tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75605962016747716332024-03-20T02:13:29.356-07:00Pamplemousse: A Writer's PlayspaceGrab a glob of literary playdough. Plunge into metaphorical fingerpaint. Explore. Discover. Reconnect with the joy of writing. Let's play!Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.comBlogger106125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-90673883110306515072021-12-27T11:04:00.001-08:002021-12-27T11:04:29.437-08:00I will practice death: A fragmentI will practice death<br />
by drinking the universe<br />
with my morning coffee<br />
<br />
I will practice good-bye<br />
one bite of toast at a time<br />
savoring the butterCynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-36773493657916213632019-11-16T14:39:00.001-08:002019-11-16T14:39:44.609-08:00How I Know Oregon is Home<br />
<div>
I know this is home when I see</div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>my soul writ large in the silver nitrate sky</div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>autumn leaf confetti on a wet sidewalk</div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>a collage of flame and gold</div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>sprinkled with droplet worlds</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know this is home when I hear</div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>the forest breathing in the Easter dawn</div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>the sweeping cataract’s roar </div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>the bird-trill in spring and crow-caw in fall</div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>and God’s hushed presence in the heart of the forest</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know this is home when I feel</div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>rain’s mist on my cheeks</div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>brisk air on November’s eve</div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>my well-watered soul taking root</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know this is home when I smell</div>
<div>
life in loam-fed moss</div>
<div>
renewal in decaying fir-trees</div>
<div>
a thousand-years of springtime in a mountain-born stream</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know this is home when I taste</div>
<div>
ions in the air</div>
<div>
the dark, steaming presence of coffee on a chill morning</div>
<div>
and friendship delivered in a pot of home-made soup</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-63478948120186344662019-11-10T13:39:00.000-08:002019-11-16T14:37:54.594-08:00If We Are the DiseaseI visited earth's heart yesterday.<br />
Her moss-covered arteries shimmered with golden leaf-lace.<br />
An afternoon visit,<br />
hushed intimate moments splashed with humanity -<br />
laughing children, barking dogs,<br />
jogging women, strolling couples,<br />
a chattering family taking selfies<br />
in the strong, thick arms of an ancient, overturned root.<br />
<br />
I rested my hand on the naked trunk<br />
of a bark-stripped tree<br />
scarred with initials and hearts.<br />
<br />
<i>I love you,</i><br />
I said to the wild world.<br />
<i>Do what you must.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>If we are the disease, do what you must</i><br />
<i>to heal your battered soil-fed heart.</i><br />
<i>You are worth more than all of us.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>One thousand years from now,</i><br />
<i>you will find a way</i><br />
<i>for the best of who we are</i><br />
<i>to live on in you.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>It won't be</i><br />
<i>a selfie.</i>Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-67558845342594417302019-09-21T11:31:00.000-07:002019-09-28T15:24:35.831-07:00What Birds KnowThe birds know something we don't know -<br />
a change in weather, a coming doom.<br />
One hidden sound or secret move<br />
and they swoop or fly or flock or dive.<br />
They have their reasons. They won't say why.<br />
<br />
The birds know something we don't know -<br />
when to rise and when to gather,<br />
when to feed, when to scatter,<br />
when to mate, where to nest,<br />
which flowers brim with nectar as the sun begins to set.<br />
<br />
The birds know secrets they cannot share<br />
or if they do, I don't understand.<br />
I can't read their language of sacred dance<br />
that pirouettes across the skies<br />
with their bright duets and their song-laced cries.<br />
<br />
My rhyming is useless, my meter mute.<br />
I lay my heart open and welcome them in,<br />
but human beings are dangerous kin.<br />
The gap between species yawns too wide<br />
