Clouds
The weatherman forecast rain
but there is only this pink and yellow morning
and clouds glowing white on the bottoms.
A jaguar’s face becomes a wolf
with glowing eyes in the billows
as a rainy-day prediction turns golden.
Maybe later it will rain,
but right now she says
I think butterflies must have been born
on a day like this.
©photo and poem by caf
Great Island Trail
On Great Island Trail a dolphin
rested in the shallows
her body blackened by death
flukes bobbing in the froth
head lying on the shore.
Foam rinsed her vacant eye sockets
washing her memories out to sea
through waves and sandy ripples.
Sand and sea claimed her
held her joys and sorrows
Plankton drifted, awash in her dreams.
The sea, her Mother, will not forget her.
On the shore, fossils, memories of prehistory,
now belong to stones.
And when we finally lay down
we also will belong to something larger.
The soil of our planet lives in a universe
of expanding time.
So, we, like the dolphin, become limitless
and the stars and heavens
and Earth, our Mother, will not forget us.
©photo and poem by caf
Moon Flower
I sat under the flower as she grew upon a vine of stars
in the night sky
her glistening white stamens
and yellow pistils
nestled among pink, purple, yellow and white softness of bloom.
Fragile
and calm in her unfolding
she offered her light to the world,
shyly, then boldly
then fully.
This blossom of the night
begins as a seed in darkness
and grows to full splendor under the sun,
a morning glory blooming at midnight in winter,
whispers hope of spring.
©photo and poem by caf
The Poet
Someone said the poet is dead
she was old and sick and died
But, I said, I went out
and saw her in the forest
among the trees.
No, they said,
she passed away
it’s in all the papers.
But that cannot be, I replied.
I saw her in the meadow
admiring the grasshoppers
and feeding them sugar water.
You’re wrong, they insisted.
She is no longer here.
She is not dead, I retorted
I heard her this morning
she wakened early and went to fly with the geese
Can you not hear her calling to the world
how we all belong
and live forever?
She is not gone while we remember to notice the fields
and the swans on the black river,
while we wake early to sing to the day.
She is not gone.
© poem and photo by caf
A Morning Blessing
In morning sunlight
in early winter
when hills are browning,
with mindful breath she breathes the wind
with sacred song she woos the waters
and begs the trees and the Spirit within
bless the beasts, she whispers
the possums, porcupines, woodchucks,
the birds and bugs and worms,
bears and bobcats
gorillas and fish,
and also, humans.
Bless the plants
who in winter store holy life
in their roots
and bring it forth as
new growth in the spring.
May all beings live their lives
free from turmoil
may the Earth be always blessed
Amen.
©photo and poem by caf
The Great Pumpkins
I think of you now
the farmer and the gardener
working in a field
heavily laden with bright orange melons,
loading them on wagons one by one
backs bending
many hands
careful not to break the stems.
I heard the gardener say to no one in particular
Peter, Peter Pumpkin eater
had a wife and couldn’t keep her
She cleaned off a small pumpkin and continued
put her in a pumpkin shell
and there he kept her very well
Hundreds of people came to see
what you had grown
arranged small, medium, large
the farmer stood among the magical gourds
chatting and smiling
while the gardener helped children pick just the right one,
I watched – so proud to be there –
knowing everything in the world was good.
© photo and poem by caf
The Visit
I imagine you to have perfect vision
that sees dirt in the grout,
on the floor,
cobwebs in corners,
spider web in the lampshade,
dust balls under sofas,
the disorderly garage,
cluttered studio.
I clean all day
yet intractable unacceptability
bends to no cleanser
no duster
no mop.
Finally I stop and sit
looking at my home.
I see no matter what I’ve cleaned, polished,
dusted or waxed
I’m here in the midst
of still more flaws,
my eyes eager to see you
voice ready to greet you
heart anxious to love you
arms impatient to hug you.
When you arrive in your road grimed car
I see lunch on your shirt,
nubby sweater,
lipstick smeared,
smiles stretched large around aging teeth,
saggy arms spread wide as you can get them,
and we laugh and say
how happy we are to be together
and how perfect it all is.
© photo and poem by caf
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
Intentions for a Yoga Practice
May what softens my body
Also soften my anger
May the difficulties of my practice
Melt the hardness of my heart
May stumbles and failures
Dissolve my arrogance
And the bondage of perfectionism be undone
May truth be allowed its say
And may I release whatever I have hoarded
May light heal all souls forever.
by caf
©photo and poem by caf
Inside-out Art and Writing 