Carol Alena Aronoff
—Poetry and Photos by Carol Alena Aronoff, Hawai’i
OFFERING OF ROSES
I place an offering
at ocean’s edge
mixing sea foam
with gratitude.
Rose petals scatter
like prayers
on the wind,
a small tern lifts
its wings in homage.
Thoughts depart
as love floods in
from the air,
from the water,
from sunlight,
from rock.
This love is as fine
as the rising mist—
stronger
than spider silk.
I place an offering
at ocean’s edge
mixing sea foam
with gratitude.
Rose petals scatter
like prayers
on the wind,
a small tern lifts
its wings in homage.
Thoughts depart
as love floods in
from the air,
from the water,
from sunlight,
from rock.
This love is as fine
as the rising mist—
stronger
than spider silk.
JUST ONE BREATH
One slow breath
and I am weightless
among stars;
the gravity of belief
has lost its hold,
opening me to infinite
possibility and awareness
wide as sky.
One glance at the rose
reclining near my door
and my heart
is cherry aspic quivering
with joy.
And the butterfly
sipping marigold nectar,
my muse.
Simple, small acts
to shift from shopping
list, consumer mind,
from the dumpster dive
of ordinary life to the
space where everything
is sacred. Just one breath,
one glance.
LOVE IN TALL GRASSES
There is no need to be a beggar
at nature’s table awaiting grace.
No need to be timid in tall grasses
beside a rich Damson plum tree
or carrying the basket of moon.
Life asks only to be devoured whole.
No need to hunger for connection.
The affection of marigolds, sweet
devotions of the scarlet tanager
and gentle touch of jasmine-
blessed breeze are more than
enough to know you are seen.
Of course the local mynah birds
are always up for conversation
and the hawk will argue that you’re
leaning on his tree, then welcome
you with open wings. Everywhere
you turn there are messages of love.
____________________
RAIN SONG
This afternoon, I watched the rain
dress leaves in pearls and satin.
Silvery drops danced down my
window like little moons, like tears.
Sky has been weeping all summer,
nearly every morning and evening,
as if there is too much sorrow
in the world to allow the sun free rein.
Although peonies happily lift thirsty
petals to drink, they ache for those
without enough, for the loss of flower
dreaming, for the fragrance of bees.
This ongoing deluge, like nectar for
the reiteration of trees—heartening
what can arise from a downfall, from
being uprooted, what looks like dying.
There is no need to be a beggar
at nature’s table awaiting grace.
No need to be timid in tall grasses
beside a rich Damson plum tree
or carrying the basket of moon.
Life asks only to be devoured whole.
No need to hunger for connection.
The affection of marigolds, sweet
devotions of the scarlet tanager
and gentle touch of jasmine-
blessed breeze are more than
enough to know you are seen.
Of course the local mynah birds
are always up for conversation
and the hawk will argue that you’re
leaning on his tree, then welcome
you with open wings. Everywhere
you turn there are messages of love.
____________________
RAIN SONG
This afternoon, I watched the rain
dress leaves in pearls and satin.
Silvery drops danced down my
window like little moons, like tears.
Sky has been weeping all summer,
nearly every morning and evening,
as if there is too much sorrow
in the world to allow the sun free rein.
Although peonies happily lift thirsty
petals to drink, they ache for those
without enough, for the loss of flower
dreaming, for the fragrance of bees.
This ongoing deluge, like nectar for
the reiteration of trees—heartening
what can arise from a downfall, from
being uprooted, what looks like dying.
THE WISDOM OF SUNFLOWERS
Their roots take in
the toxic waste
of thoughtless acts,
transform them
into food for thought,
into flowering.
Young heads turn
always towards
the sun. When
there is no sun,
they turn toward
each other.
Sun gods incarnate
with all-seeing eyes
uplift nations, stand
watch over dreamers,
ornament graves. In rain
and wind, they bow like
supplicants, shed seeds
of possibility yet to
germinate. Even when
dried and past their
bloom, they feed us—
ask nothing in return.
