TRIUMPH OF SPIRIT IN LOVE, NATURE & ART

Posts tagged “Moonscape

The Magic of Moonlight

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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)


 


A Universe of Patterns

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A tuning fork
when applied to sand
creates patterns
like those of snowflakes
crystals
water droplets
or larger patterns
of mountains
deserts
lakes
the surface of the moon
What patterns
does the sound of the mantra
create on
the canvas of our minds
in meditation

Fleeting Filigree

Moonrise through Filigree Trees

Winter is dying

and dead trees

are coming to life.

Your sap is starting to flow

bringing  forth birthing buds

of spring as

people clammer

for the greenery of summer.

But I love you most

when you are naked, nude, and vulnerable,

stripped bare of  beautiful-to-be sure

spring/summer finery.

I mourn your fleeting filigree

on this snow-showery day

of  comforting gloom and grey

and feel kinship with you

as you stand staunch against the cold

and stark against the feathery flakes of white.

I think you  most beautiful

in your bare-arm-intricacy,

and lace-like, linear patterns

drawn against a back-drop of sky,

as you reach for the Almighty.