poetry

to a poet, the human community is like the community of birds to a bird, singing to each other. Love is one of the reasons we are singing to one another, love of language itself, love of sound, love of singing itself, and the love of the other birds.” – Sharon Olds

The beauty of words, rhythm, and meaning are perfectly displayed in a well-crafted poem. Here we invite you to dig deep and pour forth a magical concoction that will make our hearts sing.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Song of Life, by Michelle Jungbauer

I am a wife, mother of 4, a proud new grandmother, and nurse educator. I love gardening (though I kill more than I grow some years!), hiking, reading and playing poker! I am enjoying a life season of rediscovery and honesty, and am weaving a rather eclectic tapestry of old and new dreams. I live in Arvada, CO and have a home based career, which I love!

___________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Song of Life

 

I sang your song of life while you lay in the warmth of my womb

Feeling the joy of your presence near my heart.

And I sang it to you again, as you burst from my womb

And came screaming into this life.

 

I sang your song of life, as much as I could,

Between the diapers and dirty laundry

Stacks of dishes and coloring books,

And the midnight replanting of wild daisies!

 

Then came the years when you began to listen

To the songs of life of those you loved. Songs you heard,

even when their pain had dulled their own ears

To the music of life within them.

 

 

With gentle grace and clarity, you began to sing their songs of life to them,

And so many times you sang my song of life to me

‘Ah, and the child will lead them’

I whispered gratefully through my pain.

 

I see you now, tall and slender, bursting with pent-up life, yet so elegant and serene.

And I pray you still can hear the beautiful melody of your life song

Strong and clear through the din of all the noise

Of this crazy grown-up world we now share.

 

I still hear your song, but I can only hum it quietly from a distance,

For now it is your song to sing,

Whether you sing it loudly from the rooftops

Or quietly through the fields of daisies, it is as you wish.

 

But if you should ever forget its enchanting melody, just breathe in slowly and listen,

and you’ll hear my voice joined with all those who love you,

from nearby or beyond the great divide,

still singing back to you your beautiful song of life.

For my lovely Johanna Lee

Michelle Joy Jungbauer

October 5, 2010

poem by michelle jungbauer, all rights reserved

back to voca femina home

 

Fly On His Nose, and The Lake, by Rocky Rhoads

Rocky (aka Shirley) Rhoads is a 77 year old retired nurse who lives in Colorado. She has always loved to write and has done so in many forms, and has published several articles, prayers and poetry in an anthology. She has spent nearly half of her life in the Arizona desert and loves the widely divergent beauty of both Colorado and Arizona. She lives with her daughter and their kitten in Littleton, close to the lovely green foothills of the Rockies, and spends time with her son and his family. She revels in watching the many birds, bunnies and squirrels that abound in their area.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Fly On His Nose 

The fly buzzed round and round his head

Then zoomed in to land on the end of his nose

His left turn signal was blinking

But, with the fly on his nose

He’d lost all thought of turning

Hard even to drive the car

While staring cross-eyed down his nose

If it weren’t for my X-ray vision

I’d not have known of the fly

For I was in the lane to his left

I’d pulled back to give him room

But the blinker had blinked a long while

And the car clung stubbornly to the right lane

So I trained my X-ray vision on the man

There sat the fly, black and bottle green

Looking comfortable and unperturbed

At the tip of his bulbous nose

Showing no inclination to leave

And why should he, I ask

He was being moved rapidly cross country

Without having to stir a single wing

Courtesy of a big blue Lexus

And a driver cross–eyed and enthralled

Who was watching the fly on his nose

I wonder if the man will wind up

With his eyes permanently crossed

My mother would have said so

__________________________________________________________________________________________

The Lake

I watch the serene waters

Across the lake the mountains

Soft and voluptuous

Green, dark gray, spotted with gold

Where sunlight strikes hill

The giants

Those that reach for the clouds

Are behind, but not seen

From this place

The low, rolling mountains

Are repeated in the water

Perfectly replicated

Though turned on end

A band of green trees divide

One from the other

Beauty seen once again

Ducks and geese float gently

Now and again one flies

Disturbing the water on take off

The water then rippling

Distorts the mountains image

And the picture shimmers

Before returning to itself

A band of geese on the shore

One standing as a heron

On one leg, perfectly balanced

But the webbed foot hanging behind

Disrupts the picture of grace

He turns and walks to the water

The limping gait hard to watch

Balance had come from pain

poems by rocky (shirley) rhoads, all rights reserved

back to voca femina home

 

