PoetArchive3

O Precious Gem

Crying out in desperation

you look toward me and say:

"give me healing"...

as I cringe and retreat

from a flowing tide

of unceasing pain, anger,

bitterness and rage.

You wash upon my peaceful shore

leaving scattered bits and pieces

of yourself

as fragile, broken glass-

yet, know not

that the unceasing and repeated

honing of this restless, crashing sea

will turn your jagged edges into

a translucent and precious gem.

If I were to declare the swirling hurricane

a bastion of hope,

would you laugh at the obvious

face of destruction...saying:

"how pitifully naive and blind is faith" ?

I ask you:

Were I too place the Most Holy Book

as a "grail" before you,

could you lay aside false rewards

and self- fulfilling prophecies

long enough

to open it's illumined pages

and drink in the promised Wine

and healing light

before an unbiased and truly searching face?

Should you identify yourself, mindfully,

you would discern that, indeed,

the "death" which haunts you is real...

that what you feel as real...has become "unreal"-

that your destined journey,

in "abundant fullness",

has come to a stark end

at a frightening precipice

before which

you will either retreat

backwards

into the world of the "living dead"

or cast yourself, with absolute detachment

and humility, into to the Great Ocean.

There, listening carefully,

you may perceive and hear

the songbird of your own throbbing heart

and recognize it's sweet, warbling melody

as the harbinger of your own birth.

Likewise, you would harken

to a "Nightengale's" poetic words,

as those familiar mystic songs

which were meant for you to recognize-

(from the seed of your ancient beginnings

unto the fateful longings of now-)

to be God's beckoning, healing reflection in an awakened and deserving heart.

Martha Meshberg

Of "time", we are weathered-

emerging from this wilderness triumphant...

grasping the honed gem of "self".

At last then, we may seem

to wear the tiara as a rightful crown... But, as the curving pathway transmutes

into deep waters

and the gloom of night approaches,

at dusk we shall say:

"We travel this road confused and alone" !

For never does the journey end

but where "preludes" embark

upon the new again!

Dearest-

lightening breaks

to trumpet the approach of rain,

as the Sun will foster a garden's growth...

And the sacred flowers

shall always reach

for the illumined, warming light-

to spring forth in perfected beauty

along every winding and pebbled path.

Martha Meshberg

Fireflies

Every one issued forth

as heavens ornamented offspring....

Colours and hues freely flew

as illumined fireflies dancing

and descending earthward

from the womb and firmament of birth.

Far they flew in dimpled, innocence-

as laughing babes and the dawning of soul...

Born to reach as outstretched leaves-

as the adornments of the human tree

of the world.

Behold these sacred children-

all and every one-

verily, glimpse the grander theme...

For no greater prayer ascends

or heals this Day

than that of these

manifest colours of light.

Martha Meshberg

On Wisdom

You Ask:

From what fathomed depths

will Wisdom finally spring forth?

Say: you were well-born and well-contented-

holding a silver spoon!

But, life has burned you out,

as a shooting star, too soon....and

you find yourself

in a realm of voids and vacuous "space"-

"out of tune",

inhabiting a "tunnel"-

not knowing

if the light you seek

is known as birth or death.

Leaving arrogance

and attachment to views,

you must sweep all aside

and come to Him "as a child"

For what you "know" now

no longer matters...

only that

which purges you

and makes you "empty".

From this,

shall the Hyacinth of Wisdom

ever spring forth.

Martha Meshberg

Turtle

Scattered words scarcely

brush the surface...

Brightly elusive,

as summer's twinkling suns

flashing from the water's rippled sky,

crystal bits of meaning

grace my heart

from the lucent, magic wings

of flitting dragonflies.

Penetrating warmth

bathes me as I wait,

sunning

upon an ancient floating log

in perfectly peaceful silence...

Martha Meshberg

Speak To Me of Roses

Speak to me of Roses

and I shall inhale

your fragrant words...

as fragile fragments

set adrift

from the sacred world...

I lie in a field of foxglove-

as a healer of weakened hearts-

and weave my magic wreath

to crown afflicted and weary heads.

