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Subscribe to this list via RSS Blog posts tagged in poems

Posted by on in SageWoman Blogs

It was mist this morning
that lured me away,

May be an image of naturestraight out of bed and into the trees
to see the glow lifting
from the valley and sliding through
the rising sun,
particles of water vapor
drifting sideways through the air
so that it looks like the woods
are breathing.
I almost think I hear the fairies
of the land whispering
as the rays of sunshine
lay down enchanted paths
between tree trunks,
unmapped lines of discovery
that are only revealed
with the light is just so
and a crow zips silently by
carrying something mysterious
in its beak.
I see why we are warned about the mist,
pathways that are shrouded and uncertain.
After all, if you step into the mist
how will you know
what to buy or what to feel
bad about.
How can anyone capture
and sell your attention
if you’ve reclaimed it
and let it settle into the mist
instead of into a screen.
If you are focused
instead of fractured,
if you are no longer listening
to how it has to be,
or what to think,
or where to look,
or what to buy,
perhaps it is you
who becomes dangerous,
free as you now are
to slip away
into the mist,
into the real and pulsing
world,
breath from cedar trunks
rising up to meet you
where you are. 

Last modified on
Recent Comments - Show all comments
  • Jamie
    Jamie says #
    Molly, Solid gold! That poem makes you a dangerous rebel, in all the right ways.
  • Molly
    Molly says #
    Thank you so much!

Posted by on in SageWoman Blogs

I carried lemon balm
and sweet almond oil with me
into the woods
and sat on a stone.

May be an image of natureI saw three vultures rising and falling
wheeling and whirling
gracefully above the valley
and a single black crow zip busily
along the horizon
as its kin called raucously
from unseen trees.
A neat triangle of nine geese
passed above my head,
close enough for a change
to hear the rhythmic sounds
of their wings moving the air
as they passed me by.
I encircled myself with lemon balm,
scattering it loosely
on the leaves around my rock.
I anointed my body with sweet drops
of scented oil
and whispered some wishes to the wind.
These, my own spontaneous
and solitary
rites of spring.
Suddenly, the slowly coasting vultures
changed course
and angled across the blue sky above me.
I felt the shadows of their long wings
gently cross me
as I sat silent in my circle
and felt tears rise into my eyes
and laughter rise to my lips
at the exact same moment
as I recognized the feeling
of Persephone’s return. 

Last modified on

Posted by on in SageWoman Blogs

If I were naming the moons,
August would be
the Mushroom Moon,b2ap3_thumbnail_116721655_2720505291495009_3608339146132803919_o.jpg
honoring the things that wait
below the surface
for the right moment to emerge,
the invisible magic beneath our feet,
the wisdom of hidden places,
the quiet mists
that rise from cool water
into steamy evenings
beneath thunderous skies
and cicada song.
It speaks of the deepening
and the steeping,
the shy and the creeping,
the unexpected lessons
of loam and longing,
the vast and stubborn network
of all that is unseen,
the sky that sings
and hopes with wings,
and wide, round mysteries
on the rise.

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In my dream,
the Summer Queen
is wrapped in summer’s fire,b2ap3_thumbnail_107548174_2700137346865137_2706254459724466380_o.jpg
garbed in gowns of gold and brown,
and blazing with desire,
the grass and grains
are winding down,
leaning in ebbing spires.
She feels the heat beneath her feet,
her stride is wide,
her lips are sweet,
her arms lift up to lightning streaks.
She twirls around on thirsty ground
raising the passions higher.
With hips and hopes expanding wide
her heart alight with joy and pride
her song is strong,
her howls are long,
her many prayers are hot and bold
and then her plans
find ease at last
remembering the wheel spins fast
it’s nearly time to share the floor,
as Autumn’s Queen
peeks round
the door.


In August, I feel held in a space between summer’s fire and summer’s fatigue. There has been a blooming and a ripening, and now a harvesting and a fading begin as the time comes to turn the page.

...
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Posted by on in SageWoman Blogs

There are cracks
where inspiration dwellsb2ap3_thumbnail_109830348_2709870642558474_4978359923544854605_o.jpg
and hope still wanders,
places where wonder seeps back
onto parched terrain
and breathes a promise
of joy to come.
There are droplets of courage
sprinkled across buds of faith
and tender shoots
taking root in hidden spaces
where they will twine into possibilities,
seeking and extending
tentative petals to the sky,
keeping the pact they made
before being,
to bloom when they can.

At this point in the year I feel held suspended in a space between summer's fire and summer's fatigue. The air is thick and stifling, the flowers are wilting, the ground is parched, and I feel a sensation in the air of the approaching time to "turn the page."

...
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Posted by on in SageWoman Blogs

List for today:

Rescue tadpoles from the evaporating puddle
in the driveway.
Look for pink roses in the field.b2ap3_thumbnail_100728699_2662578040621068_2044351931215773696_o.jpg
Look for wild strawberries
along the road.
Listen to the crows in
the compost pile
and try to identify them
by their different voices.
Plant basil and calendula
and a few more rows of lettuce.
Examine the buds beginning
on the elderberries
and check blackberry canes
to see if the berries have set.
Watch the yellow swallowtail butterflies dance.
Wonder about action and apathy
and what bridges gaps.
Refuse to surrender belief in joy.
Listen for faint echoes of hope.
Feel the tender beat of humanity
pulsing in the world.
Feel the sun on your face
and water seeping
into your jeans.
Remember that even if you have to
move one tadpole at a time,
change is always possible.

...
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Posted by on in SageWoman Blogs

The Perfect Beltane

The cool touch of dew
across cheeks and brow,
a single pink dianthus emerging
between stones,b2ap3_thumbnail_95095453_2637970603081812_7130250266661617664_o1.jpg
sunlight kisses through leafy canopies,
a circle of flower petals,
a gentle hoop of wild raspberry cane
making a celebration arch
under which to sit
on a broad flat stone,
gooseberry bushes by my knees
and the sound of wild turkeys
rising from the valley,
as the sun lifts steadily
into the sky.
It is this small magic
of living I crave
and delight in,
the silent ceremonies
of surprise and skin
that arise before my eyes
and sink into my bones,
the very day itself
the ritual handbook
of a wild witch alone.

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