I Laid on the Rocks and Looked at the Clouds

click pic to grow 

art by akka b.

I laid on the rocks and looked at the clouds.
Of course, It only took me all day to get - to the rocks.
But if you want the truth, it only took me all month. 

I laid on the rocks and looked at the clouds. 

The clouds responded with the same drunken light that stole me from my schoolwork as a kid. I let myself be swallowed by this light...rain...as the crickets groaned, "The rain is here! The rain is here!" I was wrong... they didn't "groan" they chirped.

As-a-matter-of-fact, the rocks were the ones groaning, as I imposed on them my weight. "She's letting us hold her! She's letting us hold her!" They chirped. 

Humph. 

Again, not a groan. 

Clouds and rocks and crickets were not groaning as I gave up on my fear. [Fear of being held by what I love]


How very strange

I'm a Little Rain Blog

  It rained last night and I feel encouraged to begin again; this beautiful blog that I love. It's April. The last time I posted - it was December. Have I abandoned my readers? No. I toyed with feeling guilty, but it's too boring to feel guilty. Guilty makes me feel stuck. Stuck feels boring. It rained last night - that's not boring. Or guilty. It's beautiful. As beautiful as this sweet little blog that I love. 

I am a cloud

A full little cloud 

That grows up big 

Or shrinks down small 

Or disappears for months

Months of not-at-all

But when I fill up

To over bursting 

I pour down rain 

To quench my thirsting 

This is the place 

Where I get to play

Let my words drop

Wherever they may 

That's why I love -- this blog so tender

It catches the "release"

And returns it to its sender - akka b.

akka b.

River Runs Through Me

 Thank you Tom for sharing this video!

RIVER RUNS THROUGH ME 

Inevitable it is, that the creek will reach the sea

The creek knows this, and so does the sea

So the trickling waters; sometimes an exuberant melody

Sometimes a violent thunder of pressing

Wraps her curiosity around roots of shore plants 

To see how long they will hold

And softens sharp stones with her willingness 

And wills the rain to fall more down

And surrenders to the sun, that might will her into rain 

And release her to the sea, 

Before she can soften all the sharp stones, 

Uproot all the mountain shrubs 

And feed small purple dragonflies - samples 

Of her industrious continuity... 

STARS

Walking 

out 

to 

catch 

fat 

stars 

in 

a 

distant 

field 

'neath 

mama 

cat

moon... 

NOT A....

THIS IS NOT A POEM...

                              ...THIS IS A PICTURE OF A POEM

DolphinFly

I had a dream...

Dolphin showed me how to fly 

deep down in water, then up to open sky. 

Fast and fearless. Again and again. 

But fireflies... are at their best in dark, 

when they can be the light. 

Don't expect to recognize firefly by day, 

soaked in ocean. 

Dolphins are for water-flying, 

Fireflies are for forest night.

THE LOVE FIRE

 

THE LOVE FIRE

Under my bones tonight, firelight, the Love Affair.

Take my paper skin, iron fist, wanting eyes. 

Leave no mess of me.

 If you take me, leave no mess of me.

 No poems of me, no question. me. 

 I give myself to the always fire.

 The always light that leaves no trace.

Make me ashes, leave no trace.

Less than dust. 

Make anything that keeps me from my Love Fire...

Less than dust.

Voyeur

Subtle 

The Painter

I disagreed with the painter about the beautiful blue sky day. He laughed at me and my violet wellies. I sneered. My brow may have furrowed some too. I probably stomped my foot a little and I also may have growled. I wasn't worried about offending him and he certainly wasn't aiming to please. 

I just wanted a little more rain is all. 

And for the painter to stop being such a tease.

The Enduring Valley of Light

My first breath was orange blossoms.
My second breath, drops of rain...

My eyes were let to feast on towering mountains and kind rolling hills. Green mountains, purple during dusk light, but shockingly pink after and before. This explains why my hair went gray in that one spot.

All the shocking pink I had to endure.

This is what they fed me...can you imagine?

There were so many introductions: I was bid to leave my shoes inside so I could get to know dirt better. I was made to walk side-by-side with poison leaves, then sit through stories about how bridges were built with rainbows and where the ancient-ones left their beads and why the heart-rocks came to live in the river.

Oh, the river.

Where naked sun taught me to trust as I held boulders with supple arms and a curious young belly. Where cold water showed me to lift my feet and stay focused on maintaining stride. Where mineral springs enchanted me under the canopy of night, while lucid winds haunted whiny sycamore.

That's how they fed me.

That's how I love.

