April 2020 Voicing Art Poetry Reading + Poems
inspired by the themes of connection + interdependent independence
JOHN KEATS IN NAPLES | Roger Coleman
what young John Keats called negative capability
“capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts,
without any irritable reaching after facts and reasons.”
exiled in the harbors off Naples
a coast stacked with apricot azure carmine and rose-colored villas
“half in love with easeful death.”
some 200 years into the future and all that
there is an azure villa in mind but it’s just the back door and the step into home
step inside and catch the first springtime ant on the floor
peas onions and carrots simmered in anise and lemongrass broth
hang in the air far away from the falling rain outside
home warren for the non-essential citizen
home sanctuary from cold springtime winds
Roger is a visual artist whose paintings inspired our first Voicing Art Poetry Reading in April 2019.
LITTLE RED WAGON PLANTS FOR SALE APRIL 2020 | Roger Coleman
I pretend to be a crane softly floating among the
clouds – Ryokan
okay sign at the store entrance and that’s encouraging in a nervous disease
sweet william flats to later bloom in pots on front porch railings
okay ideas that transform themselves within us
like it’s possible to forget the thermometer for a brief minute
like it’s possible to just watch the freight train pass against the bare trees
like it’s possible to make the dying come back and roll over again and laugh
gray rainy day with a bright red cardinal spooked off the message board
kids every which way on scooters wearing tiny fabric masks
air collapsed around them into sounds like hibernations broken off by the way they yell
rain helps the weeds spread and puts off decisions like raking yesterday’s leaves
crows glide over like primeval allies probing what’s going on
like it’s possible to drive the sky and take the ancient reins from pharoah’s hands
f-35 jet noise knocks a dog backwards onto its ass and no one talks into the phones
no one speaks until the fly over goes by and then it’s still a simple rain on the air
like captives milkweed to butterfly like Marvin Gaye to lyrics sometimes I’m struck
sometimes stuck in a dream waiting to go into a grocery store
there was a movie poster and I was on the poster along with a woman with curly dark hair
I believe it was an aviation film the way the background looked with a silver metal plane
taxied against an enveloping sky so to speak – and so in real life – which was also being in the
dream – and looking at the movie poster – in the dream at the same time outside the dream –
I said to the woman – the same woman on the movie poster – both in the dream and outside the dream – we were standing on the sidewalk outside the theater and looking at it – the movie
poster with both of us on it – that was the dream – we were standing outside the dream and
looking back into the dream – the movie poster from what I can tell – and that’s how I want it
to be I said to her
But she said it doesn’t work out that way
3/27/2020 SITTING OUTSIDE | McClain Jeff Moredock
mind ping pongs
what once was
what will be
two mourning doves
call and respond
keep their distance
but stay in touch
on the limb
of a live oak tree
i am grateful
for the interruption
ABOUT MCCLAIN JEFF MOREDOCK:
In 80 years I have worked as a farmhand, lifeguard, folk-singer, surveyor, minister, chaplain, a teacher, coach, head of school, and chief operating officer..
Over a span 50 plus years, I’ve written numerous articles, many sermons, a collection of short stories, a novella, many songs, and over 100 poems.
As a cancer survivor, I treat each new day as a gift, and welcome the offering of what William Saroyan called “the human comedy.” My family and my faith are inseparable, and like Miguel de Unamuno, I believe in God as I believe in my friends.
Poems From Essex & Elsewhere
Nine Holes, Nine Lives-The Front Nine (e-book) Zebras in the Lake (self-published)
Real fake News (available on request) www.mjmoredock.com
WHETHER REPORT  | McClain Jeff Moredock
Early mourning clouds
Will hang heavy
Between head and heart
Teardrop drizzle causing
Limited visibility and
By mid-day winds of change
And sunshine smile
Will allow gradual clearing
Between head and heart
Followed by a warming trend
Probability of participation 100%
PORTABLE PIETY | McClain Jeff Moredock
I carry my religion
Wherever I go
I lift my eyes up to heaven
On Wednesday I snack
On bread that’s unleaven
On Thursday I pray only to God
On Friday of course
I eat only cod
On Saturday then
I dive deep into sin
So when Sunday comes
I can fast once again
This has been floating around in my hippocampus for almost 30 years.
