Will You Ever Love Yourself?

Image by stux on Pixabay

When the stars come to Earth,

when the oceans live within,

when the unmovable is moved,

when creatures of Earth become

creatures of air,

 

when all that isn’t, is.

Then, will you love yourself?

 

What if all that were true now?

 

The butterfly begins as a creature of Earth.

The unmovable mountain is always moving.

The oceans are released though your tears.

 

There is no reason to not love yourself.

You are literally star dust.

The stars, they dream through you.

 

©2020 Joanne Young Elliott

 

Inspired by “Will You Ever Love Yourself?” a musical composition by Hammock.

https://youtu.be/iuyMFOfXVtw

Mer

Hans Christian Anderson's 

The Little Mermaid

Mer

Ancestor or myth? Or are you still there

beneath the waves, the waters

hidden deep within our Mother

hiding from your sisters and brothers

who once hunted and misunderstood

you who move as one with ocean

and creature alike. Who dive and

rise as dolphins and whales do.

Human or creature? Or are you

both? Do we know who we are?

We walk too tall among the others

pretend we are not one of them

those creatures who roam our

earth. Animal we are, but we

misunderstood our place.

You, ethereal, homo aquaticus

beautiful being upon the waves

are what we have dreamed into

legend, then myth, but then

we began to see you again

in books, logs of historical record,

once more we wonder. Are you there?

Shadows beneath the waves

beneath our conscious minds

deep in the sub ocean of our

imaginations you begin to rise.

We begin to understand again,

but can we take it all in

begin this life again from

a new place, as one with all the others?

Or will it drown us? This sea of

knowledge that we are no different

than you or the dolphin or the whale

or the sea lion or the ape washing

in the waters of life who stands

on two legs and wonders…

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

This poem was inspired by Animal Planet's, Mermaids: The Body Found.  It didn't seem for real and was very sensationalized as most cable shows are now, but it did get me thinking. 

The video below is a music video by Raina, the Halifax Mermaid. The song is For the First Time by Drew Rogers.

This poem is for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night.

Dead Wood

Frost lingers at the fringes

spoils spring’s potential fruit.

Trees lost through the night

lie dormant, become other

beneath blunt blades

the axe hacks

slices still air

splits open winter

cuts deep into dead wood.

Hope splinters into dust

upon frost firm ground

waits to blend

with forgiving mud

the primordial soup

that waits to feed

the seed yet unborn.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

She Stands

Photo by Katherine Hanlon on Unsplash

Streaks of light through cloud
wrap ‘round her curved form
as she stands arms entwined
with others. A living fence of flesh
seems fragile, ready to give
way to force and yet
they still stand.

She stands waiting not willing
any longer to wait for what is hers
for what is theirs.
One half of the race denied.
No more!

She stands so the woman
next to her can have a choice
can have a voice. She stands
so her daughter can scale
the walls, can dissolve
ceilings of glass. She stands
so her granddaughter can demand
what is hers and be heard.

She stands and her feet grow roots
reach through concrete
push down into dark, moist earth.
Her roots deep
become entwined with others.

Sturdy now, she reaches
out and up towards sky
towards a new day when
light breaks through gray
through barriers
through time and everything
becomes as earth in spring.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

This week I wanted to write about spring, but all this craziness, especially in the U.S., over trying to control women is getting to me. So I offer "She Stands" for all the women, especially those out there making a difference, making a better world and for the first day of spring and the new beginnings it represents.

For dVerse Poet's Pub Open Link Night.

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…

Expression

Blood moves
by the beating drum.

Breath flows
from the inner wings.

Words drift
through air to ear.

Language vibrates
in the shadows.

© 2004 Joanne Elliott

Thank you all for your comments both last week and this week. I didn't mean to post this again. I didn't have a poem to post this week and when posting Charles' poem I accidently posted mine from last week. So many of you saw this...if you didn't I'm glad you came by this week. :-)

Release

Beads fall to my feet in slow motion
only to rise mockingly as if
they could recapture their well worn
position at the hollow of my neck.

