This tanka was published in the Tanka Café in Ribbons Spring/Summer 2017: Volume 13, Number 2. The Tanka Café theme was nature.
Category Archives: Nature
Meditation on the Moment
The following poem of mine, “Meditation on the Moment” was originally published in a book called, True Belonging: Mindful Practices to Help You Overcome Loneliness, Connect with Others, and Cultivate Happiness (c) 2011 by Jeffrey Brantley, MC, DFAPA and Wendy Millstine.
Dr. Jeffrey Brantley was my first meditation teacher in the Duke Integrative Medicine MBSR program. His wife, Mary Brantley, introduced me to the practice of Metta (Loving Kindness). Through both of these teachers my life was forever changed in a most beautiful way. I wrote this poem for Dr. Brantley and he first used it in meditation classes and later asked to publish it in his book. This was an honor I will always hold very close to my heart.
Meditation on the Moment
When I am ready,
I close my eyes
and focus on the breathing;
awareness of air
passing through the nose
down through the body;
the belly rises, falls,
rises again ~
its slow rhythm
setting the tone.
Next, focus on the body,
accepting it for once
as it is right now,
here in this moment,
for the moment
is all we have.
Breathing in,
breathing out,
shoulders soft,
no striving
to get somewhere
for there is no place
to be but here.
No judging of self,
simply letting it be
in the moment
for the moment.
Rain pounds against the glass
this February evening.
The image begins with sound
transforming into a thought.
Raindrops falling,
each one perfectly formed
but then releasing,
allowing itself to lose
what it was alone,
becoming instead
part of something more.
Poem by Mary Kendall, 2007
Moments of Gold
(Moments of Gold © 2014 by Harald Illsinger)
flapping
five times twice
he hovers
over the pale swans
in a shimmering dance
My thanks to photographer Harald Illsinger for the use of his beautiful picture, “Moments of Gold” (c) 2014
Dining with the Woodpeckers
While visiting my brother and his wife this summer in East Aurora, New York, we experienced a truly wonderful and unexpected visit from three pileated woodpeckers at the suet feeder Jim had filled. His wife, Paulett, said the woodpeckers were frequent visitors to their lovely back garden. This was a first for me. Although I’ve been an on again, off again birdwatcher for most of my adult life, I’ve only seen one pileated woodpecker in person before. Seeing three at the same time was simply brilliant. Watching their acrobatics as they fed on the suet, flew back and forth to peck at a tree, and generally manoeuvered their rather large bodies in amazinglying agile ways was pure delight. After a feeding frenzy, they flew away and it felt amazingly still and empty where they had been. Much like a visit with beloved family and friends, the ‘after’ part comes all too soon and leaves a void in our hearts. This poem is dedicated to Jim and Paulett, two of the kindest and most caring people I know. Thank you for sharing your home, your family and your amazing woodpeckers with us.
Dining with the Woodpeckers
In the late August garden
The quiet afternoon now
Comes to a languorous close.
Out of nowhere, a flash of red,
Bright scarlet crests crowning
Zebra-patterned feathers.
Three Pileated woodpeckers
Begin to feast at the suet feeder,
Fluttering, flying tree to tree,
Tree to feeder, alternately
Pecking at thick maple bark,
Then shifting to soft silky suet.
The youngest, now the size of its parents,
Joins in to grab his share, and father
And mother dutifully give way.
For a few Cirque des Oiseaux moments
All three woodpeckers hang right side up
And upside down, their brilliant red heads
Flash like stop lights in the early evening sun.
We sit around the table eating an early supper
And sipping local wine. Conversation drifts
As we watch in these avian acrobatics.
Just as quickly as they arrived, so soon are
They are gone. More wine is poured,
Seconds of hot buttered corn and fresh
Heirloom garden tomatoes are passed
From one to the other. Like the birds,
We share this meal together, enjoying
The richness of what the day has given.
A light wind blows the leaves outside,
A beautiful evening for us to be together
Knowing that summer will end all too soon.
Picture by Beth Brandkamp
The First Coyote
The First Coyote
Shadowed by trees, it was alert,
Watching those on the porch.
Tall, thin, a knife sharp gaze,
This coyote knew its way around.
The startled man cradled the cat
And called the nervous dogs back
Inside the house, far away from
This lurker in the evening woods.
Was it waiting for a squirrel or
Rabbit? You couldn’t tell this far
Away, yet clearly it was patient
And after tonight’s dinner.
How else could it survive
If not for foraging here and
There, waiting for a quick
Capture, meat for a day or two.
This was the first coyote seen
In the neighborhood, and now
I open the window late at night
To listen to it sing to the moon.
Daybreak (1)
I have included an audio clip of me reading the poem, Daybreak. To hear it, simply click on the link below and wait a few seconds for it to begin.
Early Morning at Bagnegrole (Photograph by Yolanda Litton)
Daybreak
The garden at daybreak.
Before the sun dares
to unveil the dawn.
Clouds and birds.
Dew glimmering
on grass.
Stillness.
Blurred trail of bats
filing into the attic
for rest.
Clouds bloom.
Birds now singing.
Morning shadows lead the way.
My thanks to friend and photographer, Yolanda Litton, for her beautiful photograph from the south of France. Seeing it inspired this poem after bringing back memories of my own travel to Provence.
Willow Branches
Boston Public Garden
The weeping willow is perhaps one of the loveliest trees of all. It certainly plays an important part of many myths and legends in different cultures, and it has stories linking it with full moons, protection and inspiration. I have always loved willows. One of my fondest memories is of living in Cambridge and walking through the Boston Public Gardens when the willows were out in full. On a hot day, you could sit under one and feel ten degrees cooler. The were also among the earliest trees to leaf in spring.