POEM FOR THE TIMES | Laine Driscoll
We 4 Grand Mothers be
On the edge of a threshold,
Together flying free.
A chance to open
A chance to expand
Slowly has turned into a silent but deadly
[ha ha] nuclear bang.
The picture we paint
Is of banana trees in spring,
Lounge chairs and leprechauns,
Just imagine a most magical thing.
We have an air and water bear -Aquarius- on hand,
Poised to organize cavernous harmony-
A shoe rotates us into dreamland.
Too, the Sun is here in shades so cool,
Diamond faceted cold streamed blue
And her hug invades,
drives and sustains the entire U.
3. Grand Mother Earth rides the waves as well,
On surfboard with a smoothie,
Nurturing herself and us all, connecting us so globally.
And 4th, but not last, is Humanity
a goosey gaggle, once tone-deaf,
Setting out for the fallout shelters
While a virus does a ghost dance.
But her throat grows wide, chill and clear,
Purposeful activity is ever near.
Cooperation man is where this is at, man.
Some cool Grand Mothers we be,
Doing our thing and evolving so free.
All the humies will take a breath,
Some will cough and some will vent
Unfurled at all levels, embryonic leaves expand,
To nurture us and nurture them.
The Bliss Bear dances, a great Ecology
Of Energy, cooperation, a week like none ever seen,
By us 4 Grand Mothers,
On the edge of a threshold,
Together sipping tea,
Where dormant buds lept sun-filled hearts,
We’ll hug abundantly.
Laine is a designer and friend of the world often located in New Haven, Connecticut.
THE AMERICAN DREAM IS... | Dayton J. Shafer
attending a community sing-along.
A smorgasboard of unrecognizable ballads, hymns, & standards, but like any good
showman, the choir director saved the best for last—a haunting & scrappy version of
Amazing Grace. You hummed the hymnal for the first few verses, but soon the
unconscious words just came: inherited knowledge—a tableau of pop culture,
upbringing, & sporadic one-liners, & as all of you crescendoed, more & more of the impromptu choir began to slowly careen their heads up until by the final verse the
team synched, slowed down, tasted each word & became a resounding collective voice.
The choir director steadily squeezed their fingers—your final voice shivering through
the cavernous chapel, & although it doesn’t sound like much, a five-second silence
was given & as you rode the wave of love that comes from communal achievement,
you turned to the unknown woman beside you & shared the same intoxicated grin &
head nod. The sing-along over, people began to bundle up for the bracing wind &
snow. Leaving, you walked by an elderly gentleman packing up his belongings. He was wrapping up a dressed roast beef po’ boy—shredded beef shoulder with gravy on a
crisp french loaf dragged through the garden of lettuce, tomato, & pickles, tossed with
fried shrimp & cod. You commented on the wafting sandwich & he offered a taste. You demurred, but the elderly gent waved you off, took a knife from his pocket & sliced a
section off the unbitten end. You thanked him, he complimented your jacket, & you simultaneously tasted, moaned. You nodded & walked back into a New England winter
with cajun on your tongue & a collective voice still singing in your head.
THE AMERICAN DREAM IS
a loving mob.
THREE MEALS A DAY | Jimmy Tee
Let’s have another cup of coffee
let’s have another piece of pie
they say that life is what you make it
the good things just seem to zip by
Born without a shred of knowing
born to absurdities piled high
they say we are all in this together
it still leaves you wondering why
What purpose is there in emotion
what causes words to drop and fly
they say to carry on you must keep calm
that best describes some other guy
Every day is wild and overflowing
every night I hear a banshee cry
they say just do what need be done
we might as well give that a try
ABOUT JIMMY TEE:
Jimmy Tee is a poet from Milton, Vermont.