and loneliness lives in its canyons.<br />
<br />
All the same, I will study the birds,<br />
sit in their presence and try to learn.<br />
In the monastery of my garden,<br />
I will study with the birds.<br />
They know something that we don't.Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-53624146982954312732019-07-29T10:47:00.000-07:002019-07-30T11:08:13.391-07:00Bloom Like the WildflowersBloom like the wildflowers,<br />
as if you had no choice.<br />
This wreck of a world deserves<br />
rampant beauty and cascading love<br />
and desire that scorches the flagrant banners of cruelty.<br />
When did we lock our hearts in cages?<br />
<br />
Our true hungers hide in our minds' cages<br />
building machines to devour wildflowers.<br />
These are the fruits of a nation's cruelty.<br />
Don't pretend that the subjects of tyrants have no choice.<br />
Songbirds and honeybees can still feed on the remnants of love<br />
and build the intricate homes that the earth deserves.<br />
<br />
A bare floor and a cold cell is all that a man deserves<br />
when he turns away from children sobbing in cages.<br />
How can this stark wilderness grow love<br />
when our combat boots trample children and wildflowers?<br />
Count the moments on your rosary. Each one is a choice,<br />
a momentous leap, a tango between kindness and cruelty.<br />
<br />
When a tiger devours its prey, is that cruelty?<br />
Is animal instinct all that the soul deserves?<br />
How can we call it instinct when we have the power of choice?<br />
Even animals twist into insanity when they are kept in cages.<br />
If we poison monsters and devils, will they vomit up wildflowers?<br />
When they die, can their rot and decay fertilize acts of love?<br />
<br />
These days, people sneer at the idea of love<br />
and feed on glorious visions of cruelty.<br />
The streets teem with hatred and nobody hands out wildflowers.<br />
The boiling ocean simmers - the only soup our failure deserves,<br />
made from the bones of sea-starved whales that become our cages<br />
if we embrace despair and squander choice.<br />
<br />
In a moonlit desert, pilgrims wander past the hope of choice,<br />
searching the sands for wisdom, mistaking mirages for love.<br />
This parched place needs no cages.<br />
The landscape is its own cruelty,<br />
a desolate and lonely shrine that no supplicant deserves,<br />
a holy land too harsh for wildflowers.<br />
<br />
One day fields and forests may overwhelm our barren cruelty.<br />
The earth's great dance of existence deserves<br />
nothing less than the partner of its choice.<br />
<br />
<br />Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-20393719586911953392019-07-28T08:09:00.002-07:002019-07-28T08:09:52.204-07:00Edges Dipped in SunlightI am in love<br />
with the edges of growing things<br />
dipped in morning sunlight<br />
<br />
the post-dawn slow unveiling of translucence<br />
on round and burnished leaves<br />
or faintly feathered grasses<br />
or gilded dots of nectar-heavy blossoms<br />
awaiting the pollinating pilgrims<br />
who briefly sojourn here<br />
to make their morning devotionals<br />
with me<br />
<br />
The simple glory<br />
of this light-kissed verdant place<br />
can resurrect my fallen heart.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH5qseuGUrOsfafIqAYbDPiDYycSTtoNkqC2JAiPwpHVGilS4it9_B1iUo_yRm91tuvP72GGNjsENgeQLICSyRyFZmVbSDNYtSun2YoYj5Sxdlhhzlv6i7ZVvtHOEtXDYqaHT-zANOVII/s1600/sunlit+garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="778" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH5qseuGUrOsfafIqAYbDPiDYycSTtoNkqC2JAiPwpHVGilS4it9_B1iUo_yRm91tuvP72GGNjsENgeQLICSyRyFZmVbSDNYtSun2YoYj5Sxdlhhzlv6i7ZVvtHOEtXDYqaHT-zANOVII/s640/sunlit+garden.jpg" width="308" /></a></div>
Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-79695825418594106902019-07-27T13:47:00.000-07:002019-09-28T15:48:00.690-07:00Haikus in a Summer GardenShadow of a crow<br />
glides across my garden<br />
mirroring the clouds.<br />
<br />
The morning sun burns,<br />
soaking my neck and shoulders<br />
With noon’s misplaced heat.<br />
<br />
Persistent breezes<br />
tickle lilacs, whispering<br />
<i>Remember my kiss.</i><br />
<br />
Blue heavens open,<br />
welcoming hummingbirds. Trees<br />
murmur soulful odes.<br />
<br />
Peace in the corners,<br />
like tender shoots in springtime,<br />
grows only with care.<br />
<br />Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-64174954029838159622019-07-25T08:07:00.000-07:002019-07-25T08:07:36.464-07:00The Trees Said "Yes"<div style="text-align: left;">
1</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<i>Walk with me, </i><br />
<div>
the shadows said.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And the trees said</div>
