DAWN

Dawn is a daily visitor,

Creeping silently over the earth.

Her fingers reach between cool moist leaves

And drop splatters of sunshine on the ground below.

Dawn’s near-silent voice wakens beast and fowl with,

“You are unique. You are of worth.”

Blossoms open to relish Dawn’s sweetness.

And one by one, robins join her in her song.

Dawn paints the sky as no painter can.

With each stroke of her brush

She paints naught colors,

But rather hues of Life and Mystery and Eternity.

Dawn will never be captured

Nor stopped for a second, even.

She can only be embraced

As she moves over the globe to change something within each of us.

--Lolly Thomas

Willa Cather Memorial Prairie, June (For Laura and Bob Roybal, Red Cloud residents, who took me there)

We park near the marker. I step out of the car, expect lonely Nebraska silence but hear the hymn of lowing cattle invisible behind the Kansas border, signalling six hundred eight sacred acres lying at our feet, commemorative gift to an artist's greatness. We make our way down grazed trails at 6 a.m., day breaking under a silver curtain's blinding rim, gun-metal clouds transforming into navy hues, unexpected rumbles above us, fragile turf our carpet, slanted beams, sunrays angling down like floodlights.

Entwined roots, densely knitted ecosystem, surround us on all sides. We spot a wooly caterpillar, a ladybug, touch between our fingers velvet-soft silvery leaves, yellow blossom of butterfly milkweed, hear humming bees, the chirping, buzzing of busy insects, staccato melodies of finches, larks, flycatchers. Brushing past stands of sumac that will be glorious in October, combing vast expanse of land with eyes, camera, pen, we follow a fence curving down toward the dark pond, see silhouetted tree trunks straight as elephant legs knee-deep in water.

Crumpled grasses crushed to pale green mats under our soft soles, we kneel, examine hulls, buds, berries, spot surprising magentas, reds, a purple poppy mallow there, invasive sage here, sensitive briar, feathery wisps of western salsify, clover, even two delicate mushrooms perched like umbrellas over a cowpie.

We step across a badger hole, glimpse thistle, listen to a whisper of wind, satin backdrop of summer's gilded sky hovering, purpling, a new burst of thunder, over near Guide Rock, Laura points, as we turn to watch sea and sky blending, buffalo grass waving, waving toward the distant horizon.

--Lorraine Duggin

The Rhythm of a Poem

The rhythm of a poem is the blood in the vein That connects the heart to the creative brain, Imparting wholeness with each giving surge, The Body, Soul, and Spirit merge.

--Tom Rundquist Beginnings

Thorn the flower less the celestial seed. Time is not as disposition suggests. We live in a Universe devoid of time. Yet time compels life and through time insistent we die. Distracted, well lost in time our Cosmic dislocation of self persists. Accordingly we suffer, vindicated by our demise. We survive with death's permission. Time's protocol seeds existence: Everything ends less endings thirst. Words allowance whispered restraint. The question begs answers permission. We are authors of all except Creation.... Lost, we search our absence. Carrying our burdens we resist Creation. Embracing smile's reprieve. Many on the planet earth repeat their prayers, waiting politely for God to get them right. The earthly patron invites ,"There is no God." The beggar smiles,"How can you deny the existence you just identified?” Elephant's, ocean's river, valley's sway, hummingbird's nest the skies. Mysteries inarticulate. (I) can not know a rabbit's sleep. A puppies first sight. Trees companionship. Ourselves the same delivered untrue. Lost, we search our absence. Our Cosmic predisposition, denied. Incongruity prevails. Our linear word floating in abandoned timelessness. Bold in life. Imagined in death. And of death's awareness: The Universe is all; what all is; is death less than all? No retains life abstains. How early pain instructs. And death allows. And crying words are cryings shame. Physics foretells. "All is material except time." So and so not so at all the earth people dematerialize their existence calling this success. Merchants of death. . There is no death there is extinction; the end of life the death of death. Death applauds; we bow: Revelations seed. The thorn instructs the flower. Children cry... Death applauds; we bow.

The Cosmos unfolds duration speaks. There is time duration whereby all material ends. And Eternal duration. No endings thrive all beginning abide. In by the absence of time, the Eternal resides You can go home again... --- Charles Woram Night Terrors

Flecks of light float in the darkness. Are they angels? Or demons I fear? I hear the creak of footsteps on the stairs. Yet, I dare not breathe or move. The pipes clatter, the wind blows. Foghorns moan in the distance. My bunny falls to the floor. I dare not get out of bed to rescue him. If I step off the bed, I fear The demons will drag me into the hinterland. Then out of nowhere, I hear my voice cry out: "Mommy! Mommy!" Tears fall from my eyes. A figure in a long red robe appears by my bedside. She strokes my cheek I am safe at last.