Old Tombstone with Weeping Willow
In the old, old cemetaries of Boston and Cambridge, willows adorned gravestones and iron work going back to Colonial times.
Lovely Iron Gate with Willow
In the beautiful North Carolina community in which I live there was once a beautiful lotus pond with a magnificent willow overlooking it. One night the tree came crashing down. Later the pond dried up and the lotuses were no more. This poem began quite some time ago, but it, too, lay dormant until I pulled out a forgotten draft of the first three stanzas. Strange how that can be–sometimes returning to a poem that was left unfinished so long ago is suddenly the very thing you need.
~ ~
Click on the link below if you’d like to listen to me reading this poem. It will take a few seconds before the clip begins so please be patient.
Weeping Willow Tree
Willow Branches
They said it was the drought that did it.
Too many summers the pond dried up,
Even the lotus pods soon went dormant.
Rainstorms came that June: day after
Day the rain flooded the nearby creek
And filled the small pond you graced.
It was just too much and all too fast.
In the night you fell, your shallow roots
Rudely ripped out of the raw wet earth.
The old gardener pulls up in his truck,
Walks over with chain saw in hand,
Ready to dismember branches and trunk.
I ask if I might take a few willow wands.
He waits patiently and watches as I
Cut three long sticks of fallen green.
I thank him and walk away. He nods,
and smiles wryly after me, at the whimsy
Of a stranger who was passing by.
The chain saw shrieks as it starts
On its ruthless task as I continue
By on my walk, recalling a story I love.
Carrying sticks of willow for protection,
Orpheus, singer of sweet songs and poems,
Wandered in dark and silent Hades.
We know the ending, how Eurydice
Was soon lost forever. But the willow gifted
Orpheus with music, songs so beautiful
Even the wild and rowdy winds stopped
Blowing to listen to his broken heart. With
Orpheus’ death, the lyre lay silenced.
Over the chain saw’s tuneless humming,
I picture the willow’s nocturnal passing,
And I weep for all who are lost too soon.
Meadow Song
This poem began in a meadow up in the Scottish Highlands while my husband and I were visiting the ruins of a castle. He went inside to explore further, but I chose to stay behind and linger in the beautiful summer fields. As you have probably experienced yourself, this frequently leads the imagination to so many new places. It also presents an opportunity for a simple sensory awareness meditation. Just standing there looking and listening is a spiritual act in itself.
The challenge for me in this poem was to use a repeating word (“listen”) to create both mood and cadence in the lines. The decision to complete the poem with a repeating line (or couplet) was a very different way to close my own lyrical love song to nature.
[Note: the following two paragraphs were added here several months later when the poem was published by Dagda Publishing Company.]
On 3 March 2015, Dagda Publishing Company, a publisher of poetry and literature based in Nottingham, UK, featured this poem in their blog. It was a real honor to have had my poem chosen by this excellent publisher. This is what they had to say about the poem:
Today’s featured poem, and the first one in March, is this one from Mary Kendall. Inspired by a trip to Scotland, this piece has a naturalistic theme to it, and we feel is just perfect for this time of year, as we start to escape the cold and dark of winter and crawl toward summer and longer days. Musing upon the sounds of nature and imagining a song being sung by the choir of trees, flowers and the meadow itself, this piece has a touch of magical realism to it, of there being something fantastical just behind the ordinary and everyday. A poem full of the wonder of nature and the sense of being away from the familiarity of one’s normal life, we hope you enjoy this poem by Mary Kendall.
An audio clip of me reading this poem is included below. Click on the link below to hear it. It will take a few seconds to begin.
Meadow Song
Have you ever been a few thousand miles from somewhere,
standing in meadow of sweet grass or barley and thistles,
bright pink bells of foxglove swaying in the wind,
and then you stop, just standing still and listening;
listening to the wind song of the leaves and grasses.
I asked them to tell me the words they sang to those
who stopped to listen. They heard me and replied,
but I could not understand what it was they said.
I waited and waited until the wind resumed its blowing,
the grasses their gentle whispering;
the leaves sang loudest of all, and I listened.
I listened the while.
I listened until the song ended,
and then I went on my way.
So far from home.
So far from home.
Heartwood
A friend and former teaching colleague of mine, Patti Hardee Donnelly, is a superb photographer whose work I’ve long admired. A small offshoot of her photography has been her finding small HEARTS in many forms in nature and in life. I am often surprised, frequently amused, and always delighted by what Patti comes across in her daily life. This summer she posted this beautiful picture of an old tree stump she came across very early one morning on her daily run. I was mesmerized by the beauty of it, the color and texture and most of all by the image I saw within the heart. I know that if I had been walking that path that morning, I would have totally missed this beautiful creation of nature.
Thank you, Patti, for your amazing photo and talent. It immediately inspired me to write this poem, which is dedicated to you.
I’ve recorded an audio of me reading this poem. To hear it, simply click on the link below. It will take a few seconds before it begins.
Heartwood (photo by Patti Hardee Donnelly © 2014)
Heartwood
~for Patti Hardee Donnelly
This heartwood is no more
Than a bit of grey crackling,
More a silvered wood fungus
Than what was once the lifeline
Of a tree, an umbilical hotline
From the sun to the leaves
Down to roots fastened in earth.
Now this aging heart of wood
Reveals elegant scalloped wings,
An angel dancing, a floor
Made of rough pine straw
Softening her delicate steps.
In the silence of morning,
I glimpsed an angel,
But you found her heart.
A Poet in Time 