<div>
<i>Yes</i>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Watch with me,</i></div>
<div>
begged the dark, cloud-marbled sky,</div>
<div>
<i>until the night is weary </i></div>
<div>
<i>and dew beckons </i></div>
<div>
<i>like honey-drops from the lancing thorns,</i></div>
<div>
<i>and the church-bells ring through the chill air</i></div>
<div>
<i>and the dawn lashes me with stripes of gold.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Watch with me.</i></div>
<div>
<i>Walk with me.</i></div>
<div>
<i>Listen.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And the trees said </div>
<div>
<i>Yes.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
2</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Were you listening when</div>
<div>
the trees said </div>
<div>
<i>Yes</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
and</div>
<div>
the sky said </div>
<div>
<i>please</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
and </div>
<div>
every singing bird </div>
<div>
fell silent?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Were you speaking when</div>
<div>
the earth groaned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
and</div>
<div>
the fish burned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
and</div>
<div>
our frozen past</div>
<div>
melted?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Were we weeping when</div>
<div>
we drank ashes</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
and</div>
<div>
swam in sand</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
and</div>
<div>
the jungles collapsed beneath our weight?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-54721619769565069762019-07-24T11:25:00.003-07:002019-07-24T11:38:30.663-07:00Traveling Sinuous RiversI have gone traveling sinuous rivers in solitude.<br />
<br />
Am I still a traveler<br />
who watches<br />
who teaches<br />
who learns?<br />
<br />
I begin to remember<br />
how I hid<br />
how I mourned<br />
how I laughed<br />
how I loved<br />
<br />
I feel down corridors for myself<br />
and shake hands with someone I once discovered,<br />
silently wondering<br />
<br />
Am I now the person I have spent my whole life becoming?<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Written on the way to a college reunion, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">with thanks, for the final line, to</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Mary Catherine Bateson's "Composing a Life"</span><br />
<br />Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-90829244748521056642019-07-23T09:08:00.000-07:002019-07-23T09:08:44.888-07:00The Budding FutureSpringtime and I can see the future -<br />
<br />
Poised between rose leaves<br />
Topping the sceptered iris<br />
Couched in the peony buds<br />
Dotting the fat clumps of waving raspberry stalks<br />
Casting a cautious glance from the slim limbs of the smoke tree -<br />
<br />
The Future:<br />
promising - unruly - explosive<br />
<br />
Flower buds keep their promises<br />
unless the world turns too cold.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">- May, 2019</span>Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-4217897950272355422019-07-22T09:29:00.001-07:002019-07-22T09:29:15.708-07:00The Waiting CrowThere is a crow that sits on our rooftop<br />
waiting<br />
nests in our chimney<br />
<br />
silent<br />
on most days<br />
<br />
today he calls to his tribe<br />
sable ministers crossing sunlit skies<br />
wounding souls with sound<br />
<br />
Suffering is real here<br />
in this now-world there<br />
in the will-be<br />
waiting<br />
nesting<br />
<br />
silent<br />
on most daysCynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-85636767742197109132019-07-21T09:18:00.000-07:002019-07-21T12:20:59.856-07:00Meditating with BeesWatching three bees hard at work<br />
in purple blossoms of sage and mint<br />
I practice radical acceptance<br />
studying the flashing facets of a childhood memory:<br />
<br />
screaming from pain and the shock<br />
that my place of make-believe could harbor<br />
this sudden venomous attack<br />
stung by the bee and the cruel betrayal<br />
of my beloved treehouse<br />
wishing I could turn back time and find<br />
another place to sit<br />
and leave the bee in peace<br />
to let me be<br />
while my mother spread baking soda<br />
on my knee<br />
<br />
Four bees are now at work -<br />
energy, danger, beauty, utility<br />
held in the blooming space of my flower pot.<br />
<br />
The world is better because of bees<br />
and I am still<br />
afraid.Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-47159038970628410072019-07-20T09:10:00.001-07:002019-07-20T09:10:42.147-07:00I remember: Pre-apocalypseI remember when summer's warmth was not<br />