-- Cindy Lynne

Nubby Sweater (Inspired by Michaela Weiss)

Creamy beige with flecks of tan and brown, Its nubby, knitted texture was warm, comfortable, The sweater, a perfect fit.

Given to her by the Red Cross when she lost her apartment to fire, Nothing left but the pajamas she wore that frigid January night.

To lose everything she owned Was to lose An immense part of herself. Having nowhere to go, Knowing she had to start over, Reaching for items she no longer possessed.

The sweater meant much more than a cozy article of clothing. It represented the kindness, The compassion, Of others Who reached out in her dire need. Strangers who, perhaps, had been there before. She was not alone, But nurtured by these generous souls.

The nubby sweater began a new chapter of strength and perseverance, of being whole again, of being reminded that it’s not the “stuff,” But the human connections in life that really matter.

--Kathie Haskins On Being.

I could be invisible.

I could go through a day or more, seeing or talking to no human being.

I work out of my office, alone.

I communicate by e-mail, Skype, Facebook, text and phone.

Banking? .... Direct deposit, online transfers and ATMs.

Gas the car? .... Self-serve and credit at the pump.

Post office? .... Self-serve.

Eat? .... Self-serve line at the grocery store.

My life could be reduced to keypads, keyboards and credit cards.

All for convenience, for saving time, for the sake of modern technology.

But, we are human beings. BEINGS.

Being what exactly?

Being alone?

Being secluded?

Maybe we're meant to BE with other people.

Be a kind word.

Be a gentle touch.

Be an encourager.

Be an interested listener.

Be a compassionate heart.

Be the eyes of one who cares.

Be a human being. Today!

Rock someone's world!

---By Ragamuffin. The Yearling Deer in Zorinsky Park

"Look, over there!" Both girls screamed. There, in the scrub and saplings near the edge of the stream It lay, just a russet pelt and bones, But two complete legs with perfect hooves. No skull, but all the innards complete nearby. Freeze-dried and gnawed clean, only the ants could make a meal now, and only after the thaw.

“What?” and “Why?” the girls asked.

The wind rustled the amber grass but said nothing. Nor the half-frozen stream trickling toward the lake. Not the cattails, standing upright in the rotten ice Going to seed and floating off in the wind, Nor the muskrats gesturing by their lodge, Not the yellow-twigged willows, nor the red buds of the maples waiting for spring.

Not the sky, amorphous gray, featureless and blind.

But then there were the geese, a ragged V soaring under that mute sky, Calling to each other, Urging each other on, Always toward that true North Somewhere beyond imagination.

– Michael Lynne Aunt Jimmy

A long car trip A late summer’s storm Breaking August’s heat. As we arrive Setting sun’s rays Slip from the dark edge Of leaden clouds To illuminate The old homestead.

Our tires crunch Spew gravel Join retreating thunder’s Staccato punctuation Of evening’s encroachment. Aunt Jimmy lies straight, still Pillowed and framed by Heavy, white-painted hospital bed that Dominates the room.

Sun’s last rays Subside beneath horizon’s shroud In a halo of golden lamp light Aunt Jimmy’s hands On stark white sheets Are transparent Her veins, the blue rivers of life Strong beneath the crepey delicacy Of her vulnerable skin.

Awed by her presence By the life Pulsing Just beneath this skin So opaque That even her Bones are exposed I see the infinitely fine line Between life and death. Her eyes flutter Open Meeting mine Instilling A bit of her soul A memory to carry Until I am that Old soul In life’s twilight.

--Laura Neece Baltaro

North Carolina Summer

Waves of parched heat Blur the strip of smooth blacktop As it weaves over red clay An endless ribbon Binding earth’s every curve Fluttering into infinity.

Brilliant sun pierces And defines The loneliness Of a tobacco barn Decaying Into red dust.

A lone mule shelters In his own world Of cramped shade Now and then glancing Lazily Toward a distant somewhere.

The house shuns encroaching weeds and rusted metal Defined by the infinite blueness Of a pure sky that separates Leaving each To be seen alone In its own individual truth.

Arrested in the moment Between memories And the stark definition of present Warm waves of Summer’s heat Caress the silence.

--Laura Neece Baltaro