Tag: poetry

Beauty, family, light, Love, morning, mother, nature, Outside, Poetry, thankfulness

When Morning Is Soft

mendingstone

When morning is soft and the mountains look like teeth in the jaw of the land
and gleaming lights
of man and industry in the distance shine
we’re reminded: this day appears independent of us and our efforts
This day goes on regardless of our concerns and interventions
This day is full of chirping and growing and things in nature
We can be with or against but never without the constancy of today
Take this time to return to yourselves
Return to hope
Return to joy
Return to loving minute by minute and the artistry of creativity

I wrote the above poem on seeing the mountains in advancing light. And by this afternoon, I’m editing the poem I thought so acceptably appealing when published this morning on my author page on Facebook @SharonDuerstAuthor

In these times of Covid-19, I dawdle and tinker. Things can wait for tomorrow. Or the next day. I’m in holding pattern. Holding myself steady. Holding safe. Holding still. Held by a state of inertia like experienced as a young adult back in the parents’ home for a holiday or family weekend. Nothing mattered: what we ate, what we did. We were there only to be together, to experience each other. All the energy for life beyond those walls was sucked out and drained away. It was a phenomenon I thought of my mother’s making to keep us close and safe if only for a few hours. Back in her care. Under one roof. All together. Siblings and parents making chatter, eating, laughing, recalling past incidents, acts of love. We were witnesses to the creak of the refinished oak chairs around an oval table also sanded and stained in dark walnut. Our feet bumped around the solid pedestal and legs below a white tablecloth ironed and placed and smoothed while still steaming. A radio played low: country songs for a canary in the cage hanging in the corner.

Time with family precious, in the best of times. Longed for in the worst times, when separated by miles, disease, death.

We have only now. We have only today, as it is. And we can only be thankful, hopeful, and glad for what is dear.

Beauty, grandchildren, Loss, mother, nature, Outside, Poetry, Spiritual, Stories

Here And Now

mendingstone

Here And Now
I am not Native
But I feel the pain, hear anguished cries on the river, wind carrying sins of ancestors: mine of timber cutters and millers and growers of wheat
White men and women of European descent following their own calls for survival, And all the while, damage and death being done to the land and the people who came before.
What is to be done now with this, grandchildren?
Are we killing Mother Earth, Father Sky?
Will their stories pass away, no longer whispered in seeded hopes rising in ground and air and hearts we have poisoned?
How can we take steps forward on this common land?

Beauty, chosen, desire, nature, Poetry, relationships, Romance, spring

Nature of Longing

mendingstone

We loved away pain as rain poured around us
Heat of desire keeping us dry
How great was the need:
we for each other, our chosen
And now, as time goes on, the intensity wanes

Come back! Come back!
How we long for the racing hearts and delighted glances
How we long to be reignited
Fresh in love and full of purpose
like Spring: fresh green bursting forth
in rising desire and beauty