THE BAKKEN FORMATION | Mary L. Collins
for Lissa Yellow Bird
oil should remain in the ground
it is the blood source of the earth
not to be harvested
as blood reserve for anemic bodies
what happens to a body when it is drained
of life? It collapses upon itself, veins constrict
and dry up, so too, the earth falters and collapses.
how is it that this yellow bird
found a way to speak for the earth
by digging her up? Her beak, a shovel,
her compass, compassion,
the stories of the missing, her fuel.
They call to her from shallow graves,
each mournful cry, she goes to where the voices are,
there, below the surface of the soil,
not vein deep, but within the scent of the blood.
she knows this is not replacement
for the weight of oil, these souls,
who did not volunteer to fill in the hollow spaces
left behind in the Peace Garden state
where gold throated vipers descend
looking for black blood to fill their dusty veins.
some got caught in the snare
once the black snake
sought hospitality in the garden
where he came to drink, and instead,
found himself persecuted and hated;
and so, he became a killa, like the black fetid liquid
of privilege and greed she now rails against.
And so, the yellow bird rises each day
to the sound of dead voices, goes to fetch what remains of their bodies,
from somewhere deep in farmer’s fields,
the one for whom the whole substrata is named.
She will bring them home,
soil shifting below her deliberate steps
into what have now become
the broken, lonely hollows below,
the resting places of her beloved ones.
Mary L. Collins is a writer/activist. A Burlington native, Mary lives in Elmore, VT and works for the State of Vermont where she manages communications for Vermont’s Foster Care Services. Prior to that, Mary worked in marketing and communications for various non profit organizations, owned a production company, and spent many years in broadcasting. She is the founder of Lakota Tiny House Nation, a building project on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in SD where she has been involved for over 15 years as an advocate for indigenous rights and cultural understanding. She is a recipient of recognition from the national organization, “Giving Tuesday” as a “Woman Who Cares”, and a published poet. She has one son, Will.
ARTISAN | Tamah Augen
My Mothers Bread
Built these bones
Her seven loaves
To wood-fired stove
We did not go hungry.
She made do
Or did without
Our hungry mouths
Her long black hair
In braids and pins
She left things out
Or swore them in
Kicked the wheel
That father lathed
Inside the pottery she made
And crowned herself
Fist in dough
Or hand in clay
A recipe her prosody
Raising Yeast and
To stave the pangs
And fill the holes
WORDS | Kyle Dougherty
Like Socrates I approach the word.
So obvious, but absurd.
A vibration in the air.
A vibration in the mind.
To what do these vibrations bind?
Man, woman, child.
You all know what I mean.
But the picture in your mind remains to be seen.
A useful tool? Or an empty abstraction?
It all depends on neural interaction.
And don’t get me started on vocal contraction or auditory reaction.
Sonic projection or acoustic reflection.
The delivered inflection changing direction.
An alphabet whirled into endless permutations
Different meanings in different locations
Simple sounds into pronunciations
The spoken tongues of other nations.
Passing rounds of indignations
spreading love and congratulations
across time and space.
So like Socrates I accept the word.
Both obvious and absurd.
A useful tool AND an empty abstraction.
Coming together for your satisfaction.
LETTERS | Kyle Dougherty
Have you ever placed a letter into one of those big blue mailboxes down at the post office?
You know the ones I’m talking about. Big metal boxes standing on four stubby legs, with a rounded top, and that iconic USPS logo on the side.
Of course, the most important part is the mouth. Usually closed, it opens easily enough,
never taking in too much at a time.
You approach the thing, firmly grasp its lower lip, and give it a good pull.
With the mouth open, you place your letter inside, and let its jaw slam shut with a BOOM.
But this isn’t enough to satisfy you.
You HAVE to open it again, just to make sure your letter was fully digested.
You imagine it falling like an autumn leaf, into a pile of its kin.
All shapes and sizes, and different colors too! (But it’s too dark to see that.)
You think about where they’re going, and where they’re coming from, and you feel uneasy. What if, like yours, they’re all addressed to that one girl whose attention you’re after.