My first breath was orange blossoms.
My second breath, drops of rain...

worship

I fell into worship the moment I found myself inside your eyes

Drawing light from inside shadow
You cross rivers without losing breath
Untie words tethered to phantoms

careful, profound, unconcerned

I
worship
what you are

and how you came to be

dazzled by light
alive in a stroke of paint
still
in the belly of river

I watch

...as you worship, so you become

the thought, the essence
in form and furthermore formless

I watch

as you bow

I bow

to worship

is to become


the love you give

Clouds Are Not Strangers

Clouds fell on the ground tonight.
Crossed the road in front of me.
Fell kind of through me. yes.

Serenaded trees that grow here.
Convinced them of their fragrance.
Declared that I am laughable. yes.

Why do clouds have right-of-way?

Crossing roads without a stoplight.
Telling trees they are not bushes.
Persuading a girl to be more funny.

Pockets of Heart Stuff

I have approximately 5 minutes to write something wonderful and then it's off to work. Isn't it funny that poets must go to work? I am ever amused. In my perfect poet-world, I would sit by a river and lean my back into a tall tree, letting poems fall on me like dry leaves. And if the falling poems made no sense I would spread them out and roll in them. If still they made no sense, I would crunch them up and put them in a stew. Undoubtedly I would swell with fever as I leaned over the steaming cauldron of foliage, because of course in my perfect poet-world I would be a naked poet - tethered to the search for meaning. Punishing myself a little in beautiful surroundings. Alone mostly. Free?

Oops. 5 minutes is up.
Off to work.

T*R*E*E*S

DID YOU KNOW THAT TREES LIKE TO WATCH?

WELL, THEY LIKE TO WATCH.

NOW YOU KNOW

What Lightning Feels Like

oh yes, lightning.

does what it darned well pleases.

anywhere

anytime

ZAP!!

like the roof caving in.

no rumble rumble like an earthquake.

no tumble tumble like a hurricane.

just ZAP!!

and there you are ~~~~left~~~~not exactly standing.

but not exactly, falling asleep.

all this

We are all this

Whispered the dragonfly to the daisy to the frog

We are all this

Whispered the frog back to the daisy back to me

I confirmed it with the sky, who shared it with the clouds

The clouds said they would go and tell the sea

We are all this

Whispered waves to the curiosity of the bee

We are all this

yes. we. are.

akka b.

Firefly

FIREFLY They don't like their picture taken, so be prepared to make your own.

But,

WARNING:

Fireflies are not just Flying BUGS.

There are millions and millions and millions of ways to see...

FIREFLIES

and sometimes
they are
just.
illumined
buzzing
twinkling
loving
looking
bouncing
believing

flying * bugs

(Let me know if you see some :-)

The Pioneer of This...

The incentive is clear...

When you are ONE standing before a confluence of trees and winter is coming
and you have no home
and you have no food

you either,
begin looking for a good place to die

or,
you start building a home and gathering food

with what is before you

You have to make, with what you have, because that is what you have been given.

and if you make good use of what you have
and ask politely...

The giving keeps giving...

We are the pioneers of all this. The pioneers of our own bounty. Carving our own landscape. Fashioning our own home.

We need WATER to keep us FLUID. FRUIT to keep us SWEET. We need WOOD to keep us WARM, and EARTH to keep us HERE. We need SKY to call us forward and MOON by which to sleep.

Then...when SUNSHINE returns we will know how to gather it under our sails, cherish more,
and recycle it throughout the year

with gratitude,

and SO MUCH LOVE

Summer Hiatus

I am
WILDLY
distracted
in the Green Hills of Vermont
The
FOREST
people
keep asking me for favors

So I am going to attend to them for the next two weeks
as we have, kind of a pact going...

However,
I will, when I can,
continue to scrounge the parking lots for internet access
and post now and again,
but maybe not.

many HAPPY days
and lingering summer nights...xxx

The Tower of MORE

The Tower of MORE.

Like Jack’s beanstalk. One little seed falls to earth.

Takes hold, digs in.

One unsuspecting nugget.

Determined to grow.

Grows.

Watered with wonderings.

Bathed in any kind of light.

Yes that’s right I said ANY kind of light.

The sprout doesn’t care about particulars.

It’s very focused.

Focused.

And.

Hungry.

Focused and Hungry and Willing.

To be the vine that grows up to sky without help from fences.

It doesn’t care about greedy boys crawling on it.

Or dull giants tumbling down.

Again.

It doesn’t care about particulars.

Only one word:

MORE.

MORE than it was? Certainly. MORE than is safe? Probably. MORE than enough? Definitely.

And what will it find?

That one seed that took hold and dug in?

That one seed with oversized leaves boldly unfurling?

Unfurling in bursts of growing.

Growing in bursts of breaking through ground.

Grounded in moving while standing still.

Unstoppable.

?