an angry hellish thing<br />
I remember when islands did not drown<br />
and winter did not ravage<br />
when subway tunnels were free of floods<br />
and mountains were covered in snow<br />
and hurricanes and earthquakes and volcanoes<br />
only occasionally laid waste<br />
I remember when apocalypse was a subject<br />
for speculative fiction<br />
and doomsday was a war-born event<br />
that treaties could at once prevent<br />
I remember when humans were not dinosaurs<br />
and water was not poison<br />
and skies were not orange<br />
and fish did not suffocate<br />
and polar bears made sense<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Summer, 2018</span><br />
<br />Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-76027408267487909052019-07-19T08:45:00.000-07:002019-07-19T08:45:41.630-07:00Farewell to a TreeThe cherry tree next door<br />
Rotten to the core<br />
Laughed so hard it split its sides.<br />
<br />
How could that be?<br />
That tree - <br />
Home to hummingbirds,<br />
Bearing blossoms whose storm-spun petals<br />
filled the sky at the lick of a spring breeze,<br />
Delicately dropping fruit with the kiss of June -<br />
Must come down.<br />
<br />
Even trees, it seems, cannot live forever.Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-18106802548942576272018-11-10T16:35:00.000-08:002018-11-10T16:35:59.882-08:00Someone's Else's ShoesToday I wore someone else's shoes<br />
by accident<br />
<br />
Worn out by anger<br />
clothed in conviction<br />
<br />
An ill fit that I knew at once.<br />
<br />
I could not walk far in them.<br />
<br />Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-51517865410626246942018-10-20T12:17:00.000-07:002018-10-20T12:32:28.687-07:00Books and Biscuits<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Cochin; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">for Todd Bol, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">founder of the Little Free Library movement</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">rest </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">in peace</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl_6SGP3BfLxu00WGet2v1N9uZ4pUWHzqbxzmUClG307pz9wq8YB27Cua4Nf21_KJETjO1SP6kXbbl8lsWP7zMOW8FPP5I5z1AfIWMqjGQYwyoQDG7J3yinsjEwfSwtF7mqPAXsCZU0YE/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl_6SGP3BfLxu00WGet2v1N9uZ4pUWHzqbxzmUClG307pz9wq8YB27Cua4Nf21_KJETjO1SP6kXbbl8lsWP7zMOW8FPP5I5z1AfIWMqjGQYwyoQDG7J3yinsjEwfSwtF7mqPAXsCZU0YE/s320/Unknown.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">In my neighborhood, dear one,</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">books wait for me around the corners</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">in little wooden boxes built with care that say</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">“Take one. Leave one.”</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">Text books, magazines, dog-eared classics</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">and brand new bits of wisdom </span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">or adventure.</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">I pull old friends off my shelves,</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">fill my backpack, </span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">and leave them by the armload.</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">They always find a home.</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">Your neighborhood may not be so blessed.</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">In your home, books are in short supply, </span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">but in this room we share,</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">we share -</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">words and stories, truth and laughter</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">snake skins and hand prints and </span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">portraits of princesses, </span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">robots and monsters,</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">hugs and tears and knock-knock jokes.</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">Take one. Leave one. </span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 18px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">And we will meet </span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">for hot chocolate and sourdough biscuits</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">on some fall day</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">surprised by sunshine</span></div>
