Half Lotus

Half Lotus

Everyday I sit
in this huge leather
chair, legs crossed
in yoga style called
a ‘half-lotus’ pose.

Started as a child
when short stature
didn’t allow feet
to rest firmly
on the floor.

Causing discomfort
when I’d rise
and a stumbling
gait from lack
of circulation.

Severe spinal stenosis
continues to cause pain,
as spine slowly collapses
in tiny increments
that steal height.

Doctor says, at my age,
the way I sit might be
the only reason
I remain mobile,
albeit, with a cane.

And I must wonder,
if the way I sit
is the reason I see
the world so differently
than many others.

Through a lens
of metaphor and simile,
meditative imagery,
that still awes me,
like that child

of shortened stature.

Elizabeth Crawford  6/21/2017

Notes: Image is from the internet.

Posted for Poets United: Mid-Week Motif – Yoga
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

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Caught: a Haibun

For Sunday’s Whirligig: Wordle #116
http://sundayswhirligig.blogspot.com/

running, again, knee, father, girl, bends,
way, legs, angel, where, smiling, thank

For The Sunday Whirl: Wordle #304
https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

whistle, touch, wheel, word, gnaws, ring,
prints, apart, broken, echo, thread, fall

And Poets United: Poetry Pantry #358
poetryblogroll.blogspot.com

Caught: a Haibun

Barely whistle at the words as they gnaw at whatever blocks their entrance at the broken through door of my abilities. Like an echo, they thread a path into my awareness, leaving muddy paw prints on this carpet of conscious knowing. Attempt to wheel away from their ever-reaching touch, but they ring through my being of blue-indigo twilight, like church bells, announcing evening’s Angelus. Calling me apart, to fall to my only figuratively bended knees, while thinking of the tom-boy girl, grinning to be fishing with her father. Running, once again, on sturdy legs, where Bay meets the shore with the kiss of an unknown angel. Eternally thankful for this much simpler way of being, breathing in sunlight dancing on water, as bobber disappears, then bounces back into sight, and tug on reeled in line promises one more perch.

Words whisper of need
to know clear definition
So, I write the poem.

Elizabeth Crawford  6/18/2017

Notes: Biographical. A few months ago, I realized that I’d been using the two word lists for a very long time. Wanted something different, so switched gears. And was just fine with that. However, each week, I would still go take a look at the words, telling myself I was done with all of that. Wanted to write something different, like a Haibun.

Earlier this week, my sister picked me up and took me out to the mouth of the Fox River. There was no one else at the small park, but by the time we had finished chatting, at least six men had come singly, one at a time, to fish off the bordering boulders. Only one of the men was catching anything, good sized perch from what I could see. As I watched, one of the other fishermen walked over and talked to the gentleman catching fish. Told my sister that the first guy must be using the right bait, as the second one walked back, switched bait and also started catching perch.

I had my camera with me and was far more interested in the variety of birds I was seeing. Turned that into an essay at: https://1sojournal.wordpress.com/2017/06/16/at-the-mouth-of-the-river/  including some of the photos.

On Friday, I once again perused the word lists, and moved on, but couldn’t find anything I really wanted to post for today. But, the words kept whispering to me, so I went and took another look. Decided that I would try to use them, but only if I could do it using the Haibun form. Not realizing, until I finished, that I was the only large perch that had been caught.

Image is a photo of my father, as I most often remember him. Love you Dad, and miss you as always. Thank you for giving me the love of Nature and the encouragement to follow my own inner leading.

I did use all of the words. Happy Father’s Day to one and all.

 

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13 Ways I See My Dragon

For Poets United: Mid-Week Motif – finding the extraordinary in the ordinary
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

13 Ways I See My Dragon

Call her Heth, short for Marananthaheth
which, in her language, means nurturer.
She tells me that all Dragon names
end in that brief, breathed out syllable,
which means Home and all things
Dragon.

I
Bright, shiny metalic-like, crimson scales
that glint in the poorest of light.
Warm dancing sparks of a bonfire,
or another bloody sunrise.

11
Whirling eyes that miss nothing,
especially rapid fire mood swings
of this puny human she calls,
“Little One,” with deepest affection,
that can be felt like a soft woolen shawl
draped over old woman’s shoulders.