Slowly their rebound subsides
into tiny leaps. Then they roll
out of sight beneath the chair
where my mother never sat.

Tears that strangled my throat
rain to the soft pine floor.
They don’t rise to taunt me
but splatter into stars.

© 2004 Joanne Elliott

Primordial

I run from the forest.
Out of the darkness I hear its many limbs
strain as they rain foliage on my soul.
A shadow darkens my moonlit path
a crow races towards me, its wings
beat out the rhythm of my heart.
The subtle swish of feathers mocks
my rasped gulps of air.

Suddenly my path ends
there is no where to go
but down

where my toes hover above darkness.
I look over my shoulder.
Stillness reigns as breath
refuses to escape burning lungs.

I watch the crow pull the forest
with black curled claws
draw it over me like a shroud.
I turn, look down into blackness,
into the void that surrounds.
Heart pulsing sounds of fear
race to my throat as screams
that never leave the confines
of my crucified mind.

Feathers whisper in my ears
as a Cimmerian shade
envelopes me.
Shadow fills my sight and for a moment
I face the dark shade
wish only for death
until a song pours through my heart.
Carried in blood it courses
through throbbing veins
chants with ancestral voices
entices me to dance
take a step back.
My foot slides over pebbles
finds little resistance
as I take the lead
hover over emptiness
fall back into nothing.

Arms flail against unfound air
as wings beating against the night
black wings crashing against nothingness
until falling is flying is soaring.

Midnight feathers fanned
I ride the chasm
pierce the night with a blackness
of my own. Glide out of the void
and into refreshing light.
I feel moon rays wash my soul
of eternal emptiness
as they guide me back to the forest
glazed with moon reflected sunlight.

A life that cast only shadows
now soars on the breath of trees.
I glide into the arms of the wild wood
navigate unknown territory within,
begin to see now
as if a milky film had been peeled away
leaving only shiny dark points of light.

Soon I rise up out of the depths
fly to the top of the tallest sentry
spread my wings to open my heart
to the sky, the moon, the stars.

My eye captures another circling
barely visible in the blackest hour.
Surprised to hear my own voice
vibrate the drums of my ears
I blink, take another look
stretch my wings and leap
nearly collide with an image
so like my own
that I cannot be sure
another soars before me.
Its eyes a mirror in which I see
two other shiny spheres
endless reflection.

We sail through the cool predawn air
rise and fall to the beat of our hearts.
Perform against the twilight
a dance rehearsed in lives past
while our eyes echo the fading
constellations.

© 2000 Joanne Elliott

This piece I wrote after my life was touched by a crow. One day, while out walking, a crow brushed my hair with its wing and not long after my whole life changed.

Still Growth

You stare at me from the picture frame
tongue stuck out, eyes like fire
through crystal.

I look down at my hand
dandelions hang their sun burst heads
now that they’ve been pulled
from a bed once filled
with petunias pink as
bubble gum.

But I haven’t been thinking about flowers
and have neglected my green thumb.
I know you would call that
sacrilege
but things still grow.

I put the dandelions in the vase
next to your photo stick my tongue out
at you.

© 2011 Joanne Elliott

Movement Towards Yesterday

Tomorrow

As in dream the mists drift in
obscure moonlight and the path
strewn with red wild flowers.
I reach out feel the bark
of a tree
hard
rough
strong.

Today

The path was still there
though wind and flame
transformed. My feet
set on its familiar winding
know the way
though my eyes
are confused
more rock in view.

The once ancient tower
sentry of the forest
overlooking the desert
now cradled by stone.

Yesterday

Sleep is welcome
but it does not come.
Under a white moon
the wind blows hot
trees sway and moan.
The Santa Anas howl
the restless saint roams.

Sun rises over the mountains.
The dragon wakes
heaves its great chest
takes its first breath.

© 2011 Joanne Elliott

This year we lost The Poetry Cabin, our retreat in the mountains, to the bank. Back in Oct. 2007 we nearly lost it to fire, but it rose from the ashes better than before. The building is someone else’s now, but The Poetry Cabin lives online via Facebook and Twitter. Please join us there.

