Stillness Comes With Secrets
Blue eyes, night skies
reflecting on the surface
of the water.
I let myself slip into the
depths of silence, slowly
releasing my breath and
listen for the call of the
ancients that held me in
the womb of my mother.
Stillness comes with
secrets, sadness releases
a blue so deep I forget
to breathe.
It is the mermaids who
rescue me, fill my lungs
with light, feed me the
words to the songs I have
forgotten.
I feel my voice vibrate,
echo like the sound of
the blue whale who from
the beginning floated
with me in the ocean that
gave me life.
Now, as I sit on the edge
of the river, the blue moon
touches my throat releasing
a breath that comes from
the dust of stars.
Be Not Afraid
Do not forget
the message the stars
left for you on the map.
Heed the warnings
and be guided by the
ribbon of moon that
breaks upon the water.
Fear not the wind
and do not turn away
from the flame.
Behold the silence
as you stand in the light
of the reflecting pond
and demand your right
to claim who the ancients
dared you to become.
Be not afraid.
Child of the Marshlands
She
swallows the river and feels it's pulse
beating
inside her as she learns to read the
ripples
on the surface of water and interpret
the
stories that lie below. She smells of mud
and
dead flies.
It
is in the realm of the marshlands where
she
lies submerged in magic and seaweed
is
braided in her hair. Songs of mermaids
are
her second language and she learns to
stay
clear of the sirens call.
When
she dips oars into the still waters,
memories
are whispered by the minnows
and
the hooves of water horses rush against
the
side of her canoe. She learns to live
her
life in rhythm with the tides.
A
child of the water, she skates on the river,
a
silver ribbon under the moon where she
learns
to navigate by stars and silence the
waves.
As darkness falls she nestles in the
river bed and dreams under the watch of loons.
Begin
Lie
down under still waters where rivers
hold
memories of birch bark canoes and
gather
the songs of water and driftwood
crafting
them into little altars among the
reeds.
Gather
worn pebbles rubbed by ancient
hands,
a ring worn by your mother, the
feather
of a crow and the remains of a
bad
dream. Light them on fire and build
an
altar of their ashes and bones. Watch
as
the wind rearranges their future.
Build
altars of twigs and acorns on moss
covered
rocks where women will come
stained
by tears to bleed and leave touched
by
the moon. Begin building little altars
everywhere,
listen as prayers exhale their
grief.
Orb Weaver
The
fire is dying, the old language
forgotten
and their stories no
longer
told. Swiftly she goes
to
the woods where spider
lives
and summons her
to
gather threads
and
reweave
the
lost
ways.
Karen A VandenBos was born on a warm July morn in Kalamazoo, MI. She has a PhD in Holistic Health where a course in shamanism taught her to travel between two worlds. She can be found unleashing her imagination in two online writing groups and her writing has been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Blue Heron Review, The Rye Whiskey Review, One Art: a journal of poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Ekphrastic Review, Southern Arizona Press, MacQueen's Quinterlyand others. She has been selected as a Best of the Net nominee.
Lovely imagery
ReplyDeleteThese were beautiful and refreshing. Thank you.
ReplyDelete