For I hear

His broken-hearted offspring

weeping at the Garden Gate

amid the flowers so gaily-jewelled

gracing the trellised Maze .

Gather to me the ivy-clad lives

of all those whose love has died;

and hasten to the willow tree

whose treasured weeping boughs

disclose their withered and helpless cries.

For I shall offer grief's reward

from a goblet of Morning's wine-

a potent dew from the Roses' lip,

an elixir of All-Healing and

the sacred mystic Sun.

Martha Meshberg

City Of The Heart

I cannot be contained,

nor the cartography of my soul

be mapped.

You may find me...

as different from one city as another

and as familiar as the water

in every flowing river.

I may rise to the heights of heaven

or drown in the earthly depths-

rise to the pinnacle of understanding,

or hold a ransom of sinful debt.

I go where the wind carries me, free...

sailing thru life's rushing current, a mariner

cast ashore content,

upon unknown and foreign ground.

I am the winging bird and Song

heard among the rocks and crashing mist,

the navigator within the lonely ship

cresting the cruel and churning Sea.

I am the mother of every healing word,

the lullaby of shards and broken hearts

the keeper of hopes and dreams-otherwise

swept away by the broom of time.

I am the dust and the ash

and the rain and the mud.

The light and the dark shall be called mine-

for I am a child of the times,

born of the sun to wash ashore

with the changing of the cosmic tide.

I am a leaf upon the ancient tree-

which bears the most succulent fruit,

the reflective green of spiritual growth

from the ancient and growing root.

Martha Meshberg

Black or White?

You see yourself darkened

by dualities existing within your soul...

Yawning, you inhale

deeply needed

and satisfying oxygen...

deciding to go another round,

searching out

and labeling

the good and the bad-

dividing yourself

right down the harried middle.

Dismayed by the "bad" that you see,

you fearfully suspect

that what you are

is overtly blackest black

and a meagre flimsy of white...

A flaming and smouldering coal-

or a whispering of under-defined purity.

As time outstrips your sense

of balance

you linger on a finely drawn line-

pausing to review the passing

of years.... and the cache of

a lifetime of tears....

asking the so-called friend

who inhabits your "all-in-fairness"

shoulder,

if you are blameworthy (?)

Idiot! You are human

Life is only an archade...

it deems thee to see how best

you can play the game.

Know your strategy.

Weigh the balance

of causes and effects...

then ask:

if your actions have come to

a "good" or "bad" result.

This "line" is the singularity

at which you may invoke

the opportunity to define true clarity.

Get on with it.

Martha Meshberg

I Shall Not Sacrifice My Clarity

I shall not sacrifice my clarity

to drown in a false and

bottomless ocean,

replenishing nothing

but gloom and doom-

For, discovery lies beyond

the closed doors of the defensive mind.

One must grasp the handle

witnessing

that what is held in the hand

is the truth...nothing more.

It is the real and unadulterated

that opens the door.

Grasping at straws,

these passive attempts

guzzle away the light-

dim the senses and alter

the true diamond

as a dazzling faux gem.

Drink the numbing mead

and to no path will it lead

Inhale the heady breath-

and one will become entrapped

in a spider's alluring

and jeweled web.

Martha Meshberg

Flawed, But Undying...

If you place your trust

in my hands

freeing yourself of any responsibility,

sad experience tells me,

you'll most likely fall-

as I watch to see

how hard you land...

If you set me on a pedestal

holding my principles and ideals up

as a holy test I should never fail,

realistic experience tells me,

you'll most likely watch me fall

flat on my "can" 'cause

it's "human", I am...

If you accept me as all that I am

I'll be your flawed, but undying friend...

For, if you'd love me,

honest experience tells me

you'd witness both

the light of the sun

and the dark side of the moon

as the dual nature and myriad universe

that I am.

Martha Meshberg

I Hail Thee

I hail thee,

Oh, Master Sadness of the world,

drowning in the ocean of thy

disconsolate words...

I hear thee set thyself apart

saying thou art a stranger

in these parts...or doth

the region of imprisoned hell

be the grounds

we all must dwell?

