i find a feather
smaller than my hand
silvery gray
soft smooth
wonderously thin
light
i don’t know
what kind of bird
lost it
this feather
preened it out or
lost it flying
i think about that bird
somewhere alive
i stand by a tree
an old tree
green
rugged rough
composed of three trunks
halfway near the bottom
the surface split
under the bark the hole
gathered dusty matter
from it sprung
two puffy bold
golden tan mushrooms
the tree is alive
the sun is
sinking under the horizon
over rooftops and trees
the firy sky blushes red and
orange
bathing my surroundings in
rosy light
day is dying transforming into
night
the sun is alive
last night
the moon was full
a low reddish moon
lit up my world
i could see its face almost touch it
i felt the moon inside me
i felt alive
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Dove Tale Writers have banded together because we are addicted. Our drug is the written word. In the privacy of our own psyches, we write about our loves, our demons. We write about our joys, our scars. We write about the places we have been, and the places we hope to go. As one of our Dove Tale authors writes, "There will always be stones to turn and stories to write."
3 comments:
Ah, it's me, Wild thing. So, a poem came. A bit long for a comment. So I posted it instead. The program ignored my spacing. It doesn't look like on my on copy. Oh well.
Smiles...
"i felt the moon inside me" - that's my favourite line, sweet wild thing -
so the poet returns...
u know, i met a little boy whose last name was Wilds... what effect will that have on him growing up? Names do influence. Anyway, I loved that as a surname "Wilds". Maybe I'll save it for a character in a story.
I randomly (is anything random?) picked up a magazine about Buddhism called Shambhala Sun, and opened the page to a poem by Mary Oliver. I've read a few of her poetry books, and thought of you, wild thing. She writes eloquently and lovingly and with a detailed eye about nature. Pay attention, the Buddhists say. Here is her poem called "Summer Day:"
"Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her faces.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your own wild and precious life?"
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