In Praise of Bumblebees

They probe dreamily in the center

Of pie sized yellow flowers that nod towards the east

Keeping me company

As I work in the garden

 

These tiny winged beasts do their work

Heads up down, up down

Placing in precision their needle-like proboscises

In a sea of stamen and pistil

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Poem of a Different Feather

A cup of steaming tea in hand

From my padded perch with propped up pillows

I gaze out the bay window

Observing morning activity at the feeder

 

Among the usual finches, chickadees, & nuthatches

Unusual activity catches my eye

A petite junco carefully feeds seeds to a juvenile robin

Three times its size

 

Missing Out

MISSING OUT

You missed out on all the music

Yes, but did you see the patterns of clouds dancing overhead?

You missed out on all the fun

Yes, but did you see the swallows dart about in the evening sky?

The spotted horse grazing peacefully in the paddock?

In Every Seed a Promise

A germ of possibility

Tucked into a tiny package

Waiting to unfurl its cotyledons

Up in the sunlight

From the depths of fertile ground

Dear Universe

The rhododendrons by my bedroom window

have burst open

globulous booms of bright magenta

glowing against gray skies

of these rainy May days.

Birds are busy about the feeder

occasionally lit up by the fiery orange plumage

of the grosbeaks, who have arrived

from their homes to the South.

April 23

The Earth continues to give

And we take away…

 

Have you thanked the trees

For the house where you stay

And noticed the birds

It’s Not About the Art

It’s not about the art

It’s about taking lines for a walk

Splashing in puddles of colors

And playing musical chairs with forms

Sole Mates

We were like two broken-in shoes

Looking for mates

Among a jumble of other used shoes

On a crowded thrift store shelf

The Rains Came

The Rains Came

And the humans complained

But not the Earth who soaked the sky water deep into all its pores

Nor the trees who quenched their thirst in grateful gulps from deep roots

Nor the spring bulbs gathering strength for their dazzling displays

Nor the deer hungry for tender green grass

You Are Gone Now

You are gone now

but still, I dwell in your forest of poems

and sit by the streams of your verse

finding sanctuary

May you rest in peace

Mary Oliver.

Take Your Earbuds Out

Take Your Earbuds Out

I am talking to you

Let me see your eyes

I am a human

Trying to connect with you

Another human

 

I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE BLOGGING ABOUT MY ARTWORK

You know, make a splash

 

With Google Analytics

 

Get followers

 

Boost sales on Etsy

 

A Festival of Light

Let the light of who you truly are

Shine bright

And may the world

Embrace you

Photo by the author

For the backstory on this poem, visit byalannapass.com 

Waking

WAKING

There is an awkward transition

From dreamtime

To wakefulness

Where the nightly journey in my subconciusis

Is interrupted when my eyes open with the morning light

I was on the loose in the netherworld of experiences and imagery

Deadline

Dead Line

Sprawled flat in your path

Like giant road kill

Small, undetectable from a distance

Looming larger and larger

Until its great heaving, behemoth body

Brings you to your knees begging

For mercy between pathetic sobs

And muttered excuses

Scrolling

Name, address, telephone number

Birthdate

Index finger poised I scroll down the years

Down

Down

Down

Autumn Greetings

Goodbye garden

Goodbye bugs and bees

Goodbye hot weather

Farewell weeding

Cairns

Rocks stacked upon rocks

Balancing.

Stone sentinals

Marking the way

When the path is unclear

 

The Inuits have a name for them

Inukshuks

Theirs with heads, arms, legs

Human forms

Beckoning landmarks on the stark tundra

When the frozen landscape

Has nothing more to offer

 

SHOULD

I should wake up earlier

Be more organized

Quit wasting time

Write more

Be more creative

Be more focused

I’m in it Now

I’m in it now

An occasional place

Contained, devoid of mental challenge

But really quite comfortable

And very safe

I Know a Place

I Know a Place

Where the flesh and bones of the earth

Are laid bare

Rippled muscles of relief

Carved by centuries of thunderstorms

The River Called to Me

The river called to me

With a voice born out of eternity

Fluent in all languages

Come

Rest

By my sparkling water

A silver ribbon in a dark forest.

Photo by the author

For the backstory on this poem, visit byalannnapass.com

Intuition

It’s there

Sometimes buried under piles of laundry

Or dirty dishes

Grey Zone

There is a space

Between endings and beginnings

A quiet valley

Full of swirling grey mist

All sense of direction

Lost

 

The Letters I Wrote

The letters I wrote

were long-winded affairs

often written over a span

of several days

 

The letters I wrote

Documented the life of a young woman

Creating her own story

Capturing her memories through

Eyes of naivety and wonder

 

Handprint on the Universe

Put your handprint on the universe

Run through the cosmos

Hopping from asteroid to asteroid

Leaving your mark

Write your poems &

Draw your pictures on planets

Someday

The somedays roll past

Like tumbleweeds on a desert highway

Piling up on fences

The “It”

She wanted to know what the “it” was

A fair question to be pondered on a blog

Several commenters responded “YES, YES, where is the It?

It escapes me!