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Posts Tagged ‘Gaia’

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Baby spider, no bigger

than a pinhead

snuggles next to the sink

for three days,

sustained by dust motes

and a sip of water

from a speck of mist

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until this morning

when she fluffs him

into a tissue

and he rides willingly

through the house

and out the back door

to the garden, and then

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as if knowing,

he drops down

into the leaves

of the orange Calendulas

which have just begun

to bloom.

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(c) 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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Baby leaves unfurl

from trees planted long ago —

tendered new in spring.

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© 2012, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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Originally posted in 2012… revised.

(Photo from 2012)

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The old Shaman

placed his hands

on the trunk

of an ancient tree

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fitting his fingers

between the ripples and creases

of the bark,

until he heard a whispering –

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“Oh, spare me from

the greed of the axe

and the fickle see-saw

of humanity!”

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But from the distant edge

of the forest

the old Shaman also heard

the growl of a chain-saw

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and he smelled the exhaust

and the gasoline,

and he heard the shouts

of timbering men

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and so he bowed his head

and wept,

as a drop of pitch

landed on his cheek.

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(c) 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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O vernal sun,

come sweeten the rain

as you plant your secrets

under thick moss —

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lend the forsythia

pots of gold

and warm the stones

that circle our garden —

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let poppies buzz

and sword ferns uncurl

as Earth becomes great

with tender.

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(c) 1994, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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An old one, never published here… that I know of.  

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Wishing everyone in the northern hemisphere a beautiful Springtime!  🌷 

And to all of us – north, south, east, west – may love, wisdom and peace someday reign on this mixed up world of ours. 💚

 

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Earth’s belly growls

when the wind

scours the valley

and rain swells the sky.

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Shadows loosen,

pressing more tightly

under rocks,

clinging closer to fences

and trees.

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Flickers arrive

flashing new red

under their wings

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while down below

the garden stirs —

and Gaia’s favorite color

is green.

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(c) 1994, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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Crystal rings

under my soapy finger

like the singing bowls,

and the ribbon

of the flute.

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I follow to the Bodhi tree,

to the circles of Dante,

to Mary Magdalene

and her Lover,

to a footprint in the desert,

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and there, the chalice of Socrates,

Blake’s grain of sand,

a whirling Dervish,

the hem of a robe.

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It is all there —

even Gaia herself

is not tethered.

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Master, Master,

there are no words

on this journey,

no words at all –

hush, my Beloved,

hush.

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© 2019  Betty Hayes Albright 

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The day comes

when his totem

tumbles to the ground

and he commands silence.

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He empties his pouch

of tooth and claw,

spreads his eagle wings

and flies to the top

of the mountain,

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and with one last glance

at the ashes

and the shattering,

he sighs, and

disappears

into his own truth.

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(c)  1996, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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