Experience this moment
as birds fly high,
so high they seem to touch
the clouds,
their wings skimming
the cottony tufts,
while down below
my neighbor piddles,
the tinkering of tools
drifting above the soft
country music.
Consider this moment
as the sweet scent of hay
drifts across the fields
tickling my nose,
the nicker of horses
delighting my ears,
while a bicyclist
spins past me
with a nod and a smile,
pedals singing as they
whirl and twirl.
It's the little things
in this moment...
insignificant,
seldom acknowledged,
often unnoticed,
or quickly forgotten,
these little things
in this moment
are solid ground,
forming the foundation
of a good life.
Cutting Grass – How To Mow When It Rains Every Day is especially for nature lovers who enjoy poems about the adventures of man against nature!
I step outside
to smell the grass
freshly cut
sweetly fragrant.
Lawnmowers growl
and prowl the
neighborhood
trimming
whopping
chopping
blade upon blade
ferociously devouring
the luscious carpet
before the next rain.
We are in a wet season
punctuated by glaring
bursts of sun
relentless heat driving
an overgrowth
of green
backyards turning
into fields
of wildness
heavy cutting equipment
bogging in the
saturated earth.
Today the ground is firm
enough to withstand
the mowers.
The clouds are withholding
raindrops, like mothers
gathering their young
for one more embrace
one last kiss before
opening the gates
to let them run free
raining joyously
in a summer frenzy.
"Hurry, hurry," coax the
tractor cowboys, urging
their machines onward
for one last round as
the dust kicks up and
the trees laugh and sway
and the clouds clap
with thunder
cheering their children
in wonder.
The riders dismount
shoulders slump in defeat.
Engines fall silent
as rain drums a beat.
The raindrop children
have come out to play.
The man-made machines
are done for the day.
What’s The One Thing That Can Pick You Up On A Rainy Day?
I woke to the sound
of a hard summer rain,
the kind that cracks
your window pane
and makes you want
to go back to sleep
and sink beneath
the covers deep.
Just five more minutes
let me stay in bed,
just a few more seconds
let me cover my head.
Darkness presses
where light should be,
rainfall thunders
a melody.
It's the kind of day
I just want to stay
wrapped in my thoughts
without shoulds or oughts.
But Brownie's at my door,
my sweet little pup,
she's the one thing
that can make me get up!
I painted “Color My World” last summer, and the message is still true today. Thank God for beauty, and color, and diversity!
Another thing I know to be true: sometimes lament and celebration walk hand in hand. Joy and sorrow overlap. Beauty grows from the soil of pain.
Our Savior knew pain and sorrow. He paid a heavy price to break chains and set us free. Let this not go unnoticed. A resurrected life is offered here and now.
Let us stand with our brothers and sisters and lament with them. Let us recognize all who come from a long line of suffering, and who still suffer today.
Let us celebrate the freedom we are all offered, beginning with God’s gift of free will. Let us remember the slow manifestation of that freedom through the centuries.
We are interconnected in this garden of life. Let us raise the flag of hope, and lower our eyes in prayer. Lord, let us see the beauty of all the colors in your garden. Send your healing rain and let us feel your love. Let no flower be overlooked.
"...whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable - if anything is excellent or praiseworthy - think about such things. Philippians 4:8 NIV
Nature Poem For Sky Lovers, Cloud Watchers, and Those Who Wish to Break Free of Confines
Bring me the openness
of the sky.
Bless my feeble
attempts at life.
If I withdraw
folding myself
smaller and smaller
like a wilted flower
in a windowless box,
plant me deep
in the warm soil
and let me rise
arms open wide
breathing free
beyond confines.
Let my song
rise like a prayer.
Let me live
in the open air.
Summer rolls out her
red carpet of heat,
glamour abandoned.
Sweat shimmers on
beautiful foreheads,
makeup melting
like wax from a candle
warmed by the flame.
The masks of theatrics
peel off like wet band-aids,
exposing old wounds
to summer's hot rays...
rays of healing
releasing fountains of feeling.
Do not be afraid
to embrace the beauty
of summer's sheerness,
unadorned by red lipstick,
unchained to the camera,
unconcerned with numbers
on a scale.
The cover-up is
no longer required.
All are welcomed.
All are accepted.
We are incandescent.
Summer casts her smile
upon us and whispers
on the breeze,
"Perfect as is."
Morning shrouds herself
in a soft haze,
blurring the line between
earth and sky.
The sun hides behind
a gauzy veil,
silhouette visible
like a glow-ball
on the dimmest setting.
Mysteries hover
above the dewy fields...
could be fairy wings
or fallen stars
or the breath of angels
passing by.
My heart is lifted
by the morning mysteries,
reminding me that
each day is perfect
in itself.
It is hard to find
our place
in the world.
It is only through
the lens of time
that clarity
is honed.
But the years
take something
from us too.
So there is never
a place in time
where we live
in a perfect world.
And that is not
a bad thing.
Perfection
is over
rated.
I realize, after eating a breakfast of pancakes on the patio, then eating soup outside for lunch, and having done nothing, really, all day so far, I realized I don’t want to go shopping. Not for shoes for my outfit. Not for a curtain rod for my living room window. Not for groceries, even though Ricky needs a jar of jam for his peanut butter sandwiches. I don’t want to leave home.
The wind is fresh, the day is warm, the clouds are beautiful. I see birds gliding. I hear a lawn mower droning. The kids a couple of yards down are playing. It smells of earth and grass and flowers out here. The birds sing and rest, sing and rest. Brownie is sunbathing. I don’t want to leave this scene. I like feeling unrushed. A bee hovers over a white clover flower. The tree leaves rustle with each breath of the wind. I want to feel like I am on vacation. I want to sit and think and dream.
I want to feel whatever it is I need to feel on this Mother’s Day weekend. It’s been five years since my Mom died and I still can’t look at her picture without upsetting the balance of my inner world. It still hurts to post a Mother’s Day photo of me and my Mom on Facebook. Others miss her too. It’s a little easier to think of that now – at first it was too much. I couldn’t hold their pain in my thoughts on top of my own loss. This was asking too much of me. I’m better now.
The neighbor’s dog races across his yard, a red frisbee in his mouth. The little kids scream and squeal with delight. The lawn mower is quiet now; a job well done is left in its wake. Brownie moves to the shade, barks a little, then settles. I am in no hurry to leave this space. Nature’s soothing balm works its way into the soft places in my soul. In my mind, I pack my duties and responsibilities, by should-haves and would-haves, the pressures and demands of normal living. I pack them in a cardboard box, tape it shut, and mark it with a black Sharpie: DO NOT OPEN until Monday.
Thus, I permit myself to enjoy Mother’s Day weekend. I allow myself a guilt-free rest. I, too, am a mother, and this day gives honor to me as well, even though I don’t feel honorable. Which mother among us ever feels worthy? We never know if we are doing a good-enough job of raising our children. But it is nice to have someone else cook for us, or give us flowers, or say the words, “I love you, Mom.” Our kids may not know it, but we are only human, making mistakes, not knowing how to do this, and always needing to hear those words of affirmation. I love you, Mom. So here’s to another Mother’s Day weekend. May we all hear those words from someone we love, even though it may only come through a birdsong.