What if, like yours, they all contain the most pure and innocent expressions of love.
and what if, when she leaps into that pile of autumn leaves, the one you’ve crafted isn’t sublime enough to catch her eye.
But you know this isn’t very likely, so you try to think of a different scenario.
What if all of those letters were hewn from the same tree?
You imagine the letters like the fragments of Osiris, torn apart by an enraged Set and
scattered across Egypt.
Will Isis come and put them all together again? Or will they continue to grow further apart? One spending its days in the bottom of a desk drawer, another passed through a shredder and divided into yet smaller pieces.
Is love the opposite of entropy?
You know enough about the paper making process to squash that romantic vision.
So instead you imagine your letter cold and alone at the bottom of the mailbox.
The last letter on Earth for all you know.
Laying flat on the bottom of the box, it goes unnoticed.
What if your words of love rot, ferment, decay.
What if when your letter is finally delivered, the words have gone rank with hatred and the message you wanted to convey has been entirely lost.
A voice pulls you back from the abyss. I guess your letter ISN’T the last one on Earth. That’s a relief.
You step aside to let someone else feed the beast.
DECEMBER 12TH, 2019 PRAYER POEM | Susan Keating
To be a builder of
In the World –
Is – To be here –
at the behest – of Heaven
Only Heaven knows –
The Meaning of Sanctuary –
– What Sanctuary IS – and –
What Sanctuary does.
The World does not know –
One True Sanctuary –
built into this World –
would transform –
The entire World into One –
A Sanctuary –
does not have boundaries –
or borders –
and simply –
could not be held back.
Susan is an Ireland-based writer and creator of meditations and prayer poems who lived for a time in Vermont.
DECEMBER 12TH, 2019 PRAYER POEM | Susan Keating
Blessings never cease –
Blessings do not have
the capacity –
To End –
Or to become loss –
They cannot Ebb and Flow –
For they cannot fluctuate
The essential Nature of
That they are Infinite
and Eternal –
They are not changeable
in themselves –
And are forever unaffected
by change Itself.
They are –
Truly, Blessings are the very
foundation Itself –
Of all of Life
And Life simply – knows – This.
K-9 BILLY (GRIEF) | JC - The Poartry Project
It’s starting to feel like grief.
I have a frame to the future
and I know where this will all go
But there may be so much more pain
along the way
The two pushy angry older white men
and fury at lack
and pentup energy
usually used to eat competitors alive
and will their wives into compliant
blast the doors off my car as they pass
over a double-yellow line
in a school zone
that now means nothing for a time
while “elderly white male”
wanders in the woods
of his wintery mind
and the landscape outside a front door
he does not recognize
I have a frame to the future
and I know where this will all go
But you know when you lose someone you
Those unexpected moments
that catch you unawares
creep up behind you
and hitch the grief up out of your
and into your mouth?
And then the grief is loosed
I looked into the eyes of K-9 Billy
and hitched in sorrow
for what has to be lost
on the way
what we have overlooked.
“The male had left his residence
without shoes or a jacket
with the air temperature
at 22 degrees”
It was devastating.
In this moment of global solitary
it was devastating
to be – in my imagining –
that anonymized elderly male
wandering lost in the woods
and in his mind
the absolute emptiness
of knowing he ended up
down an embankment
lying on the ground
next to a stream,
where he tangled up in the underbrush.
But K-9 Billy saved him.
And in K-9 Billy’s eyes I see all the humanity
that humanity has lacked in calling down
this corona scourge
so that maybe
with the eyes of K-9 Billy.
Founder of The Poartry Project, poet, visual artist, cartographer of the unseen, builder of loving worlds through loving words
IN WHICH YOU ARE TO PAUSE... | JC - The Poartry Project
(Dispatched via Diplomatic Pouch)
Date: March 19, 2020
To: My Workers
Subject: In Which You Are to Pause
You have been a noisy bunch.
I have had a headache for centuries…
And the neighbors have started to complain.
