Hello Earth #5

... became much too long to be a small stone so I have posted it, as a piece of short prose, here at my main writing blog, Enheduanna's Daughter. All future earthellos will appear there too.

Hello Earth #4

Hello Earth,

Here I am, listening to the rustling of the breeze outside, and seeing through the window the sun striking the uppermost leaves of the trumpet vine along my back fence.
Earth, this portion of you I inhabit is blessed with greenery, vast clear skies, blue mountains, a flat, lazy river.
Leaning in, I notice my neighbour's gardenias still blooming as we head into winter; I see that the young magpies have become adult; I welcome the ibis leisurely stalking my street.
Listing my gratitudes is easy here; I simply look around, listen, embrace you, Earth.
Offering up thanks for being here is something I do often, daily, at least once a day.

Hello Earth #3

Here I am, contemplating the clarity of winter sunshine.
Earth, you continue to surprise me, even with the same old.
Leaning in, I want you to hold me like a mother.
Listing gratitudes, some are selfish (I don't have dark skin).
Offering white guilt is not useful. What of awareness, prayer, solidarity, lifted voice?

A bit of a segue? I don't think anything is a segue at the moment. All thoughts lead, naturally and inevitably, back to George Floyd and the protests. There is simply nowhere else they could possibly go.

Hello Earth #2

Here I am, sleepy, putting off going to bed.
Earth, you are quiet tonight. The dark is deep.
Leaning in, I start to hear the deeper silence.
Listing gratitude — the speed of sound, the roof over my head, a comfortable place to sit.
Offering my eyelids closing, caring for myself by going to bed now.

Hello Earth #1

‘Hello Earth’ is a new initiative (and e-course) from Satya Robyn: to write a daily letter to the earth according to the opening words/phrases outlined here.

Here I am, in the spare room, keeping a safe distance out of the cleaner’s way. Neither I nor she wishes to catch the Virus.

Earth, you have been regenerating, I’m told, from the excess of people, now that most of us are staying indoors. 

Leaning in, I remember the love you have always given me. I always felt it, and feel it even now. The walls are not so thick as to shut it out.

Listing gratitudes, I recall lying on grass in my childhood, gazing at sky — ground that supported me, sky that seemed to look back at me kindly.

Offering myself the joy of these memories, I offer on your behalf my prayers: for people who will treat you as kindly as you treated me then, who will support you.

Satya Robyn was the creator of 'small stones' mindful writing.

Winter is Coming: tanka

white trunk

of the eucalypt

swaying

against blue sky

while the air cools 

black and white

shapes flit in and out

of the trees —

busy magpies

six months old

on the breeze

that edge of cold

an aftertaste —

or a presage of

the inevitable

vines mingle —

pale pink flowers

of spring 

tricked by autumn, beside

wintry orange  blooms

Variations on a theme

Haiku: 


days of rain
baby water dragon*
likes my yard


*Eastern Water Dragon, Australian lizard.




Tanka:


in my yard
the intruder stands
with bold gaze
claiming ownership –
this tiny lizard



Cherita:

I look out through the glass door.


A baby water dragon stands proud
in the rain-soaked yard, gazing back.


I turn, grab my camera. In that moment
it disappears, I’m focused on an empty spot.
I still see the vivid defiance, the ownership.



'We must stay positive!' many exhorted, as fires destroyed much of my country. I found such advice intensely annoying. What, play for the sinking of the Titanic? And anyway, I felt I was only capable of dark, despairing poems. Then one wise friend advised me to find small things to still love about the world and write of them, so as not to pass even more despair to others. I couldn't at first; then, finally, turning to micropoetry seemed to offer a way.

(I've decided I like the cherita best on this occasion, and am making resolutions to use it more often.)

I'm sharing this at Weekly Scribblings #6 at Poets and Storytellers United: Turn Cliché Into Poetry or Prose.

Fires everywhere ..

Fires everywhere

horizons blanked out by smoke.

Never thought I

hater of cold as I am

would suddenly long for snow.

Stopping to photograph ...

Below the big jacaranda in the schoolyard, loud boys play cricket.

                                                 *********

Stopping to photograph the jacaranda, I forget you are dead.