Santa Anas are what we call the hot winds off the desert that visit us in So Cal during the fall and winter.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Poetry-Cabin/297527046117

@ThePoetryCabin

The Return – A Process of Initiation in Nine Parts

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.

 ~T.S. Eliot from Part IV of the poem Little Gidding

                     1

Winter passes slowly.
The frozen ground protects the seed.
In darkness it sleeps waiting
for the return of the light.

                    2

A glimmer of what is to come.
Will the groundhog see its shadow,
run and hide in the dark belly of earth
afraid of what it casts upon the ground?
Or will it see only gray and stay out,
little by little see what the growing light
reveals.

                    3

Sunlight melts away ice.
All becomes aware.
Greening begins in the warmth of sun
and moisture of melted earth.
Clouds cast shadows
rains loosen soil so the seedling
can find its way to the light.

                    4

Full bloom flowering.
Things grow into color.
Sunlight reveals what was always there
in the dark slumber of winter.
The bristly bush realizes
it harbors the rose.

                    5

Sunlight burns.
Its rays sometimes too much
for green things. The flower wilts.
It knows more than it can handle
but its seed finds its way
onto the earth
and waits.

                    6

Calm settles over the land.
Something begins to shift as
first harvest begins.
All that was hidden behind flower
manifests, is ready for release,
eager to be transformed through
consummation of its ripe flesh.

                    7

Soon all falls as sunlight wanes.
For a moment we glimpse brilliance
burning in red and gold,
the promise of return.
No time for wistful reverie.
The harvest bears what is full
and ripe with flavor.
Taste it now!

                    8

Darker and darker still,
one last harvest before going within.
Once culled of her bounty, the earth rests.
The final seed scattered waits
for the blanket of snow.

                    9

Silence.
Snow sparkles like crystal in moonlight.
Millions of flakes scattered over seed
mirror the stars strewn across the heavens.
The seed sinks deep
in the cold dark earth
begins to know again.

© 2009 Joanne Elliott


With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

~T.S. Eliot from Part IV of the poem Little Gidding

**Written for a Science of Mind course at the time my husband was going through his stem cell transplant to bring his cancer into remission. Many levels of initiation going on.

Brine

The ocean crawls up the rock face. Spray
descends
on cold skin
like tears
from the past.

Thoughts fold into matter
wash up on voices
that once poured
from the place
on the hill
where the wind
rattled the ache.

The place with the eyes
that glanced home.
The one that served wine
in pewter chalices
to fill the chasm
that stretched
from heart to head.

Our lips once touched
warm mead
gathered heaven
onto the tongue
while wind
shook windows
to breaking.

© 2011 Joanne Elliott

Sol

The way you draw up water
so that it hovers over the lake
as a thin veil of vapor.

The way your light rests on the dial
that then casts shadows on stone.
Time glimpsed as your passage through sky.

The way your rays reach out
stimulate Earth to greening,
urge tendrils to climb towards your light.

The way your winds awaken atoms
that excite the atmosphere into
swirls of living joy.

The way your fusion generates waves
that streak across space
penetrate Earth, move us.

The way your gravitas pulls us
to you. Prevents us from drifting
into that eternal night.

© 2011 Joanne Elliott

Respire

“A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller betwixt life and death;”
~William Wordsworth

Black suitcase behind ventilator
with gnarling braids of leather fits
inside the shadows just as each
forced breath fits
inside my mind.

Red spider veins cover your face
like the frost that spreads
on the windows. Patterns within
patterns eating up the cool clear
glass.

Green light shimmers.
A candle cleaves to a wine bottle
in a templed corner.
Wax drips. Lava moving
to stillness.

Blue blanket soft
moving up and down
hides sickness in folds.
An ocean unsettled
by wind.

White falls outside.
Cascades like memory.
Lingers and sparkles
in moonlight
then scatters as darkness

fills with another
breath.

© 2004 Joanne Elliott