(Mars just won’t shut up with their sword-rattling,
Vulcan keeps telling me throwing you all in their forge is just around the corner,
and Uranus is getting a kick out of joking about bringing you all to their place
“where the sun don’t shine”.)
Even my boss, with their sunny countenance and radiant disposition,
is getting on my case.
And, really, do you have to constantly be so god- awful to each other?
In all my travels, truly, you create beauty of some of the rarest form,
but that just doesn’t seem to be enough, does it?
So, my dear workers, the time has come
in which you are to pause…
to reflect, to contemplate,
to get off the hamster wheel and out of The Matrix,
to love on each other, to treat my body kindly,
to for gods-sake put down your grubby lust for coin
and spiritualize it up and out beyond the ugly bunker you have built.
To witness the chance for the hold to be broken:
To revel in the bullies’ real reveal as bloated baby blimps.
To see the stock market on its knees and
actually believe it is not the master of the universe.
To laugh at the plaything that is the human relation with money
and feel reverence at the realization that it is actually an agent of love
when we share it in people’s wellbeing.
(Bet Andrew Yang doesn’t seem so wacky and wonky now y’all, eh?)
And, dudes, please thank Bernie and Elizabeth.
Yeah, he’s crotchety – yeah, she’s got a plan for that that didn’t seem sexy –
(I do, however, love a sexy librarian; always have)
but bet healthcare for all doesn’t seem so crazy right about now, huh?
So I’m going to keep those masks slow in coming,
and you are going to – STOP, just stop.
Be silent, my workers.
Be plunged, vomiting, out of The Matrix,
and realize you can do jujitsu that restores my world.
Be listening, and hear the steady and sane wonders sharing “wild” ideas
that are just what MY doctors are ordering.
Be silent, my workers.
And become, my Beauties
that you are.
And turn this place into the sanctuary it is meant to be.
Mars really is in a much better mood when they have a beautiful place to decompress,
Neptune likes to switch up their meditation spot sometimes,
Venus is able to write their monthly wisdom updates so much more clearly,
and don’t even get me started on The Voice: Galactic Edition show
we’ll be able to have when you finally figure things out.
From the Desk of Planet Earth
The 366th day (it’s a leap year)
of the 12th month
of my Infinite Year
WE TOLD OURSELVES STORIES IN ORDER TO... | Shanta Lee Ganter
Kurt Russel showed us New York
from where he is, it’s 2020
from where we be, it’s 1981
The law searches hotels,
others sit on the border
trying to spot a gold & blue
Today, I saw two misplaced
how many days before I dial
up to say, I’ve got one
done so well we said,
That can’t be us
As for spotting ourselves,
he says, It was never up,
but in. The Sioux said, if
you want to hide something
bury it inside. Humans will
never find it.
We be Delores
We be the Madame
Walking in between
our lines, sleep, and wake
tellin ourselves it was
different before this
we do time, counting
hours not days
we tell ourselves
we be the guests,
not the hosts
It’s the sum of moments
climbing states of complicit
it starts with…
travel bans, re-assigning
wives, children, resources
armed guards in grocery stores
assigned colors for everyone
It ends with…
for the price of eggs gone high
tags forcing compliance—
two per family
all the ways we ignored
armed guards on subways,
in Times Square,
on a street near you
It ends with…
a shotgun in the kitchen
ammunition in a tea kettle
telling ourselves, We’ll trade
freedoms for safety
telling each other, I’ll trade you,
flour for toilet paper
Nervously goofy he says,
This is worse than any fiction imagined
He delivers in calm deadpan,
I did imagine it…
Water, toilet paper, paper towels,
become a chant of the missing
instead of a call to prayer,
In this ending, do we see what’s
on the other side of the mist?
Do we ask to go back to that time
before? Return to the darkness
darkness we called innocence?
Return to that time we said
the shadows, those shadows,
are not us?
© Shanta Lee Gander.
