A deep tureen
concealed by forest foliage
and therefore mysterious.
crafted by beavers,
quiet but for birds and insects
singing her secret name
while raindrops drum her surface.
Dead wood and weeds clog her banks
where dragonflies are born
and grow in her slimy gumbo.
To those who live there
she is the ocean,
the bottomless crater that holds the world.
But as this wondrous old bowl
reflects the clouds and stars
she dreams she is the sky.
©Photo and poem by caf
Her breath rose and fell
spaces between in and out growing wider
Gasping for air, heartbeat shallow and fast
feeble voice barely heard
pink skin turning purple
finally, breath stopped, heart raced a few seconds, concluded its beating.
The doors of body closed.
There is no return.
May the rising sun sanctify and bless Your name
We sing praises to the Holy One
for the life of one we loved so long
Gasping for air, crying on an inhale
learning the in and out rhythm of breath
The fast heartbeat that slows with growth
purple skin turning pink
lungs growing a louder voice.
The gate of womb shut.
There is no return.
May the falling rain sanctify and bless Your name.
We sing praises to the Holy One
for the new life we have been blessed with.
May the Lord of doors and gates
Going out and coming in
acorn and oak
child and old woman
bless our hearts with unceasing wonder
as we witness the commonness of mystery and holiness.
May Your name be praised into all eternity.
© photo and poem by caf
I’ve been noticing: Many of the acorns are tiny this year the waters are full and rushing waterfalls are full and loudly vocal the sun is sometimes red in the morning the moon has not been so visible frogs continue to croak dragonflies still hunt mosquitos I remain in love with cows mountains continue to inspire me we are rich in slugs the spiders have been busy webbing mornings have been foggy mushrooms are abundant the trees are lushly vibrant I still miss my Mom I am so grateful for this life. If you keep noticing you will reach gratitude that overflows as a water fall streams from an overfull lake or a river spills its banks from too much sustenance soaking the ground of your life the banks of your heart and the rocks of eternity. © film and poem by caf
You attended my first breath,
I sat by you for your last
and everything in between
was how we were
in the world together.
How I miss you now.
I think I see your feet sticking
of my jeans, but it’s only me
wearing your shoes.
In the forest
a Mother Tree …
her spirit flies
as her sapling cries.
©poem and photo by caf
Works of Clay
She bends the clay around emptiness
creating a vacancy for utility,
defining function,
vesting it in vitality.
The coolness of moist mud
sticks to her hands as she coaxes shape
from a formless heap of thickened slip,
while the wheel turns the pot,
and heaven spins the earth
and morning and evening
caress the shape of a day.
©photo and poem by Carole Fults
Beautiful Soul
Long ago the heart of God
like a cattail beside a pond or river
cracked and split
spreading its life over all that was.
The womb of God
like a milkweed in the meadow
burst open
bursting followed by birthing
as the silken spirits fell and grew
in the fertile fields of creation
recreating love
sending sprouts of joy
throughout the universe.
The sun discovered daffodils and sumac
as a Mourning Dove hunkered down
in the snow under a pine.
The icy snow that could destroy her is – for now –
her protector.
Her beautiful soul finds shelter within the breast
of the beast that threatens.
Isn’t that the path of a fearless heart?
4 Ponds and a Bog
One day the hiker came to kneel
by the bog
bury her face in the muck
and inhale the mud from which she had been created
to feel the spirit of the stuff
from which she had been distilled.
She smelled the gathering fragrance
of congregating beings
a scent elemental and familiar
like the smell of family and tribe.
Are there dragons in the forest?
Or monsters in the ponds? She wonders.
But no.
Only bugs kissing the waters for a drink.
She feels the earth recognize her as its own child
as she dissolves into her true home
where bees hum the song of the universe
and dragonflies are angels.
And she asks that when she lies down
for the last time –
when she comes to the end of herself
like the dead frog lying in the road –
may it be on the peace of home
by 4 ponds and a bog.
by caf
©photo and poem by caf
To All Those Who Love Terror
Did you think we would give up because you were scary,
because you have guns, bombs and can kill us?
There is something worse than losing a life –
losing a soul to fear,
a heart to suspicion,
a love to dreams of revenge.
You will not massacre my peace.
You will not exterminate my hope.
You will not eradicate my joy.
I have this whole earth as my love,
my defense and my strength,
and you have only guns
while I have a pen and camera.
by caf
©photo and poem by carole fults
The Watcher at Wood Duck Pond
One day hiking we came to Wood Duck Pond
and there we saw an older gentleman
sitting in a chair
eating his lunch and watching
just looking ….. and looking
He might have been a Buddha
He sat so still
But there were no ducks
on the pond
or in the air or on the shore.
He was gazing at the stumps and logs
and surface scum
unbothered by mosquitoes
or deer flies
or gnats.
Froth on the water
reeds growing by the edges
stumps rotting in the lagoon
and not a duck to be seen….
Didn’t bother him.
I asked him why he sat there.
He said he watched for ducks
and whatever else might come by
maybe a heron, “it doesn’t matter”.
He just sat and watched, looking.
Not wanting to disturb him further
we whispered good wishes for his watching
and walked quietly onto the wood’s path
where we saw butterflies and snake skins –
but still no ducks –
although I found myself also watching.
by caf
Photo and poem © carole fults
A lake on a mountain
open to the sky
……… (the lake has given calmness to the crater)
receiving what comes
rejecting nothing
……… (it is deep enough to hold all)
A feather falls in front
of the full moon
……… (a gift from the crows who call between the peaks)
Still waters receive its touch
and quiver
……… (a lover’s touch on quiet skin)
Clouds touch earth
as she lies next to the face of spirit.
……… (in the mist, the lover’s breath)
©photo and poem by caf
Inside-out Art and Writing 