
It felt like a tomb—
cramped, ill-fitted, distressing, dark
I am back
I am not being dramatic
I am struck by the light at the end of the MRI tunnel
Comforted by the playlist
Impenetrable
or so it seemed
‘till the creek
by persistent motion
carved a path through hard rock
Now, the waterfalls
pool far below the ridge
light pierces the narrow gap above
and dances
in reflected ribbons
mingling like threads
that weave hope in ripples
illuminating the cool, moss-filled shade
highlighting the brook
no longer trapped
as it flows gently
down the valley’s earthen bed
filling soft crevices
completely–
a thorough lover,
penetrating
in currents
deep in the glen
the gossamer threads unwound
like a bodice unlaced
or a shell cracked
or a brittle paper torn
skin so delicate
that the lightest touch
along the curvature of the neck
more whispered than felt
like a warm spring breeze
created such a tremor within
the old garment was undone
it couldn’t resist the fluttering
what chrysalis can?
the bondage fell away
in tatters, like late snow falling
melting into verdant ground
and new existence
in scales incandescent
a life with wings
resplendent
found
the world extends its frozen branches to you
adorned
with the decadence
of greedy, icy-jeweled, cruel hearts
your wandering self shivers
you hold out a lonely hand
to feel something
but the frigid limbs burn
branding exposed skin with red-marked scars
you’re numb with bitten touch
you open your hungry mouth
to taste
but the frozen berries stick
you strip them off your tongue
your words come out stained with blood
you brush against this plant, trying to flee
leaves crackle
in mocking laughter
but you, instead, remember love’s warm fires
you sigh homesick desires
you gaze in troubled wonder
to see anything
but the ice reflects the winter sun
blinding your eyes in dazzling sparkle
you squint and tears fall
you inhale, longing for life’s fragrance
and smell nothing
the flowers are all hiding in buds
leaving your nostrils dripping
you sneeze the cold of rejection
you turn and journey home
steps quicken
weary traveler, you know the way
come near, sparks awaken all your senses
at home’s hearth, rekindle your soul’s flame
grateful
for the holding
for this time-worn fabric
for the rough and frayed of life lived
that caught the edges of unraveled scarf
violently tossed by tempest’s wind
calming the storm within
for this sticking
grateful
tanyacliff.com 