—Poetry by Carol Alena Aronoff,
Captain Cook, Hawaii
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
FOR MOTHERS AND GREAT HERONS
Don’t dry your tears.
Let hummingbirds
sip their sweetness.
Let your voice be
carried, a cry for the
not so distant future,
for mothers and great
herons, for the caged
but not forgotten, for
this very earth beneath
your feet, the indistinct
patter of lovers.
Dream of amethysts,
argyle sweaters, of candy
canes and carousels, then
dream some night of torched
forests filled with unseen
spirits who urge us not to
walk on past, of black rivers
casting shadows etched
in blood. Then dream again—
of days without foreboding
or catastrophe, of laughter
pinned to sorrow.
Don’t dry your tears.
Let hummingbirds
sip their sweetness.
Let your voice be
carried, a cry for the
not so distant future,
for mothers and great
herons, for the caged
but not forgotten, for
this very earth beneath
your feet, the indistinct
patter of lovers.
Dream of amethysts,
argyle sweaters, of candy
canes and carousels, then
dream some night of torched
forests filled with unseen
spirits who urge us not to
walk on past, of black rivers
casting shadows etched
in blood. Then dream again—
of days without foreboding
or catastrophe, of laughter
pinned to sorrow.
BREATHWORK
This winter,
the sun seems
extra bright,
as if it knows
the world needs
more light,
more comfort.
In any season,
your breath
will hold you,
contain the world.
Each time you inhale,
the stars will break out
in laughter.
Each out breath
of love
unencumbered
will scatter worry,
mend the begging bowl
broken by sorrow.
FOR FEATHER AND BREATH
The wind intercedes—leaves
the color of tiger’s eye toss
and turn in restless abandon,
bird wings whisper then rise
to crescendo, bamboo clacks,
there’s a stirring of rills. Nothing
so much as a symphony of stars,
the call of poets to a banquet
of ghost apples and rime.
This, a between-time, heralds
winter reckoning and descent
of the light when spirits are called
home—back to their bodies,
some to unseen realms, others
to awakening—that mysterious,
cyclic dance. Wind, like mind,
flows freely between movement
and stillness, upheaval and calm.
IT’S ELEMENTAL
Wind will come between us,
bend us toward the now,
toward slanting light in winter,
toward the love of oranges.
Sun will uplift morning glories
yet not ignore the hush
of winnowed sorrows. Sun’s
warmth will dry our tears.
Nature doesn’t dwell on past
nor dream of future. Neither
does it dwell on fallen nests,
on what it cannot change.
Let the river shape your dreams,
become the water’s edge; let
waves and eddies intermingle.
There is nothing to stop you.
WHO WILL BE LEFT
when hands steepled in prayer
open
bloodstained palms
in a last gesture
to smoke-filled sky?
When ashes
cover newly dug graves
unfindable
by those who wish
a final goodbye
before they flee?
Who will gather
broken dolls
to hold a funeral
for childhood?
Cover the ears
of shell-shocked
dogs
as their owners
carry them?
Collect tears
from empty bullet-
scarred wells?
Grow sunflowers
from torn limbs
and copper jackets?
Who will be left
to push grandmothers
in wheelbarrows
nowhere safe?
Who?
when hands steepled in prayer
open
bloodstained palms
in a last gesture
to smoke-filled sky?
When ashes
cover newly dug graves
unfindable
by those who wish
a final goodbye
before they flee?
Who will gather
broken dolls
to hold a funeral
for childhood?
Cover the ears
of shell-shocked
dogs
as their owners
carry them?
Collect tears
from empty bullet-
scarred wells?
Grow sunflowers
from torn limbs
and copper jackets?
Who will be left
to push grandmothers
in wheelbarrows
nowhere safe?
Who?
MAKE OFFERINGS
to those you venerate:
Buddha, Bodhisattvas, the ones
who dedicate their lives for us.
Jesus, Mary, Mother of mercy, all the saints
who help with everyday things.
Burn incense for the Unnamable Divine.
Offer prayers to Deities, to mythic gods
and goddesses. To One or Many,
to the All. Remember the Ancestors.
When you’re out in Nature, build a shrine
of stones and flowers. A single piece of fruit
will do. Feel the rain of blessings, then offer them
to city dwellers, to those who live in caves.
When you’re eating, offer food to those
who have none
and pray that everyone can eat as well as you do.
Light a candle for those in darkness. Light the room
with gratitude for whatever you can think of.
Offer up everything: night terrors, the bliss of
loving freely,
hopes and fears that make us human and bind us
to each other. Feed the hungry ghosts and demons.
When you’re down or lonely, make offerings.
When you’re waiting for your ride and
traffic jams
will cause you to be late, make offerings.
Use your imagination.
Always give more than you receive. A smile,
a large
gratuity for the waitress working two shifts in
a row.
Kiss the postman for not opening your mail.
Worship generosity;
you cannot share too much.
If you give everything away,
you’ll find that you have
more than you ever dreamed of.
When you are ill, pray that through your illness
others will not suffer. Offer them your healing
and exchange it for their misery or pain.
