among the gratitudes

silence….

holy….

out in the yard,

under a crystal sailing moon,

under the silent

blast of starlight eons old….

black branches etch

the night

and call down the silence….

•

i stand amazed again

surprised

by this

ever available

presence

it waits

always patiently

for my notice….

•

perhaps

holding a spot

for silence within

serves the greater good….

amid the cacophony

of modern life

amid the chatter

of thoughts

amid the ten thousand

worries

among the gratitudes

between the gasping breaths

of laughter

a space of silence --

evocative:

reverence

reception

reflection….

oh my heart,

my heart –

how to hold all i love

inside you….

and how to wrap you

all about

with this

most precious

silence….

________________

©2011, 2014

beth anne boardman

photo courtesy

keara harrington 

juniper dreaming

  

scent of juniper

on the night wind –

velvet elk in the

near shadows….

rolling voices

distant

jingle of bells,

crack of gourds

grey dawn

on ceremony day….

•

juniper on my pillow

at the black

of midnight –

reawakening

reviving

retying me

to the past

the future….

messages crossing

time, distance, rocky bluffs….

•

recalling

scrub juniper

rocks and sand

my companions

mists and winds

my mantle –

•

never alone

with a lifetime

of miracles

memories

priests

shamans

poets

goddesses

children

ancestors

replete with images

adventures

alive

waiting….

juniper

calling….

i,

arriving….

___________________

© 2011 ©2014

beth anne boardman

ribbons and stardust

they visit me at the oddest times,

my ancestors....

a song, a scent, a waft

of southern breeze upon my cheek....

it takes stillness

to sense them....

so that is something to cultivate—

maybe when i seek stillness,

i invite them?

i like to think that. 

in my mothering,

i sometimes sense my mother....

sometimes her sadness and despair

creep across the corners of my eyes—

but less and less

as i uncover her love

and my love

and our love....

and how much she taught me

about preciousness—

of life, of love

of music, of rosy cheeks,

of handmade things,

baking,

sheets....

how she and my father

made birthdays and holidays

the two special times in a year

when we laid aside strife

and embraced magic—

and when we told stories

of our ancestors....

how the hills around bartlett, texas

crept so far into my grandaddy’s heart

that he spent the rest of his life

writing about them....

how music flowed like blood

in my grandmother’s being,

and my mother’s—

how,

living at the foot of the lake,

my father’s extended family circles

entwined their

wreaths of history—

how woodworking

land-walking

dairy farming

hunting

popcorn and

mincemeat

all settled into

our fireside stories....

how i ache that my life

and my children’s lives

have rippled away

from any center....

life took me out beyond the

currents of family,

and now as i get older,

i remember them—

and i want to tell their stories....

especially on their death days,

it seems, as i remember parents,

and their parents,

and theirs—

the winding strands of their dna

loop and twine within me,

within my curious children....

mulling on ribbons and stardust,

on past and future,

sadnesses, losses,

i bless them all. 

i bless their errors, their callousness,

i bless their love and

their best intentions....

standing at the edge of the sea,

i bless and bless—

they ribbon backward 

as well as forward in time—

they rain like stardust on my children....

_______

©2014

beth anne boardman