<div style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: inherit;">and books.</span></div>
Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-36832961496838507352018-10-12T09:28:00.001-07:002018-10-12T09:29:20.031-07:00Tongue of a TeacherThe Lord has given me the tongue of a teacher<br />
Teacher whose eyelids are weary<br />
Weary of battling evil<br />
Evil, a vast word<br />
Word by word by word, we climb<br />
Climb the daily steps<br />
Steps of the temple of learning<br />
Learning to be calm, be here, be wind<br />
Wind and trees, river and stone<br />
Stone that is shaped, river that flows<br />
Flows and ebbs, erodes and feeds<br />
Feeds the trees<br />
Trees that give, trees that bear<br />
Bear with the storms, bare in winter<br />
Winter wind lashing the branches<br />
Branches hung heavy with fruit<br />
Fruit of the knowledge of good and evil<br />
Evil, a vast word<br />
Word of the Father<br />
Father of lies<br />
Lies of our leaders<br />
Leaders with false tongues<br />
Tongues that can lash<br />
Lash like the wind<br />
Wind that is weary<br />
Weary of wandering<br />
Wandering humble with bowl in hand<br />
Hand to mouth<br />
Mouth with a tongue<br />
Tongue of a teacher.<br />
<br />Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-48491365724043643702018-09-15T16:22:00.000-07:002018-09-15T16:22:17.351-07:00Feet of ClayFeet of Clay<br />
<br />
Dear ones,<br />
prayers of promise to the future,<br />
I want you to know<br />
I have feet of clay<br />
And though I love you<br />
I will forget -<br />
names and birthdays and<br />
how many lizards you have.<br />
I will forget<br />
and you will change.<br />
<br />
You will grow tall<br />
and lose your cherub’s fat.<br />
Your face will harden,<br />
maybe, too, your heart.<br />
Your muscles will grow taut and lean.<br />
Your hips may swell.<br />
Your eyes may shift their sheen<br />
While other dear ones fill my busy mind.<br />
<br />
One day you will stand in my doorway<br />
expectant<br />
An eight-year-old only inside<br />
inside<br />
inside your eyes.<br />
“Remember me?” you ask.<br />
<br />
My heart remembers.<br />
I promise it does.<br />
But my brain is worn<br />
and crowded as an antique train station<br />
that welcomes hundreds<br />
and sends them on their way.<br />
<br />
Forgive me, dear ones.<br />
I have feet of clay. Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-63014290219071703312018-08-17T08:45:00.002-07:002018-08-17T08:45:40.694-07:00On the BrinkOn the brink, on the edge<br />
The precipice, the abyss, the ledge<br />
You reach out to me,<br />
Your cry for help<br />
echoed by a host<br />
of survivors<br />
and of ghosts<br />
silently insisting I step up.<br />
My heart trips on the weight of it.<br />
Can I weave my words into a lifeline?<br />
<br />
<i>Stay.</i><br />
<i>Live.</i><br />
<i>Learn as long as you can</i><br />
<i>And I will too.</i><br />
<i>Let's meet on the mountaintop at the end</i><br />
<i>and share stories of our adventures. </i>Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-64879512393038155592018-08-12T08:19:00.000-07:002018-08-12T08:19:49.775-07:00The Jagged EdgesContemplate the jagged edges:<br />
of raspberry leaves<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGZ02KIt9VLwcBvDmvWYnGBhcUtXLucTFDCsjrWyTJnAr_TPGMFSkkADABsfr_9Wnm5dN6N6aIble5ESk7unio2eHSlABJ50xoJgavZA5bsj05Wk2XEGd_WrIZBH9BLEP2ciC7wgHF_Xo/s1600/20180812_080832.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="383" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGZ02KIt9VLwcBvDmvWYnGBhcUtXLucTFDCsjrWyTJnAr_TPGMFSkkADABsfr_9Wnm5dN6N6aIble5ESk7unio2eHSlABJ50xoJgavZA5bsj05Wk2XEGd_WrIZBH9BLEP2ciC7wgHF_Xo/s640/20180812_080832.jpg" width="152" /></a></div>
and soaring pines<br />
of shredded clouds<br />
and war-torn souls<br />
of letters etched in granite<br />
and the pores of aging skin.<br />
<br />
Can you feel the edge of God's shadow<br />
when you wander inside it?<br />
Can you know the shape of God's footprint<br />
when you stand within its walls?<br />
<br />
Jagged edges give<br />
to floating molecules their form.<br />
They are the borders<br />
that define the name-filled world.<br />
<br />
Borders come in many shades.<br />
Let us not get drunk on them.<br />
<br />
Does shadow imprison light<br />
for crossing the border at noon?<br />
<br />Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-57171735529058178262018-08-04T09:30:00.002-07:002018-08-04T09:30:36.819-07:00Awake! (inspired by the words of Paolo Coelho)Awake!<br />
Awake!<br />
though the world is still in darkness<br />
Awake!<br />
though you want to sleep<br />
just a little longer.<br />
Awake!<br />
and look up -<br />
