Mourning Morning

Mourning Morning

Once a year, the ocean and I meet.

I tell him about my troubles, as he caresses my feet.

I tell him all that's happened since I've seen  him last,

of all the good things in my life,

but also of loved ones who have passed.

I talk of people I had a year ago

that I've since lost,

how broken my soul feels without them,

how my heart has been tumbled and tossed.

He gives me shells that have been through the same,

broken, emptied, now polished,

and they still remain.

The sea oats nod with empathy.

"Yes, yes," they whisper as I walk by.

The seagulls hover around,

and sometimes with me cry.

Moody clouds blanket both me and the sky.

The ocean calls out,

"Hey! Look at me!

I'm deep, and I'm blue."

I see that he manages it beautifully,

and I know I can too.

When I get it all poured out

and again am feeling brave,

I call out, "See you next year!"

He says, "I'll be here, dear,"

and waves and waves and waves.

(c) T. Sigler 2019

Creation

Creation

I thought maybe snake handlers,

and the close minded,

weren't the best ones to advise me

about salvation and the cosmos.

The god they spoke of

wasn't a god of love,

so I released him from his duty.

My god looks like Jerry Garcia.

My goddesses are nurturers,

mountain mamas, and healers.

Like violets in the fields they stand,

sucking up the earth's magic

through bare feet on summer nights.

They gaze at stars and don't wonder

but know.

Even the spirits show up to follow them around.

Creators who walk through life

in color,

who write, paint, make music, plant seeds,

make babies, bake bread,

create laughter, or any feeling,

in a soul that has been numb.

This how we are made in the image

of the gods.     

Trinny Sigler

1/13/19

The Warped Sapling

Warped Saplings

T. Sigler

12/29/18

One of these days I'll die,

and the mountains will swallow the place up.

Maybe they'll have a little misty morning tea party,

the leaves cupping dew.

The grass, no longer at threat of being mowed, will flourish.

A bird will fly off on the horizon,

making the sky wink

at the freed vegetation.

He will bring back seeds

and plant his own preferred flowers,

instead of the ones I've chosen all these years.

The trees will head-bang, rocking out to the silence.

Snails, no longer at risk of being stomped,

relax and move in sweet slime time.

The elder pines that surrounded me all my life,

will talk about what a pain-in-the-ass guest I was,

how I destroyed the leaf carpet every fall,

how I broke stuff and burned things,

how I invaded their space, climbed them.

They'll describe me as a warped sapling.

After all this time,

the interloper is gone.

We set out to make our mark on the world,

as if this is a good thing,

but that leaves behind

scars.

We'd do best to not.