"rootedness" poems
I reference this not as the flower just of nature but in this case for the fact it is our anniversary this is an
Oleander of my heart yes the heart is a house all of my feelings and emotions are housed there the
Flower I choose to write about is my sister my wife’s sister Liz it’s kind of appropriate since she was the
Only one in our wedding party as we were married before a judge I guess she was a witness a witness to
The crime as it were to describe her I can use Roy Orbison’s song pretty woman a blonde cutie with
Southern roots in Tennessee now she is a near Chicago northerner take southern nights and northern
Bright lights infuse them with grace and charm you have begun to see the Oleander that lies beyond my
Door yard along my walk and borders the yard of my heart the glistening in the spring rain if you get real
Still you can hear tiny sounds of laughter among the joy filled faces the scented bloom fills my living
Room where ever I am eye catching satisfying delightful spring and summer what a wonder the spilling
Forth of fruitful life she matches the rose in pose an attitude of significance tinged with just enough
Brashness to hold your attention until you become beholden to the inner life that shows character
Wisdom authority a driven wind that lays down in the most beautiful fashion only to arise and make the
Trees sing the glass to shake in the most enjoyable way all in unison they dance the eye stormed by this
Profusion of elegance and color truly a best friend to the wayward wind carried near and far secrets rest
Within the heart that the Oleander knows and claims in darkness unflappable a sweet ghostliness an
Arbor found sweetly remembered but never forgotten unspoiled withstanding the day’s heat showing
Resilience a buoyancy of sprit uncommon the thrill that runs with deep rootedness when the sharp wind
Does blow she through power of will brings calm a flourish of maturity so lovely that is outstanding in all
these gifts she provides the greatest is she calls me friend thanks sis
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC
the ruffling of
wet leaves, dews
dance on rain wept
petals, or on ground
-bore-earth. In her
rootedness
they sought, in her
peace
they found
Solace.
(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal / June 24, 2009)
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 7:01 AM UTC
#
Let it be the Mountain she finds Holy—
not because it sparkles,
seduces her
or speaks in riddles,
but because its dark loamy soil
receives her bare feet like a memory.
A prairie hill above the sea,
where grasses bow and whisper,
and the wind carries the salt and scent of things
too old for names—
that’s where the house stands.
Not built from stone,
but from time.
And longing.
And the laughter of those
who once remembered Eden.
Let her dig down,
as if the roots of a wildflower
were waiting to rise through her skin,
lifting her slowly from within—
the stem, the pistil,
the fragile yet indestructible bloom.
Let the soil speak to her in silence,
saying:
*You are still loved.
You are still alive.
You are not what happened to you.*
Let her turn toward the sun—
not in shame,
but in radiant defiance—
and know in that moment
where her help truly comes from.
Let her running to the mountain
be joy, not dread.
Let her ascent be not an exile,
but a return.
Let her wings unfold brazenly,
as the daughter of the living God.
Not tucked.
Not hidden.
Not compromised.
She does not belong to the mountain that mocks love
and feeds on the ruin of hearts,
or exploits that which is still unhealed
She belongs here—
where her own flesh and bone
become not only family
but friend,
through the common bond
of the soil that gives life to all who dare to sink into it.
She belongs
where peace lives in warm light on cold nights,
where cotton sheets smell of soap and skin,
and starlight sifts through trees
like the hush of forgiveness.
Let her remember her first love..
before the theft,
before the theater.
Before the wound.
Let her toes remember
what it was to wiggle in the dirt
of something unbroken,
unshamed,
true.
Let her find home again—
not in a place carved out for her,
but in the space she reclaims
with her own rootedness.
Let her petals unfold slowly in the sun—
but only with her feet deep in the mountain's soil,
where others also have planted their lives,
becoming one
in harmony of breath and memory and Grace.
She will not enter into a sepulcher
or a place that makes usury of her pain.
She will stand on the mount before the rising sun—
alone if she must,
but never abandoned.
And somewhere in the hush between
the breeze and the soil,
she may yet feel
the quiet echo
of someone still with her.
#
May 31, 2025
May 31, 2025 at 10:37 PM UTC
A man left a so-called "good career" to follow his heart, to pursue work that he thought would be fulfilling...
And he bled-out into his art.
The old self, and fear, he set to killing.
Although he was paid far less,
And his finances became a mess...
But a hint of a smile emerged all on its own sometimes
He spent his days with pen in hand and verses in his mind...
The kingdom of heaven is like this:
A sower sowed some seeds,
But the ground looked too rocky,
And the ground appeared too thorny,
But the sower sowed there anyway
And the worries of the world and the lack of rootedness tried to choke out the green growth
But this life is not yet extinguished,
And there's a crack in the pavement through which the narrow chutes are peeking,
And the green apogees are pointing toward the sun.
He who has ears, let him hear.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 8:20 AM UTC
***Named iterations..branches from Roots..
our sensing IS iteration..this truth lies
in the similarities we find and find again..
The similarity of branches speaks of Root
and indeed are joyfully Root joined..
So for similarity..now for difference
the creation also iterates as difference..
branching everything new..beauty
and energy..independent and free..
Displays of colors..yet a forgetting brings
up-rootedness casting life shadows..
Awaiting finally a Root awakening...!***
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
The ache of a bough,
bent brown furrows
of ellipsoid swirls--
coarsely carved disentanglement.
Rootedness pining after
uprootedness.
As a wind conversely
passes a bough for
proof of existence...
pining after rootedness.
Ache in tandem,
sounding.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 9:55 PM UTC
Brilliant, brilliant, Synecdoche,
Child of Sorrow you hide me.
I’m here, beneath,
Name, Employment, Relationship,
Wealth, Assets, Social Alphabet,
Because it’s better than seeing bare
A spirit flayed with heirloom silverware.
Inheritance lopped off from a branch
Of a tree I hate wholeheartedly
I’d rather shrivel in the grass,
Far from kinship’s rootedness.
If I were alone and completely so
Less of a case would be
For all this arid metonymy.
I am flowing with blood and water
And are not surmised by a part of the whole
Nor by the whole for a part.
Call me child of sorrow.
Not me, not me, Synecdoche.
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 9:05 AM UTC
Without gravity, distance becomes volatile; what will become of us?
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 6:59 AM UTC