#foliage
they are in the grass
beneath my feet
their fear distilled
into the trees
where the leaves
dance as their banners
and flags once did
in the cool breeze
a river of red where
they bled their last breath
now flows clear
no winners or losers here
the lush green foliage
tells the story of how
it is fertilised
by the bodies of men
who lost their lives
centuries ago
I can still feel them
in the landscape
they have grown
May 30, 2023
May 30, 2023 at 6:27 PM UTC
Compare and Contrast (the foliage of the heart)
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**My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird -
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work, which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,
Which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over,
how it is
that we live forever.**
This is the first poem in Mary Oliver's collection Thirst, titled,
“The Messenger."
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*Ruler of the Universe, grant me the ability to be alone; may it be my custom to go outdoors each day among the trees and grass among all growing things - and there may I be alone, and enter into prayer, to talk with the One to whom I belong.
May I express there everything in my heart, and may all the foliage of the field - all grasses, trees, and plants - awake at my coming, to send the powers of their life into the words of my prayer so that my prayer and speech are made whole through the life and spirit of all growing things, which are made as one by their transcendent Source. May I then pour out the words of my heart before Your presence like water, O L-rd, and lift up my hands to You in worship, on my behalf, and that of my children!*
-Rebbe Nachman of Bratslav
<>
***too early on a Sunday morning for a trick or treat question,
still bed-bound @ Nine AM, browsing the internet state of the world,
it’s pre-my-walk on First Ave., in my Manhattan
concrete habitat pasture, where it’s gray and grayer
reveals of raggedy grass, certainly no sheep, and the only flowers
arrayed will be those with price tags fronting the bodegas
that are busy preparing breakfast for thousands of New Yorkers
trick question?
indeed! there is NO contrast, save the compare the kinetic similitude
of three kinfolk prayers, amidst frightfully unchanging headlines of
the dreary state of the world - weather report prototypical,
war, death & destruction, whiny celebrities and sports “heroes,”
editorials preaching, a vast quietude of no one’s mind changed,
but, always the but…
my work is loving the world, the grimy solitary blades of grass, true survivors, hosted & sprouting in dirt cracks miraculously,
letting the foliage of my heart blossoming in early morn warmth within my body’s extremities, clothed coverings of wintery wool,
confess my facts (“no longer young and still not half perfect?”),
filling the styrofoam cups of begging, wretched yearning refuse,
planting sprigs of mint green dollars in blanched froze hands,
wondering to myself, which one is*** the masked messiah?
***these are the growing things in my fields, 70 years familiar,
the fruits and flowers of my life, are street crated>corners,
a panoply of vest corner garden-parks,
and the people!
people of every color and shade, what variety hath man wrought?***
my eyes lack
***not for anything, plenty the stimuli joyous within the astonishing spirit and life of all things blooming in hostile soil and you
may yet see the mark of
Abel joy upon my forehead, in my eyes, and see lips whispering this prayer~poem while being birthed, but in a word, a single word,
a pouring, best summarizing of a rebbe’s blessing
shouting out, anointing, appointing:***
~Hallelujah~
Sun Feb 19 2023 9:15 AM
NYC
Feb 19, 2023
Feb 19, 2023 at 3:59 PM UTC
Love's vine stems from the heart;
it is ivy creeping through iron gates.
Wanders free through stony soil,
rushing stream, and bank.
It can loiter in the garden,
and fall victim to the spring rain.
But do not despair, my dear,
for its passion is like a flame:
Forever burning in its tendrils,
its coiled roots and leaves;
survives environs menace,
summer's blaze, and winter's freeze.
Aug 15, 2020
Aug 15, 2020 at 11:51 AM UTC
When I describe the air in the current season I never have the words to Articulate This feeling
Fall
Autumn
Harvest
All hallows
A Season To Be Thankful
The corn
ready to be cut
Or perhaps molded into a maze for the little ones
Pumpkins
Full of spice and flavor for you to smell
Or maybe just to be severed for your porch
The air
Is crisp, refreshing
When you say “it’s nice outside,” this is to what you refer
Is nippy, full
On the edge of Sweaters
On days I have time I like to lay in the center of the field after practice and breathe
The air restores my soul, my hope
If nothing else, I love
The air
Sep 26, 2019
Sep 26, 2019 at 9:19 PM UTC
(And I've been picking dandelions)
The rush of wind chases a wayward cloud
Over the foliage's luscious green mounds
It billows on its good fortune allowed
Feeding flowers leave stock's
roots underground
Petals bloom; centered bud's pollinations
The sun burdens and caresses at once
The bumble lost its edge to pollutants
Overcome in the tepid meadows grace
The seasons start to grow long and narrow
Encompassing the changing of our times
within their altering breadths; to and fro
It's shown upon the rocks face's in tides
She's beauty, ruffling with sents of sweet dew
And in her pluck, spring has become renewed
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
some classify
while others
disagree
the decision to root
this thorn of chance
may sadly,
worm the systems
grotesque foliage
will enter through
near-dead
if one begins to fail badly
destroy
and discard
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
As I gaze at the leaves of autumn season,
A sudden joy arise in me beyond reason.
