Mother Nature Teaches
via
Geese
m i g r a t i t i n g
once again
intuitively
know
One = All
weak + well
vital vigor
flight soaring
long with
wings kept
tip-to-tip support
uplift motion
onward for All
With a gentle hand,
You balance the world while its feet are still untried…
little fingers twist like seashells
around the promise of tomorrow.
Love is gentle in this place;
it hides within a cradle song,
a steady thrum of trust
leaning into your heart.
Every touch becomes a promise
each embrace a refuge -
showing the fragile ones
that gentleness carries power.
When the lullabies grow silent
your hand remains
carrying tomorrow gently
like sunrise opening the sky.
A welcomed soaking, blessed lubrication
Priming the gears of fertile production.
We can label them, but only She designs
Them, in counsel with our nurturing God.
Dawn, raises up in silent,
to a flutter of made wings
evading beaks of Ravens
Wagtail's window humming,
Greeting as Mother protects eggs....
weary of eyes focused on her nest.
The Earth weeps, not with rain, but with a silent grief.
She watches from the highest mountain,
her body now a canvas of wounds.
The rivers she sang to sleep are choked,
their voices hoarse with poison.
Her forests, once a thick green cloak,
are thinned to skeletal threads,
the songs of her creatures silenced.
The sky, once a blue, limitless promise,
is now a grey and gasping breath.
She sees her children,
the ones she shaped from clay and starlight,
so busy with their perfect lines and metal boxes,
that they no longer see the blood
that stains her gentle hands.
And what can she do,
but watch as they tear at her skin,
and wonder at the heart,
that learned to love, and then to kill.
Mother Nature gazed happily on her brood,
until one of them spoiled her mood.
Her smartest monkey was on the take -
"Could it be that I made a mistake?"
Reminiscent of a doe
with a hue as rich as earth,
your gaze takes me home
to a cedar-filled hearth.
Welcoming like hot chocolate
and as vibrant as autumn's leaves,
your stare carries the life
that Mother Nature herself weaves.
Neutral, yet expressive—
as versatile as leather, but still so alive—
your eyes are the gemstones
favored by the sun and I alike.
I was lost in a place where there was no peace.
Though my heart was swallowed by the universe.
Birds sang a melody through the sky.
The forest was nourished by all of kinds.
The spirit of mother nature conquer, the wild.
"Nature, Nature"
The poetry of nature has fallen.
The spirit is conquering around the wildness.
Hope,time has no use.
May is the month of Mary
May is the month of love
May is the month of all flowers
May is the month of all Mothers.
Let's celebrate all Mothers
Those who are poor and are living in huts
Those who are rich with fake eyelids
Those who are small with high heels
Those who are lofty in a giant pair of trousers
Those who are educated, stylish and sophisticated
Those who live sadly in the street corners
Those who worship the Virgin Mary
Those who mourn, pray and smile.
May is the month of Mary
May is the month of love
May is the month of Mothers
May is the month of all flowers.
Let's celebrate All Moms
Those who bathe in the pond of misery
Those who wander hopelessly the streets
Those who are discouraged and disappointed
Those who toil every day
Those who practice love
Those who need to be rescued
Those who mimic the styles of Mary
Those who kneel, sing and laugh.
May is the month of Mary
May is the month of love
May is the month of all Moms
May is the month of the all mums.
Copyright © May,2016 Logerie Hébert, All rights reserved
Hebert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
*************************
****Mother Nature****
***due date: Spring***
***when giving birth***
*heaven and nature sing*
*************************
Flowers are nature's fireworks.
Especially in May.
The explosion of color
takes one's breath away.
From the finest artists' hands,
come morning, day and night,
in all their different hues
and every shade of light.
Swaying in the wind,
majestic, sleepy or gay;
scenting the blustery air
with heaven's secret bouquet.
Feeding the hungry insects,
drawing the busy bees,
hiding the smallest forms,
decorating spring's trees.
The pink flowery beds,
the evening velvet rose,
subtle changes of smell
lifting one onto their toes.
So when you're feeling down,
and energy begins to drain;
think of nature's fireworks
to fill your heart again.
A red bellied robin balanced upon the red swinging set pole.
The sky slowly shifting colours as the sun was setting.
Appreciating artistry of Mother Nature and her role.
Beauty fills the meadows,
Hope no longer lingers in the shadows,
Every day feels like a fresh start,
As budding flowers greet the sun's warm heart,
There’s a lavish display of colours.
The fragrance of spring’s blossoms fills Mama’s room,
Gone is the gloom of yesterday’s doom,
She spends her leisure time in the garden,
Saying it helps her exhale and unburden,
The glory of spring brings so many blessings.
I love the way your tears
Meander through the secret seams
Etched by time upon my face.
I love the way your sundry eyes
Light up
When my world turns dark.
I treasure your novel designs,
Masterfully brushed against a sun-kissed sky.
I relish in the cool, tender cradle
Of heaven’s clouds upon the earth,
Where I rest in an angel’s quiet embrace.
I love your steadfast stability,
Your unwavering consistency,
And the dazzling diversity
That breathes life anew.
I reverence your constancy amid ceaseless change.
Your love -
Inscribed in the fabric of time -
Visible to the world each day,
Yet discernible only in the silent
Whispers of its most sacred moments.
I.
The night was as thick as melted asphalt
when her prehistoric form
emerged like a monument
in the sand
and each egg that descended
spiked the air with the scent of birth,
sweet, pungent,
and female.
Drunk with labor,
she could not sense the mass
of people that surrounded her,
the eggs that slid through her rubbery body,
or perhaps the knowledge
that, in minutes, she would abandon
them forever.
Who could know
how far she had traveled
or what force had pulled her home
like snare
in that death-black sea.
II.
Do they look for her
when they have pushed their way
through the grit and sand
or fumble for the safety
of her strong flipper
when all she has left behind is instinct
cold as the saltwater
that must sting their newly formed eyes.
Decades later, the few that survive
will rotate the earth with their memories,
the turbulent water pressing
against them like sadness
to return to the place where they were born.
And when they reach it
do they search for her
before entering that trance,
wanting to see that she, too, has come back
and has been waiting all this time
in the darkness.
Related Poems