___________________
WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS….
How do I keep on
loving the world
when so much
is breaking down
and dying,
when division
and hatred
inundate
the landscape?
I search for hope
beneath falling
branches, weighed
down by too-ripe fruit,
undone by the sorrow
of hawks crying
over poisoned nests,
their hatchlings dead.
The rain hits long
leaves of ginger
in a soothing rhythm,
like xylophones,
like a heart beating
messages of renewal.
Darkness, fertile womb,
calls out for tender musing.
Gestation needs a fierce
yet loving hand—alchemy,
anchored in the stars
that light new bones
and form fresh worlds:
unknowable constellations.
Their roots take in
the toxic waste
of thoughtless acts,
transform them
into food for thought,
into flowering.
Young heads turn
always towards
the sun. When
there is no sun,
they turn toward
each other.
Sun gods incarnate
with all-seeing eyes
uplift nations, stand
watch over dreamers,
ornament graves. In rain
and wind, they bow like
supplicants, shed seeds
of possibility yet to
germinate. Even when
dried and past their
bloom, they feed us—
ask nothing in return.
___________________
WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS….
How do I keep on
loving the world
when so much
is breaking down
and dying,
when division
and hatred
inundate
the landscape?
I search for hope
beneath falling
branches, weighed
down by too-ripe fruit,
undone by the sorrow
of hawks crying
over poisoned nests,
their hatchlings dead.
The rain hits long
leaves of ginger
in a soothing rhythm,
like xylophones,
like a heart beating
messages of renewal.
Darkness, fertile womb,
calls out for tender musing.
Gestation needs a fierce
yet loving hand—alchemy,
anchored in the stars
that light new bones
and form fresh worlds:
unknowable constellations.
FROM OUT OF DARKNESS
Dark swan, fly me above
the River Styx, through
the bardo of becoming.
Anchor me in feathers
and froth, freshly hatched
seabird, author of a new
testament, new life. From
a ripped, blue heart, once
mired in shadow, notes of
sunlight lift and mend what
once seemed unmendable.
I am now green with hope.
Amidst new longings,
a list of unrequited wishes
still waits to blossom: more
joy, more creative wandering,
more love for the world
without expectations, more
kinship with the ordinary
in all its wonder and beauty.
More gratitude.
____________________
Dark swan, fly me above
the River Styx, through
the bardo of becoming.
Anchor me in feathers
and froth, freshly hatched
seabird, author of a new
testament, new life. From
a ripped, blue heart, once
mired in shadow, notes of
sunlight lift and mend what
once seemed unmendable.
I am now green with hope.
Amidst new longings,
a list of unrequited wishes
still waits to blossom: more
joy, more creative wandering,
more love for the world
without expectations, more
kinship with the ordinary
in all its wonder and beauty.
More gratitude.
____________________
Today's LittleNip:
Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.
—Marianne Moore
____________________
Mahalo nut loa to Carol Aronoff, who is writing to us to day from the Big Island in Hawai’i, with its noisy mynahs and mystical sunsets. Carol Alena Aronoff, Ph.D. is a psychologist, teacher and poet. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies and won several prizes. She was twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Carol has published four chapbooks (Cornsilk, Tapestry of Secrets, Going Nowhere in the Time of Corona, A Time to Listen) and 6 full-length poetry collections: The Nature of Music, Cornsilk, Her Soup Made the Moon Weep, Blessings From an Unseen World, Dreaming Earth’s Body (with artist Betsie Miller-Kusz) as well as The Gift of Not Finding: Poems for Meditation. Currently, she resides in rural Hawai'i. Welcome to the Kitchen, Carol, and don’t be a stranger! (Watch for more from Carol Aronoff in March.)
A note that the 2023 Sierra Writers Conference begins today and runs through Feb. 16. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
___________________
—Medusa
Maile
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clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