Breathe in the hardship, breathe in, transform
the violence of the world.
Breathe out your love and let it radiate
to fill all space.
Keep something in your pocket
for those who have less.
Help clear your elderly neighbor’s yard.
Fertilize her lawn with kindness,
the key to ahimsa, no harm.
Make every moment an offering.
Supplicate for peace.
Sing the praises of garbage collectors
and window cleaners.
Prostrate to waterfalls and elephants.
Call on Tara, St. Theresa, pray for travelers
who help in war-torn places.
Each prayer of thankfulness, each petition
will set a butterfly free and warm the hand
of a political prisoner, giving small comfort.
Light butter lamps and bonfires.
Make offerings as if your life depended on it.
to those you venerate:
Buddha, Bodhisattvas, the ones
who dedicate their lives for us.
Jesus, Mary, Mother of mercy, all the saints
who help with everyday things.
Burn incense for the Unnamable Divine.
Offer prayers to Deities, to mythic gods
and goddesses. To One or Many,
to the All. Remember the Ancestors.
When you’re out in Nature, build a shrine
of stones and flowers. A single piece of fruit
will do. Feel the rain of blessings, then offer them
to city dwellers, to those who live in caves.
When you’re eating, offer food to those
who have none
and pray that everyone can eat as well as you do.
Light a candle for those in darkness. Light the room
with gratitude for whatever you can think of.
Offer up everything: night terrors, the bliss of
loving freely,
hopes and fears that make us human and bind us
to each other. Feed the hungry ghosts and demons.
When you’re down or lonely, make offerings.
When you’re waiting for your ride and
traffic jams
will cause you to be late, make offerings.
Use your imagination.
Always give more than you receive. A smile,
a large
gratuity for the waitress working two shifts in
a row.
Kiss the postman for not opening your mail.
Worship generosity;
you cannot share too much.
If you give everything away,
you’ll find that you have
more than you ever dreamed of.
When you are ill, pray that through your illness
others will not suffer. Offer them your healing
and exchange it for their misery or pain.
Breathe in the hardship, breathe in, transform
the violence of the world.
Breathe out your love and let it radiate
to fill all space.
Keep something in your pocket
for those who have less.
Help clear your elderly neighbor’s yard.
Fertilize her lawn with kindness,
the key to ahimsa, no harm.
Make every moment an offering.
Supplicate for peace.
Sing the praises of garbage collectors
and window cleaners.
Prostrate to waterfalls and elephants.
Call on Tara, St. Theresa, pray for travelers
who help in war-torn places.
Each prayer of thankfulness, each petition
will set a butterfly free and warm the hand
of a political prisoner, giving small comfort.
Light butter lamps and bonfires.
Make offerings as if your life depended on it.
DANCING FOR THE MOON
There are days of dancing on the tip
of a pin; one misstep can put you over
the edge. Yet this is the time to dance
anyway, to move with abandon even if
you’ve never danced before. A time
to tap your feet, side-step across the grass,
moonwalk or leap toward the stars. Dance
out your fury, your pain—waltz away
heartbreak,
sashay out the door. Doesn’t matter if there’s
no music; follow your own rhythm, your own
strength. Dance with no one looking, nothing
to gain. Dance for the waxing moon. No
matter
what happens, let yourself be danced—by
the unknown, by uncertainty, by love. Let
the joy
of movement whirl you into timeless grace.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you're perfectly free.
―Rumi
______________________
Welcome back to Carol Alena Aronoff today, who writes to us from her tropical retreat on the Big Island of Hawaii. Carol was first posted in the Kitchen on 2/6/23 (https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/02/an-offering-of-roses.html/). Aloha, and mahalo nui loa!
Tonight at 7pm, the Poetry Night Reading Series in Davis features Dr. Andy Jones and Piri Ackerman-Barger, plus open mic. Then at 8pm in Sacramento, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe presents featured readers plus open mic. 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
There are days of dancing on the tip
of a pin; one misstep can put you over
the edge. Yet this is the time to dance
anyway, to move with abandon even if
you’ve never danced before. A time
to tap your feet, side-step across the grass,
moonwalk or leap toward the stars. Dance
out your fury, your pain—waltz away
heartbreak,
sashay out the door. Doesn’t matter if there’s
no music; follow your own rhythm, your own
strength. Dance with no one looking, nothing
to gain. Dance for the waxing moon. No
matter
what happens, let yourself be danced—by
the unknown, by uncertainty, by love. Let
the joy
of movement whirl you into timeless grace.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you're perfectly free.
―Rumi
______________________
Welcome back to Carol Alena Aronoff today, who writes to us from her tropical retreat on the Big Island of Hawaii. Carol was first posted in the Kitchen on 2/6/23 (https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/02/an-offering-of-roses.html/). Aloha, and mahalo nui loa!
Tonight at 7pm, the Poetry Night Reading Series in Davis features Dr. Andy Jones and Piri Ackerman-Barger, plus open mic. Then at 8pm in Sacramento, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe presents featured readers plus open mic. 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
Andres Indio
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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!
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!