Different shapes and captivating hues,
Each leaf is interesting, that truly lures.
Some are shades of red offering a vast range,
Others are pale yellow with a tinge of orange.
Among these colors you will also find some green
That looks immensely gorgeous and pretty in between.
Fallen leaves are colorful too but mostly brown,
I pick up some fresh ones to make a leafy crown.
You may wonder if leaves are really so attractive,
Lack of conviction may arise about my narrative.
What grand beauty these colorful leaves hold -
See it yourself, as it can never be really told.
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 8:03 AM UTC
white foliage
white trees
white day
and the clock goes on
and the clock goes on
and death on the way
white sun
white rain
white night
and the clock goes on
and the clock goes on
and the darkness is on the way
it's not too far
it's not too far
to live a poet
it's not too far
it's not too far
he can see it all
and the clock goes on
and the clock goes on
and the darkness is on the way
and the clock goes on
and the clock goes on
and death on the threshold
12.07.18
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 6:16 AM UTC
I looked out upon the green meadows,
Glistening with fresh morning dew.
I took a deep breath,
The cold air filling my stale lungs.
I felt the grass under my feet,
Soft and swaying as I walked through it.
I moved towards the mysterious woods,
Dark and foreboding in all its' majesty.
I drifted between the trees,
Ancient history surrounding me completely.
I moved to the spring in the center,
A glimmering pool of hope, sunlight carefully caressing the surface.
I looked up into the dense foliage,
The leaves blotting out almost every bit of sun...
I looked up from the book I was reading, thinking;
'That was beautifully written, and beautifully thought.'
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
I am painting word pictures today
tasting hot incoming Autumn breezes
transforming splendor
dreary rain filled moments pass
bidding adieu
and welcome my rustic bamboo
fare thee well to Summer's sun
now in this Burning September
Entrancing
as the
dancing trees
in changing multicolored hues...
skies of crystal clear blue
cut outs of rolling hillsides
and lush Green mountains
in that endless and seamless quilt
sheltering the storms
My eyes are drawn
past the still lively green leaves
as the burning umber
and cardinal tipped ones
radiating
hat tipped
as chlorophyll ...
choking the beauty outward
from the petiole
like greedy verdant fingers...
the palm of my hand
I linger ...a moment
they wave in soft winds
...and I wave back
I remember
old-time Vermonters
like my Father
didn't care for the Sumac trees
thought perhaps a ****
only beautiful to look at
& they are so very lovely
These happy helpers
say hello to Fall
stick around
when everything else
already brown
holding down
needy dry hillsides
from erosion
growing fast and tall
turning into thickets...
for woodland critters
providing borders
unsung heroes beckon
along railroads,
highways ,
pastured Meadows
and Orchard edges
these beauties...
never really go away.
A harvesting moon
giving seasons
five months
from the time
the leaves fall off
until they grow back
in the spring time
serrated leafy knives
cut into the sky
a bittersweet
and bashful goodbye
sighing...
to drunken apples
and their dropping dried leafy friends
Surprisingly scrumptious
providing
we are foraging and gleaning
I make a lovely citrusy
sour and fruity tea
like wild cranberry juice...
imaging the Joy
inviting clusters of crimson know
Providing more than food
for winged ones
a sugar depository
loaded with antioxidants &
spreading sunshine
in darker months
Attracting lovely colorful winter birds
my winsome friends
seed eaters
small singing kindred spirts...
tempted by seeds pods
of the Staghorn Sumac
and remaining wildflowers
bursting like burgundy globes
scarlet and brick reds
mellow yellows
turning burning
blazing bright oranges
as the seasonal butterfly dreams
unfolding it's summertime schemes
right before my wondering eyes
European and English
Gardens know
varieties
I can only close my eyes to see
accentuating loose,
textured landscapes
stunning gardens
& fern-like cousins
across the world
A Middle Eastern grind
of this crimson spice
from those crushed dried drupes
while they prepare rice for dinner
I so appreciate
what a gift we have to share
time is running short before
as told to me in times of yore
we brace as one for Winter's Bone
though I am not alone
Vermont it is my earthly home
all I really want to say
thanks for sharing with me ...
on this perfect picturesque
Vermont September day.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
Another shore, another age
I walked those sands, searching...