AT THE GATES OF THE WAY | Roger Coleman
there are many things to be done today
and it’s such a lovely day to do them
– Ron Padgett
Orphee suite again another discover link on Spotify
piano key repetitions step through tossed backyard leaves
married to windy patterns dropping on the air
the audience got invited over to Andrew Cuomo’s place for chianti and meatballs
okay it’s just a tv joke during a news briefing on the hospital counts
while instead we watch hazy golf tournaments before HD
should I future proof my teeth with an amazing whitener not yet available in stores
should I be a true couch patriot and place an order from Burger King
should I order Hydro-Mouse on an unsecure site to repair a lawn that aliens fawn over
yesterday in the yogurt aisle at price chopper
it was beautiful in a sci-fi kind of way
two people wearing face masks and slim green gloves
kissed together among the invisible Covid-19 confetti
(sanitation deputies then dropped from the ceiling and sprayed them)
while pandas go out of style carbon exhaust goes down
southern green bean farmers plow hundreds of acres back underground
the shocked the unemployed the new confused in weird lofty fellowship
wait in lines and join the homeless numbers laid bare and illuminated
at the inner homelands of overrun food shelves and taxed children
“a man alone aint got no chance” John Garfield shouts
as he tries to shoot his way out cornered against the bad guys
“yea I knew the guy” Barbara Stanwick says at the harbor to the cops
“the data always trumps the model” Dr. Fauci says later
LOOPING THE LOOP | Roger Coleman
while covid-19 dominates the tv watch tonight
there’s a doc on called Vietnam in HD till late
inside an Italian city the sirens never stop
the statistics of sick old people
the rolling volunteers who deliver medicine and food
I’d go crazy if I had to stay indoors he said
wiping a tear behind a mask
nodding to the camera and then driving off
news is that here at home
you can get a loan break on a luxury truck
you can buy something comfortable before you die
DJ Nice on his virtual quarantine club reaching 100,000 members
said I feel like we hit the re-set button on life
hoods of prayer
hoods of white hair
beautiful cotton sheets at a discount for those troublesome nights
Vermont goes into orange positive cases
splinting attention with an old black and white movie
across the channels and years called City of Fear
chamber music on Spotify
redactive almost aphasia
vanity impelled which concerned myself
EASTER SATURDAY | McClain Jeff Moredock
Roll away the stone
Against my heart
Reveal my empty
Tomb of faith
From my doubts
HIPPOALLERGENIC | McClain Jeff Moredock
@ 19 mph
not a rash
STOIC POLKA | Jimmy Tee
words ring hollow
we are forced to swallow
events that occur as they may
effect then cause
well it gives me pause
would a friend treat you in that way ?
with little regard
for bird, beast or bard
time marches on so they say
pay no attention
to words that mention
the past in any shape or way
for our memories
say what they please
we are tossed in a forever sway
calling it fate
you from the pain of yesterday
maybe you’ll find
enough peace of mind
in the absence of love on display
facts and figures
in mortis rigors
on a world that is melting away
you must admit
it stinks quite a bit
to expect some sort of hurray
words ring hollow
we are forced to swallow
events that occur as they may
TESTIFY | Tamah Augen
She did not find her love, it’s said
Until she rested in her bed
One hundred years it took to know
Displays of faith like wisdom grow
The clouds and stars are out of grasp
Should I become as they, perhaps
Purely here to testify
Nature’s treasures mystify
Epiphanies such as these
Are slumbers enough for me?
Opening my heart to fly
With wings like this,
I am the sky
LETTERS | Kyle Dougherty
A hundred weeks have passed, that I think of you, weakly.
The daze I don’t dare to assess.
What was once (h)ours is now past, tense.
Before the decades to follow.
I often wonder,
would you come back, for seconds?
That I could hold you for a minute,
I’d probably just cry.
And maybe you would too.
DECEMBER 15TH, 2019 PRAYER POEM | Susan Keating
Letting go of Judgement –
Brings Grace –
When you judge – anyone
or anything –
You Judge yourself – God
And Life –
What a burden indeed.
Now – When you do not
You can Listen –
And you will hear –
The conversation – the
intimate – loving –
to all that is –
Return to you.