III
Crooning an ancient dragon lullaby
that sounds like gentle bells
calling a soul home from distant
indigo blue horizon.

IV
Personal patient Instructor
asking hard as stone questions,
yet willing to wait for months
for a stammering, unclear
thick as fog response.

V
On foot, slow and ponderous as an elephant
crossing a dry river bed,
but in the air, better than any bald eagle
I have ever seen. And far swifter.

VI
Wisdom as deep and turbulent
as an ocean, breathing fire
of life into all that surrounds her.

VII
Unknowing sense of humor
which results in laughter
that bounces off the walls
of her lair and moves
like a fresh spring breeze
to clear the air.

VIII
Restless shape-shifter, able to become
small enough to rest in palm
of hand or, in an instant, grow
to height of a towering skyscraper.

IX
Keeper of the Keys, and Guardian
of The Book of Dragons.

X
Knowing all other dragons
by name, past, present,
and future.

XI
Bends to welcome weight
of this puny human on her back
in order to fly her to distant stars
and other galaxies.

XII
Lover of Light and Enlightenment.

XIII
Protector of all things Elizabeth,
but especially of imagination.

Elizabeth Crawford  6/15/2017

Notes: Heth is my imagination, and after writing this out, I realized that my imagination might not be so ordinary. My apologies for being late, have been without internet for half a day.

Image is a digital painting, titled Dragon’s Lair

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Beware: Undertow

For Poets United: Mid-Week Motif – Ocean
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Beware: Undertow

Subconscious is an ocean
teeming with unknown life
as it laps at conscious mind.

Stealing grains of sand
at its shoreline, slowly
redefining its dimensions.

Washing away what was
while holding it forever
within its indigo-blue depths.

Stormy waves beat themselves
against this promontory
of rock strewn headland,

smoothing its harsher edges,
wearing them down
with time and patience.

Hoarding riches, gifts of lost,
forgotten treasures awaiting
any brave enough to venture

into its cold blue knowing.
More than willing to share
abundant life with those

who are willing to learn
how to breathe under water.

Elizabeth Crawford  6/7/2017

Note: Most of us are a bit leery about seeking out what is buried in the subconscious mind. It is an endless sea of memories and feelings, many of which we would prefer to forget, even though they hold the means of change and even the answers to how we might accomplish that. In physical form, I’m not much of a swimmer, never got far beyond the ‘dog paddle’ stage. But, because I write, and have been doing it for forty years, on a subconscious level, I’m a true fish.

Image is a digital painting done a few years ago.

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Brief Life Span

For Poets United: Mid-Week Motif – Flower
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

Brief Life Span

Stood by watching you bloom
delicate petals slowly unfolding
from tightly curled bud
of your fragile in-most being.

Sunlight loved blue of your eyes
when laughter fell like soft rain
rounding edges of thorns grown
through need for defenses.

All too soon, had to stand by
watch darkness descend, gather
you back into its withering
embrace.

Elizabeth Crawford  5/24/2017

Note: Image is pen and ink line weave drawing, titled Night Bloom, enhanced with a digital background.

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Zugzwang

For Poets United: Mid-week Motif – tricycles, bicycles, unicycles
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

Zugzwang

Supposed to write about bicycles.
All that comes to mind is you.
One of the first poems
you’d ever written. Brought it
to me so uncertain. All about
first bike, the one with training
wheels. How one of them broke.
Instead of fixing it, father threw
it away, and you were left alone
to find own kind of balance
and precarious alignment.

Your truth wrapped in metaphor.
And I? Just a door you chose
to walk through, now forgotten
for the most part. A frame
you leaned on for ten years,
until you found your balance,
and another, far more precarious
alignment.

Elizabeth Crawford 5/17/2017

Notes: Title is a word from chess meaning: a situation in which a player is limited to moves that cost pieces or have a damaging positional effect.

Image is from the internet.

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Giving Birth

For Poets United: Mid-Week Motif – Giving Birth
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

Giving Birth

Have given birth
to four children.
Two of them
like me,
two of them
don’t.

Have given birth
to hundreds of poems.
Some of them
I like,
others
I don’t.

Are children
like poems?
Some of them
might be,
others
won’t.

Giving birth
is all about
learning how
to let go.

Elizabeth Crawford  5/11/2017

Note: Image is a pen and ink line weave drawing.

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