The old tree stood alone in the overgrown cemetery at sunrise
singing winds toying with her clacking coat of leaves
her wavering arms extended out
over thistles and milkweed, flowers and grasses.
Browned summer fronds
flew from her
floating happily to Earth
eager to touch the soil.
I watched her for a long while
from my shelter among the headstones
and just as the sun came over the hill
the ancient one
waved her limbs,
picked up her roots and danced.
©photo and poem by caf
Waning moon
Stars, small suns to other worlds,
the smell of morning.
No matter the evil,
the ugly,
or the political,
the Mystery is still here.
Can we remember this?
©photo and poem by caf
Only a Calf
A new small calf born deformed
and rejected by its mother
taken in by others and nurtured into health.
This world is too beautiful to ignore
and too broken to turn away from.
Put down your books
come to deep looking, feeling, knowing
of beings – children of the World Being Herself.
Sit with knowing Her, feeling Her – all of Her
before you’re gone and it’s too late
to know Her in this way, as Her child, Her expression of Self.
When you were born it was as though She sent you
to school for the day… but only for a day.
When you return home your Mother
will be waiting for you.
©photo and poem by caf
A whale named Moon, spine broken by a big ship,
unable to dive for food.
emaciated, swims 3,000 miles
to die of starvation in the winter feeding grounds.
The moon rises over the stark winter marked trees
breeze gentle by my ear
as stars witness the rising sun.
An old woman begs the soldiers to leave her family alone
We just want to live our lives, care for each other.
So the soldiers laugh
shoot her husband, rape her and her daughters
steal their food, burn their house.
Grasses in the field, dried wild flowers
wave and clack in midday air.
Sparrows squabble over seed lying on the ground.
A fox crosses the road toward beckoning hill.
An elephant is shot, stripped of her tusks
her corpse left to rot in hot sunlight
while her calf looks on trumpeting in fear and grief, not understanding.
What can I do but witness your suffering?
I don’t know what to do with this.
Some days my prayer books are no help.
©caf
Imagine how happy Earth was
the day you opened your new born eyes
and drew your first breath
in a green forest that
sheltered unfolding ferns, wildflowers, fledglings
and you – an innocent fawn.
The mourning doves cooed,
ground hogs danced
the nearby hills murmured with astonishment.
Others gathered to see you
sniff your freshness
admire your raw, emerging awareness
And the forest sang you a birthing song
of greeting and sheltering …
Welcome new one to a space of wonder,
fields, streams, sunshine and rain.
This will be your home for a short while
until the Spirit that birthed you calls you home.
May your wildness be a blessing
a beacon for all to see how plain innocence
can be a way of life,
and unconditional living
is the truest nature of all creatures.
May you grow in grace and ease.
May confident peace and joy
move freely through your soul.
May you know wonder as a friend
and parcel of your own nature.
May you find comfort in the soul
that weaves all together
and is your truest home.
Amen.
©poem and photo by caf
What is this liquid heat I have guzzled on mornings beyond count?
Is it dirt – black and grainy?
Is it root or bark – ground and bitter without any sweetness?
From where does it collect its flavor?
Does the sun, source of fire and warmth
add to its astringent taste?
Like a soul, it must be finely ground
to be useful.
Some say it comes from a bean grown on tree or bush.
I say it is liquid Earth
black, oily delight for my spirit.
©poem and photo by caf
Consider the Great Love
who first imagined you
constructed your soul and body
instilled your breath
distilled the beat of stars into your heart.
Recall the river
who entered your spine at birth
and runs up and down
flowing through your limbs and organs
whose glittering surface
shines through your eyes and face.
Consider you did not will any of this to happen
It occurred by grace of Life.
You made a space for it
as air makes space for birds
holding them up gently on currents
as it does also with clouds.
Remember the Great Love
the river
the air and clouds
for they are the truest self you have.
©poem and photo by caf
abstract art artist blog carole carole fults creative creek earth flowers forest fults images life magic magical midnight moon moonand sky morning mystery nature night Onesquethaw Creek peace Photo photographers photographs photography Photography and poetry photos poems poetry shining sky stars stories sun sunrise tree trees wild wilderness wildness wind
Wind wanders through trees
touching leaves
blessing rocks, waters and Earth
teaching herself about them
and her own limits.
Forest,
home to Common Raven and Wren
rock and leaf
moss and ice,
blow from me the anxious breath of past storms
and replace it with calm certainty and peaceful grace.
As geese assume the currents
that carry them
may the flow seeking me
find me quickly and carry me aloft.
Wind says
I am curiosity
I cannot blow myself,
still my breath touches these things I see.
I am my own breath.
You are a Common Human,
but extraordinary in your Being.
How could you be otherwise
having breathed My sacred air.
©photo and poem by caf
Beyond the chair
the window
the tree outside
and past that the field
and further still a hill sheltered by trees.
The one who lives on the hill dwells in fog,
in rain, snow, sun, fallen leaves
and from these things
she gathers to herself her own self
the essence of her particular thoughts and sentences.
Her life.
And with this life she opens to sky,
clouds, air and sun until
her spirit flies into space, freedom without barriers.
Until she clearly and plainly hears
what she has to say to heaven
©photo and poem by caf
Friendly morning Moon rests over Thompson’s Lake
a beacon
between Earth and Heaven
sending light to her vision.
She blows at clouds hoping to scatter them
and failing that
offers her breath
as more clouds to sky
Forgetting insanity and madness
she lies on the earth
as lightness comes to the world
in this moment.
The cardinal’s morning song
adds counterpoint to wind chimes’ belling tones.
Standing, washed by wind
her grateful heart baths in the rising sun.
She says:
We used to fly like swallows
magic in and around our wings.
Earth is a kind womb and gentle grave,
who can say what lies between those seasons?
Gratitude and kindness make us powerful.
Can we remember this?
©photo and poem by caf