And gratitude – free again
flows endlessly – in you
and through you –
for all that is Good.
FOLLY OF FLIGHT | JC - The Poartry Project
The hunched granite imagines that time flies for the evergreen.
The lush shadowed pine imagines that time soars for the rolling pebble.
The shock of birch imagines that time frees its leaf, and wonders the sights it sees.
The leaf imagines that time stands still for its white sheltering stand, and wishes to be home. The field sedge imagines that time is an eternal wheel, and the visiting dragonflies figments of the imagination winking in and out of existence.
The dragonfly longs to catch up with the hummingbird, wishing time would stretch its sap and freeze the hummingbird in place.
The bark knows time only as it is carried away by the beetle.
The beetle awaits decay, the time when it can do its work.
The child imagines the rain will never stop striping window with prison bars,
time-robber of spring when life comes out to play and time disappears in the face of the Sun who wonders if She will ever catch the tail of the Cosmos.
CORONA-V| Ani Rao
Corona-v is sticking to stories that I see
with an invisible paint…
an invisible paint revealing
that our stories connect us
with fellow passengers on a train ride…
a train ride where some are shifting
from jobs, classrooms, churchs, businesses,
our creative expressions and adventures
to our houses…
some of our houses which are calling
for compassion and understanding
to heal those of us grieving,
those of us scared, lonely, ‘going crazy’ in our houses…
and also houses that are offering some of us sanctuary
in these ‘shaking things up’ times,
with opportunities of
hugging, talking, playing,
reading, listening, observing,
imagining, creating, reaching out,
asking and exploring meaningful questions…
meaningful questions illuminating our families,
communities and nations’ steps forward together…
steps forward together that hopefully lead us
into greater helping of each other
and loving and sharing
and deeply connecting…
deeply connecting with the sacred of our purposes
and being who we are,
engaged in the communities we are part of,
and illuminating where we head next…
head next as our whole selves,
and collectively on a shared adventure,
which enrich our lives and
the wellbeing of humanity and our world.
TO THE LIVING WORLD | Mary L. Collins
it’s not so hard, really –
first you lose the watch
and take the clocks from the house.
then you ditch the television set
it marks time in the strangest of all ways,
a synchronized fiction even the six o’clock news
can’t intercept – it being fiction too.
then you stop eating scheduled meals
and graze when your belly says it’s hungry
feel the growl down there, something primitive,
remembered, base of the brain stuff
that rekindles your commonality with the world.
then you spend more time out in the back woods,
feel the moss, soft and cool under your feet,
then you lay down on it,
let it cradle your cheek, find the contours
of your body, fit you like a hug,
and then you breath in the scent of the earth,
and notice the way rocks smell
when the sun has baked them,
how the wind carries the light,
the scent of grass and flowers
feathering your nose with their flirtation.
then you listen to the buzz of bees
and the hum of hummingbird wings as they search for nectar,
and slowly, slowly your ears and eyes become more keen,
more discerning as you watch the bird’s
wings beating, and see that you can count them,
each beat, and when you have let go enough
when you have stopped measuring altogether,
when you have let the rhythms
of the world greet you like a heartbeat,
time reaches out and takes a breath,
letting out a deep satisfied sigh
and invites you back to the table,
to the banquet,
to the living world.
GROUP THERAPY | McClain Jeff Moredock
Hello my name is Jeff
I am an
Obsessive Compulsive Poet
A bit of prose
Pops into view
Drug side effects
All about rhymes
Sometime I think in feet
Sometimes in meters
Personifications pile up
Alliteration always around
My mind races
I do my best to not reverse
But I am not free
My name is Jeff
And I am an
Obsessive compulsive poet
Written in part on the Charlotte-Essex Ferry returning from a meeting of The Otter Creek Poets. June 2018
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Voicing Art: Poetry of Space | Place | Time
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Poetry inspired by works of art, the art of nature and the exploration of beauty, perception and insight through the cartography of the unseen.
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