I see thee burdoned

by the digging of a grave-

I see thee alone-

and thou knowest not

there are those awake.

I give thee a clue:

He lives not far o'er cloudbanks,

but closer than a life vein,

inside the hibernating soul .

He will not descend, but arise,

as a wick

to be lit by thy heart,

as a flame....

Oh, Master Sadness

all is not lost-

It deems the not to reacheth out,

but doth deem thee

to reacheth within!

Martha Meshberg

Rarest Honey

Friend Raven appears,

swooping in

to claim his favorite branch...

As I hear the "medicine rattle",

he plucks

a single feather,

then drops it before me,

expectantly-

uttering a throaty note

beneath his mystic breath.

I am at attention, mindful

and frozen,

noting my surroundings-

listening and watching...

captured

within the timeless world.

Absorbing the pressing heat,

realizing the roaring fire blazing

within the beating drum of my heart,

I throw back my head

and open my throat

emitting the howling

sun storm wind.

As I chant and dance,

I am consumed

flaming up,

as fragrant bee's wax...

Only do the golden drops

of rarest honey remain...

Suddenly, I have returned,

grasping this shining feather,

to observe him laughing

and swooping-

my fearful cares away.

Martha Meshberg

No Sea Serpents

There's not much to say.

Happiness, like a playful thief,

stole turbulence away.

I am calmly mesmerized, here,

sunning on the skippers deck,

inhaling the salt mist

and healing breeze...

No Sea Serpents

shall arise,

to crash in the uncertain tide-

but only the silent and ever-present

water slicing Dolphins

joyfully leap and ride

in the wake

of this ocean-bound Navigator's

grateful ship.

Martha Meshberg

An Inkling

Insatiable,

my yearning mind

reaches

in too many directions

at once

enveloping me in a world

of confusion....now lingering

cautiously

on foreign ground.

I must untangle the

inter-laced and woven skein

giving every thread a name....

I am the needle,

darning its way

upon a winding path,

a thread trailing,

unknowingly leaving

it's measured mark

within something more grand.

A strand, searching

for it's pattern-

stretching to understand

the ultimate and final unity

of the Tapestries plan....

Striving mindfully and prayerfully

to picture the object

of my un-quenching thirst.

To grasp the inkling of creation

written by my own hand,

to be cognizant of who I really am.

Martha Meshberg

Shhhh......Don't Move

Numbed, the rude

thought intrusions subside...

Somewhere they hide

behind the band aid's protective

cover...but,

There are sparks arcing

like fireworks

when I close my eyes...

I meditate upon them

as they gradually descend,

then fade.

Soon the swirling, undulating pattern

of deep purple spins from its central core

outward

toward a welcoming dark blue void...

and I feel calm, in a petrified stillness-

Shhhhhhhh.......

Don't make any sudden moves.

Martha Meshberg

Visited By Darkness

I was visited by darkness

which emerged stealthily

from the utensil drawer.

There (the silver blade drawn

from it's protective sheath),

I stood,

open-eyed and gaping-

hovering

above the kitchen sink....

arguing silently upon

the alluring and aching edge.

Rocked me, rock me.

Talk me, talked me

into the receiver's solidity...

grasping the outstretched voice

as a staying hand...

Waiting upon Angels

to brace my fall, to

wrap me securely

and trundle me

down the corridor.

No tears, no shouts-

just the terrible trembling,

shaking and tumultuous fear

I was still not dead...

a Manic at the opposite end

of a depressive fact.

In wincing, but welcome dread,

I was a live wire

exposed

to the mind numbing,

medicinal cure.

Martha Meshberg

"Butter and Eggs"

"Butter and Eggs",

beloved inhabitants

springing up

in outright roadside happiness,

whisk by

as a painter's impressionistic smudge

of simple, yellow joy.

Stop. Get out. Take a breath. Look around.

Sand and grit and hot blacktop

ripple in the summer prairie heat...

as a wavering mirage hangs elusively,

like quenching water

at the horizon of miles gone by.

