Elis Regina

Folhas Seca

  

 Águas de Março

 

The sport of chicken throwing

Mindful

With wide eyes, ancient Sumerians would wait
hardly a breath or thought
waiting, waiting, surely sometimes for hours
until, suddenly, a shift
Silence settles
without moving, the room begins to look different
-- new colors emerge
now embodying a place divine
the arrival of the gods

Its not so different from what we do
Sit, let small matters and chatter pass through

Out under the oak tree,
where I grew up:

Faded swing and moss and fire ring
Finally mind has quieted somewhat
I just wait...breathe...

Mindful of sounds,
-- before, minute as they were, just noise
Now channeled: cows, cars, rustling leaves,
wind around my ears

Colors organize into broad, parallel lines
flat grey of sky dominates periphery
rusted dormancy of pasture
new silver of the barbed wire fence

The calm begins to supersede the grip of mundane
the quiet seems unnatural

As always, a remembrance:
See that I am seeing

Status quo, inert, linear,
yielding now:
landscapes alive with color, motion

Green grass, mean, spread out beneath the tree
-- pervading,
virtually inescapable

This green reminder of ever-present biology
of earthly beginnings
clashing with the fabric of my limbs...

Senses – 5 teeny specks of perception
an astronomically grand scheme

Perception – a speck, a blip,
on the energy spectrum

Hegel
Object inextricably dependent on subject
subject dependent on object
co-dependency of mind and matter

Further illuminated:
Mind and matter,
shimmering through Indra’s net
interdependent
all minds, all matter

All things connected
throughout the universe each glimmering jewel
struggling always to break away
unique
beautiful
unusual – tragic – alive
…common – ironic – broken
Mindfulness resists natures’ shackles
We are not built for it
Resisting for only so long
then returns
to damp, earthy quarters of green grass

Ode to Weather

Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.

John Ruskin
 

For the love of life

In timeless dimension
Energy springs  up from earth

 Pulling matter  

Like fountain from a well

Energy building upon itself
Organizing into form
Massive trunk supporting limbs
Energy tweaking, redirecting, redefining, until climax
When finally, stabilized, it persists

On the pulse of morning

On the pulse of morning
- Maya Angelou

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us today, you may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song. It says,
Come, rest here by my side.
Each of you, a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace, and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the rock were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sang and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African, the Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
They hear the first and last of every Tree
Speak to humankind today. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you,
Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of
Other seekers -- desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot,
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought,
Sold, stolen, arriving on the nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am that Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours -- your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain
Cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
This day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands,
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For a new beginning.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out and upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here, on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, and into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope --
Good morning.

She and I

I've been pulled in by the negativity of... strangers; the words... "engagement"... "marriage" have become more bitter than sweet. But the meaning remains.  These are not rings, but ring-symbols.  It is not engagement, but a symbol of commitment. Not marriage, but a symbol.  For not just she and I, but for everyone.  It needs no validation, no public celebration, no officiator of its sanctity. It is simply our love; our sacred consent; our commitment. My prayer is that I -- we -- and every pair of those like us -- stay strong and do not falter in knowing this truth.

It's a rough life

My children, 5 minutes after we got back from our walk.