<br />
Look up from the dust and dung.<br />
Look up from the muck and mire.<br />
Look up and you will see the stars.<br />
<br />
The stars.<br />
<br />
They shine still<br />
through the half-destroyed roof of the world.Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-23150843883077184982018-07-28T14:26:00.001-07:002018-07-28T14:26:47.624-07:00I am a StoneI am a stone<br />
Stone of the deep world<br />
World cut from sharp rocks<br />
Rocks hard as eons<br />
Eons of pounding surf<br />
Surf and sand and soil that stirs<br />
Stirs the depths of ancient strands<br />
Strands that weave into sounding life<br />
Life of mounding and moveable earth<br />
Earth that cradles my stony self<br />
Self told in bone<br />
Bone that is unknown<br />
I am a stone.<br />
<br />
I am a stone<br />
Stone of the heart-force -<br />
Force that rolls and pelts and stills<br />
Stills me to solid polished gray<br />
Gray as the shade-cool river bed<br />
Bed of the earth<br />
Earth that is ancient and new<br />
New as the now, lost as time<br />
Time locked in geodes and crystals<br />
Crystals that cut bone<br />
Bone that is unknown<br />
I am a stone.Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-7946654781611140242018-07-20T09:16:00.000-07:002018-07-20T09:16:00.168-07:00Give Me a Weary GodGive me a weary god<br />
One who knows what it means to bend,<br />
To take a knee or bow a head,<br />
Emptied, cast down, enslaved.<br />
<br />
Sustain his rebellious spirit.<br />
Pull a guilty glory from his likeness.<br />
Turn his grace upon those heavy hearts<br />
Who are struck together by the tempest.<br />
<br />
Behold that spitting form,<br />
The backward shame of heaven,<br />
Spewing disgraced insults.<br />
Help obedient hearts defy that high name<br />
<br />
That name that sets himself above the cross<br />
And puts every death to shame<br />
For the sake of inglorious human vanity.<br />
Confront his hateful ways and curse his tongue<br />
For reviling humane earth.<br />
<br />
Slaves stand with wounded hands<br />
Confronting bold-faced adversaries - flint-skinned, taut-lipped.<br />
Regard their stricken, burning backs.<br />
Exalt their wounded tongues and ears.<br />
<br />
On this bare morning we stand together.<br />
<br />
<br />
- <span style="font-size: x-small;">inspired, reconfigured and crafted from Isaiah 50:4-9 and Philippians 2:5-11, Palm Sunday, March 2018</span>Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-61869934523423737722018-07-13T09:45:00.000-07:002018-07-13T09:45:04.350-07:00The BasketI am an astronaut awash in stars.<br />
<br />
I am a shipwreck survivor,<br />
collapsing at last on the shore.<br />
<br />
I am a burrowing hermit crab,<br />
slipping in and out of safe darkness.<br />
<br />
I am a weary traveler resting under a tree.<br />
<br />
I am carrying a basket of souls,<br />
and being carried in the basket.Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7560596201674771633.post-59299764336355544442018-07-07T13:01:00.001-07:002018-07-07T13:03:16.648-07:00Memorial Hill<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL7sN4CA9ghjC1IWBxb7x6PTfg5BNR_w77iMcZGqMuUitH4S1PDbd6J7cSvCknmBV0NnYVQzJqjFLfKwUtIDZUg8hFA7TD-AQRbHbiwRw03sEdJTrjK_Hc8bB0AcyVaEWx6Ycycz81kW8/s1600/20180525_101523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL7sN4CA9ghjC1IWBxb7x6PTfg5BNR_w77iMcZGqMuUitH4S1PDbd6J7cSvCknmBV0NnYVQzJqjFLfKwUtIDZUg8hFA7TD-AQRbHbiwRw03sEdJTrjK_Hc8bB0AcyVaEWx6Ycycz81kW8/s320/20180525_101523.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Sitting on the hard edge of the past<br />
our conversations punctuated with stars<br />
and lack of sleep<br />
we tangle and untangle<br />
thoughts, selves, souls, hearts, limbs.<br />
<br />
Behind us, the Memorial -<br />
calcified, unchangeable -<br />
petrified lives engraved in granite,<br />
an homage to the carnage of glorious war.<br />
<br />
Before us, rolling into verdant growth and open air,<br />
a hill, cascading down from our feet to<br />
a field, wide and waiting for play, and<br />
a forest ranging deep and rising away into<br />
sky, vast and shifting and rich with sunrise,<br />
the scents of lifting flight<br />
and all the blooming atmospheres of tomorrow -<br />
of what could- may-will be -<br />
eternity.<br />
<br />
This pause, this sitting-on-stair,<br />
this meeting of flesh on stone,<br />
is all that we can rightly call<br />
Now -<br />
a thin edge -<br />
a molecule of a moment -<br />
a word that falls into space -<br />
<br />
a kiss to vanish on your face.<br />
<br />
-<span style="font-size: x-small;">Amherst College, Reunion 2018</span>Cynthia J. McGeanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00117497921942534828noreply@blogger.com0