Skinks scurry

in blue-tailed haste

beneath the cooling shadows

of roadside cast-away rubble

and corrugated roofing-tin

as barbed-wire fence posts

lean and creak, harmonizing

with the distant barking of dogs.

A mild scent of cow dung

fills the swishing grassland wind,

rustling the painter's canvas

in wholesome

and simple

wild snapdragon

two-toned yellow

joy!

Martha Meshberg

A Ruby

Sweet, dear man

your words dwell

in the realm of despair...

Saddened and perplexed,

the analytic mind

reviews its own apocalypse-

the inheritor of life's grief, oppressed.

These death-fires find thee flaming

as the searing words of hell's smoldering,

ruthless art.

Hush then, and lie in stillness.

Reach thou within thy breast,

for the Raven sees thy pain:

There be a forged Ruby

of priceless, and unmatched fire

to crown thy weary and martyred head.

Martha Meshberg

Hope Offering

Offering prayer, as hope,

the flame is lit from a wick

floating

upon a measured amount

of oil...

Then, one may surmise:

that hope may be consumed

by time....

But, "hope"

burns as a

consuming flame,

emitting traces of its essence

as an element

of wafting vapor...

by which the fragrance

of it's intended message

may be inhaled, as a healing spice

to ease the heart

and subdue

the restless, wavering mind.

May this Sweetgrass

be wafted

as a purifying manna

from the heart of one who prays

for the Greater Hope

that is Offered for the Healing

of these darkened days.

Martha Meshberg

Beloved Cat,

I needed you here next to me...

to hear me out.

Never mind that you were always

beneath my feet, tripping me up

and down the hallway and stairs.

You'd be dependably there

with your jewelled , Green Tourmaline

understanding eyes-

Listening to my every word,

analyzing my every move,

brushing your whiskers delicately

across my typing hands...

adding serendipitously your

keys of feline thought

to the forging of my words.

And when it wasn't going well,

you'd remind me

it was time we both eat....

you and me sharing rare treats

and afternoon tea.

You'd push yourself into my face

and nip at my nose and chin

and force your head beneath

my massaging hands

again and again and again.

And blessedly sit with me during

dawn prayers in solemn respect,

yowling your own amen's.

And when you became sick,

I cared for you more than I've ever cared

for any creatureand tended to your fragility

with my deepest love,

but felt your declining body receding

far, far from me-

taking with it a piece of my breaking heart.

And when, at the very end,

I held you protectively in my aching arms,

your exquisite Tourmaline eyes gazed

and locked onto mine in magnificent strength,

sharing for a last time

your knowing and grateful soul,

gracing me with a heartfelt goodbye

amid my sobbing cries.

And now, I am here

occupying a lonely and vacant

office, endeavoring to write

of you, my beloved "Marcel",

this broken hearted

love poem.

Martha Meshberg

Me and Vickie

We were two of those kids that were

what our folks called: "tom boys".

We climbed a lot of trees, and

jumped off a lot of roofs and stole

a few more hens eggs

than we'd like to admit...

We still remember the terrible ecstatic thrill

(and awesome guilt)

of smashing all those hens eggs

down the side of Isaiah Crippens

brand new tin shed.

Wow, those eggs, they'd splat everywhere-

and then they'd ooze

down the side of the shed

all yellow and mucus-like, with chips

and specks of eggshells all dripping, gooey and sticky...

And how:

absolutely "fossilized"

eggs became when they dried!

It was so coolly disgusting!

And we'd belly laugh loudly,

rolling around on the ground, throwin'

and smashin' those eggs again and again.

But what made it totally "the best" was:

they were Isaiah Crippens's eggs!

(Vickie would raid the coop

while I coolly kept watch...tsk,tsk, tsk.)

So, we kept this up for a week or two-

always drawn to that dastardly frolic

until one day, in the middle of our reverie,

Mr. Isaiah Crippens himself, made a

surprise appearance on the crime scene!

He was like a red hot poker

as he came charging our way

and we lit the hell outta there

barely escaping, by the seat of our pants,

scrambling under the rickety fence.

He waved his arms and ranted and yelled,

swearing he was calling the police