Some shells, some foliage,
I ran at the waves rushing.
Beyond the third white wave,
Curled against the fourth...
The brittle crab shell swayed,
Bobbled, speeding forth...
My heel firm and grounded
The waves raised with a crisp honk..
The catamaran, I spotted,
On the wall, seated a white conch...
Staring at the conch, I dreamed,
My fingers traced the tiny lines...
The lines circled edging for release,
I placed it near my ear, it whined...
The song of another shore, another age
I hear you now, calling me
I hear clearly, my voice interlaced
I stand here, it's you I feel...
Looked up at the sky,
Looked at the sand,
Looked side ways,
Looked beyond...
Without a clue, where to move,
I followed your voice from inside,
Another year, another month, or forever,
But, one day we will meet, soon enough
This day we will recite those lines,
For another shore, another age,
Your words will still beckon,
I will follow your words, till there is no return.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 8:24 AM UTC
I am a tree in Fall.
I stand still and watch my memories change
Color in the cool weather.
I feel them
Growing weaker
And weaker.
I begin to forget them
As they shrivel up,
Detach and are whisked away by the wind.
Their fate lies crushed under thick boots, once
Dancing like frogs in the luminous headlights
Across the ancient highway.
Forgotten.
No longer pestiferous in their existence,
floating on like abandoned enigmas.
Odious infernal vagabonds, tramps
Camping outside the windows of my mind
Parading pitiful parasites.
Praying away they are swept
Like a room unkempt
At least lock the door so to forget.
The wind remembers.
Carrying their corpses to the world unknown
Ambiguity in promised eternal rest
Frondescent purgatory.
The wind, leaning in close
To hear their last words
Icy dread bequeathing an autumn chill.
She laid them down morosely,
Kissing their forehead,
Quickly turning on its way.
The leaves struggled to follow their stricken vessel,
Tossing and turning in its wake
But they were already forgotten.
By the boots, the wind,
the lights, the highway,
And I.
I look forward to the days of frozen landscapes,
Anonymity in the wake of omitted identity
Superseding a fragile existence.
Closing my eyes I shudder
As the wind seeks to rectify me
Into the uninterrupted blank slate.
A prepared cringe, a response
To impending sobbing at my feet,
Antiquities now quite bothersome.
Like a lost child,
They beg to be cooed and nurtured,
Loved and cherished.
I continue to look ahead,
Ignoring their presence like vexing strangers.
I hear their souls cry out in anguish
As they are tossed by the unwary wind
Bashed into rancorous rocks
Drowned in the rapacious rivers
Crunched under bellicose boots
Burned with their brothers and sisters
Stabbed, scattered,
Chewed and vilely spit out
By the grating teeth of a ravenous
And frightening creature,
Held on a wooden leash by a pair of coarse hands
That float above the thick boots;
They sift between its sharpened fangs.
The days grow colder.
Histories are soon forgotten,
As time begins to slow.
Shedding any remaining sense of self
I am at peace with my surroundings
I close my eyes and take deeper breaths.
The wind's frigid breath fills my lungs
My chest, my stomach;
It resonates through my body
Down to my feet so entrenched in the earth
And up through my outstretched arms
To the tips of my icy fingers.
As I begin to freeze over
I feel that I am about to take
My last breath.
I draw in the cool air around me;
It fills me.
I hold it in.
I am growing still.
There is nothing to hold me back
No past to regret.
There is no present to seek
No journey or quest
No first step or new chapter.
There is no future
For the moment
For time is standing still.
With my eyes closed,
With my last breath held,
The wind and time envelop me.
In their arctic clutch
I succumb to the vast white emptiness
With joy and peace
In my heart.
Time has stood still
And I am asleep.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 1:25 AM UTC
autumn is not all about fallen leaves.......
its about leaves clad in satin red.........
its about logs wearing mushroom hats......
its about a caterpillar flying as a butterfly......
just as love is not about losing your self .......
its about gaining someone who found you..........
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 8:08 AM UTC