Sunday, January 13, 2019



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

Tuesday, January 1, 2019

The Warped Sapling

Warped Saplings
T. Sigler

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
We'd do best to not.