Stranded By the Side of the Road & A Mother's Love

Stranded By the Side of the Road
 

Humvee rattles bones

shakes out seeds
of this once
ripe
fruit.

© 2010 Joanne Elliott

A Mother’s Love

The path strewn

with rotten fruit

of your womb

maddens your mind

tears open the wound

that was your heart

binds you to the moon

and to Her upon it

who stands barefoot

above the desert

waiting.


© 2010 Joanne Elliott

Becoming the Rose

I wait in silence, unknown, becoming.
I awaken to myself as leaf turns to bud.
Greening, I am sun, earth, sky, rain.
I am the secret untold;
I live in the blood red heart.

I come forth in Eros,
in the bursting of life I bleed,
I live; I am born on my way to death
to be born again.

The rose unfurls
and beauty comes to bear
upon this world.
My heart, rose red, opens.
The light enters as petals splay and spin out.
The Divine enters the world,
a red rose enraptured.

I am the rose; open to the Beloved,
my fragrance is my answer to His call.
Where do my petals end and my perfume begin?
Where do I end and my Beloved begin?
In the rose we are one.
In my heart the rose lives and dies and lives again.

I am the rose, my heart transformed.
Blood red my heart beats as each petal falls
to feed the seed in the dark earth.
I am the rose, forever.

© 2011 Joanne Elliott

This poem grew out of my love for the texts in what is called The Egyptian Book of the Dead. Normandi Ellis' liberal translations of these are the most poetic and can be found in a book called "Awakening Osiris."  There are many texts that are about becoming, Becoming the Swallow, Becoming the Hawk, etc. The way Normandi translates them also makes me think of Whitman's way of writing. I wonder if he was an influence. The interesting part is that he was influenced by the Ancient Egyptians, he studied as much as he could about them.
The symbol of the rose is very important to me and my spiritual path. It is also a very important symbol in earthly love. So today, on this day of love, I dedicate this poem to the love of my life, Charles.

A Ship in a Bottle, the Return of the Light

A tiny ship alone on a shelf finds itself
once again born from shadow’s
memory of a time where his hands

longed to reach up hold this miracle
a ship in a bottle forever encased
with masts raised in the night

under a dusty desk lamp.
Rough hands made tender by delicate
placements in glass.

On the floor with clunky wood trucks
and trains he was silenced
by the weight of the moment

when masts were raised
gently tugged by a thread
between thick fingers.

Then slowly the ship set sail
in his imagination
and in his hands now rests.

Hands smooth and used to
keeping books, not sails and ropes
and nets, holds this treasure.

The sun begins to move up. Within
that tiny glass bottle his heart rides
the waves, feels the wind

knows him who now sails the seas
outside time and memory. Stares into
early morning rays. Remembers

harrowing tales of ghost ships
and crushed limbs. Becomes
lost in the swells lit with the light

returning to the dark ocean waters
shining on the early morning calm
bringing him back from the storm.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

To Dream of Crows

Colm Meaney asks why we are not on the beach.

Our companion says there are too many crows.

Colm says it doesn’t matter; they are coming down

like the rest of us.

I wake to a myriad of caws as crows sweep the morning sky.

My companion does not hear them for he speaks online

about the world and how it will end in a blanket of smoke

with bodies burnt but unpicked by fallen crows.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

Sky Canvas

Morning reaches out of darkness
hovers on the horizon
graces sky with light.

In that moment I am the dawn
that breaks open night.

Sky a blush of pink
streaked clouds burned onto
pale gray canvas.

Shades of color blend
light bends and shoots
between crooked evergreens.

In that moment I am the sun
etched on eternity.

Then the giant glides higher
becomes too bright
for mere mortal spheres.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

Winter Lull

Photo from pxhere

Moonbeams dance upon snow
as the tree casts itself in shadow
over the quiet field. Branches
vein across glitter, reach
over veiled ground to touch
bent, frosted grass at the edge
of the silenced brook.

@ 2011 Joanne Elliott

Parade Posterior

Gray cast morning.

Screeches! and chirps from children and birds
drift in window
as crowds flood Greenleaf
now a street for Christmas packaged floats
and marching bands.

Santa hats and sweatshirts
dash here and there like elves
as seen from my two-story perspective.

In between car revvvs band noise begins
slowly turns to music.
Big brass echoes follow the boom
and rat-a-tat of drums.

Heads move and sway
like river reeds.
Party ready they lead the way for Santa.

Up here there is no glimpse
of the little fat man in his red suit.
One lonely yellow-turning tree
spans across his mini North Pole on wheels.

Soon the last band strikes its first note
as sky brightens to the putter of Santa’s
gasoline powered float.

At the end
orange-shirted, white-gloved men
swing sticks
poke litter
to the Honk! Honk!
of the street sweeper.

© 2002 Joanne Elliott

This past Saturday was Whittier’s annual Christmas Parade so I share a past experience.
Merry Christmas, Happy Yule, Winter Solstice…