The Magic of Moonlight
I miss the soft siren call
of the slinky moonlight,
the velvety voice of the moon
as she beckons to me
in the middle of the night
with her hypnotic magic
wielded in the wee hours.
I miss her enticing ways
calling forth
the howling of coyotes
echoing over the hills.
I miss the shadows
of the moonlight
as she luminates
the dark and empty road
and leaves behind a trail of shadows.
Cooped up in the city
nothing calls to me at 3AM
save little lights on
in the cubby holes
of the apartment house
across the street.
No slinky siren song sings
nor misty magic.
No coyotes howling here,
just the loud voices of drunks
stumbling home
in the harsh glare of streetlights.
“In the Hebrides of Scotland, it was common practice well into the nineteenth century for men to take off their caps to greet the morning sun and for women to bend their knee in reverence to the moon at night. These were the lights of God. They moved in an ancient harmony that spoke of the relationship of all things. And they witnessed also to the eternal rhythm between the masculine energies and the feminine energies that commingle deep in the body of the universe. The Celts were familiar also with the practice of being guided by the creatures. The birds of the air, the fish of the sea, the animals of the earth had not lost their senses. They were viewed as still being alive to the deepest rhythms of creation and to the interrelationship between all things.” (“Christ of the Celts” by J. Philip Newell)
Being in Winter
How higher they be
than me
for they know how
to just Be
always
in the present
in the Silence
so profound in winter
but in the forever now
I look fearfully ahead
towards a future of endings
and losses
of attachments
acquired over the years
none more strong
than our love
I used to know
how to just be
like a tree
spontaneously
when very young
now I seek to Be
as I was in youth
in rapture
not just in nature
but always
as the sheep
in the deep
of winter.
Follow the Yellow-Lined Road
My husband recounts a story of being a little boy riding in the backseat of his parents car and blowing kisses to the telephone polls because they looked so lonely.
The Lone Fir Tree
A lone fir tree
stands stalwart in a forest of red
watching over the turtles sleeping peacefully
in their hibernaculum
in the icy pond
as God
watches over us
A silent night of peace to each of you
and a berry, merry Christmas!
Love always,
Ellen
Christmas Blues
Dedicated to all those sick, lonely, destitute… anyone who feels blue this time of year…
Home Sweet Home
How horrid to be homeless
for
home
is
shelter
safety
security
Like this home
for creatures from the deep
My Cathedral
is my cathedral
A very diverse congregation…
From cows
to snails and turtles
to gazillions
of insects
Deer sometimes come round
Butterflies abound
Moths, too
Birds of every hue
All that’s missing is you
but you worship your own way
doing charity every day
more than I can say
Chi flows, Wind Blows
Wind blows
through tree tops
bird song
wafts in breeze
flying
dead branches
fine perches
dragonfly on leg
don’t move
admire
just be
like tree
see chi
in air
spark-like
specks
tiny lights
Chi flows
wind blows
Secret Spaces
The cool of green shade
steps to a secret place
locked doors of a shed
the innocence of childhood lost
in a matter of minutes
and no one knew
for years and years and years
dare break the silence even now
Grandpa did a naughty
and it remained
forgotten for years
until you shared your story
of what happened to you
there were other times
of lesser evil
but sketched in memory
enough to sting
even now
so many decades later
I have forgiven
but no longer forgotten
from so early in life
I adored him
the trust
etched deep wounds
though the misdemeanors minor
by most standards
just enough to give pause
if I see a secret place
all too inviting
for the sins
of
a forbidden intimacy
just enough to
add guilt and shame and fear
where they do not belong
inside me
in stillness
in the shade
Rapid Cycling
Patterns of the microcosm
echoed in the macrocosm
vibrating thoughts
no meditation
lots of frustration
can’t calm down
do the Hong Sau
Yogananda method
the only hope
in this mind
doing 120 mph
in a 35 mph zone
time soon for sleep
frogs singing
a pre-dawn high
drained at noon
rapid cycling
twilight now
back to racing
raving
raging mind
need gentility
humility
quietude
to feel awe
to ponder
hit “Pause”
love in the afternoon
a natural anti-
depressant
sent sight soaring
in space
seeing patterns
everywhere
echoing symphonically
in noisy ears
the hum of quiet
seems too loud
flashing lights
status migrainous
with all over
crawling feeling
“not-theres”
stop I say
stop I pray
stop the way
the world spins
hurling in space
the race
the pace
exhaustion
please
take this body
in your arms
work your charms
on this alarm-
ing state
with alacrity
the paucity
of peace
needs mending
Oh evening
send hope
for ending
these frantic antics
quell the panic
break the day
and bring on
the dawn
of dreams
Beyond the Stars
Sitting in the sun, acclimating to the gentle June heat, swatting away an annoysome fly who keeps returning over and over, I know this swatting is definitely wrong—a stirring of the killer instinct. I remember naturalist artist and writer and turtle man, David M. Carroll, keeping his hand steady, while being bitten by hordes of mosquitoes, so as not to scare away the turtles as he paints them . Clearly he is a superior soul in his patient endurance of being bitten and as his, almost spiritual, beautifully poetic, writings and drawings reveal. I remember, too, the words of Pema Chodron, Buddhist teacher and nun, who teaches and preaches practicing compassion on little things, learning not to “bite the hook” of anger.
So I let the fly alight on my ankle and he seemingly happily stays on my leg and does not bite. I begin to try to image feeling kinship with this fly who likes my leg, fighting the idea that he is laying eggs in my skin. Pema Chodron has clearly inspired a city girl, afeared of bugs, to make friends with a fly as I watch the universe of insects beneath my feet. A Daddy Long legs crawls on my camera bag, hitches a ride to our bed when I go inside the house. I bring him back to his home outside.
This compassion things feels right, start small and grow big. As if to reinforce this point a butterfly lands on my chest when I return to my contemplation spot in our back yard. But all is not sweetness and light. Later the same fly (I swear it is) who landed on my leg now activates karma for my earlier murderous impulses towards him. He lands on my toe and bites me. A cautionary tale against getting too carried away with being virtuous. Still worse, later as I walk in the coolness of early evening, a bug lands on my arm and attempts a vigorous bite. In an instant, a reflexive smack smooches him dead.
So it would seem I have to start even smaller with my acts of compassion. How much smaller can one start? I wonder with daunting discouragement about the many, many more lives I will have to live to learn lessons of compassion and no anger. I contemplate the prospect of how many, many more films I will have to view in this movie house of Maya we call life. When, oh when, will I learn all my lessons? When, oh, when, will the sun set for good for me on this circle of life so I can exit the orbit and rest beyond the stars??
Where Earth Meets Sky
Oh Light,
so dazzled am I
by your majesty
so inebriated
by your heady spirits
I cannot tell
where earth meets
the realm of Your Infinity.
The Hum of Life
The reverberations of love
jump across time and space
to another receptive heart
*
The reverberations of suffering
resound around the earth
picked up by open souls in prayer
*
The reverberations of Aum
most sacred of sounds
pulses through our minds in meditation
*
Love brings the possibility of loss
Suffering brings a totality of pain
Aum brings the reality of God within
Denizens of the Deep
The marsh is melting
and
all the turtles in their hibernacula
deep down under the melting ice
will soon emerge
and the marsh will sing
the chorus of the Spring Peeper
and the salamanders will emerge
with the urge to murge
and joy and the life force
will fill the air
and lift the fog
enveloping my soul.
Photons of Golden Light
Photons of gold
the tail end of winter’s light
up close
and far away
the tail end of the light of day
bright yet almost night
wafting with whispers
of a new season
a new reason
to live.
MOONSIDE 
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