Today, by Holly Cook

My name is Holly and I am 25 years old. I am from Collingwood, Ontario, Canada, but for the year I’m living in Australia. At the moment I’m a house cleaner but normally I babysit young children. My poetry is not for everyone but it is a part of me – a part of my soul. I hope you enjoy it.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

TODAY

Today I want to commit suicide
Tomorrow I’ll be elated
Next week I’ll be sad again
And the week after I’ll be jaded

Same ole song just different station
Different days
Same temptations
Have to keep this smile
Have to keep my reputation
It’s simplicity in complication

Today I love you
Tomorrow I can’t get far enough away
Next week I’ll be completely confused
And the week after I’ll beg you to stay

I love this song don’t change the station
I close my eyes
And everything changes
Different song different situation
This is my life
This is my creation

Today is today
And tomorrow will be different
Next week I’ll be present
And the week after I’ll be distant

poem by holly cook, all rights reserved

back to voca femina home

 

Surviving the Darkness, by Catherine White Walls

I live in Edmond, OK where I am employed by the University of Central Oklahoma.  A survivor’s recovery can be dark, and hope for healing is often elusive. As a survivor, I give voice to the darkness as well as the dawn.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Surviving the Darkness

Swirling through my wounded soul,
Whirlwind thoughts and jagged pain
Dim the light of hope to gain
Restoration of the whole.

Promises of calmer days
Are muted by the darkened skies
Overwhelmed by evil’s eyes
No light can penetrate the haze.

My hope is soon reduced to ashes
Consumed by deadly, heartless power
Crushing every heart and flower
That dares to face the fiery flashes.

At my feet lay scarred remains
Of a life that has been shattered
Remnants of what once had mattered
Are nothing more than bloody stains.

Cavernous blackness fills the night
Saturating my wounded soul.
I crave escape from this shroud of coal.
That suffocates my will to fight.

My hope of healing is all but gone,
And I fall beneath the weight of black.
My harsh tears trace a gruesome crack.
I am broken; despair has won.

Dejected, I face the pitch black sky
And sorrow floods my very core.
I mourn what if? What was? What more?
Then hinting at change, a star streaks by.

One line of crimson paints the sky
Followed by glistening golden rays.
The sun is rising, and darkness sways
Until all dark tendrils finally die.

My hope and strength are very weak
But now I see with different eyes.
The crushing curses were just lies.
“Survivor,” I heard the morning speak.

poem by catherine white walls, all rights reserved

back to voca femina home

 

The Holy Desert, by Nina Peterson

Nina Peterson is a seasoned coach and consultant skilled in personal, leadership and organizational performance.  She has a deep spiritual foundation that provides a source of wisdom, clarity and purpose for her work and her life. Nina lives and works in Boulder, Colorado.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

The Holy Desert

Go to the holy desert,

That place of purity, dry and clean.

Where the sound of one ant carrying a grain of sand reverberates through your bones and awakens the slumbering consciousness of your soul.

The holy desert where transformation is both lightening fast and achingly slow,

Where life arises and dies within a fortnight.

Watch the clarity of your mind turning hazy in the heat,

the strength of your intention – wilting and withering like a dry leaf.

Surrender to the fire that demands you sacrifice your will.

Peaceful in the empty shell of your essence – you rest.

Rest in the only-ness of your breath.

The air wicks every last drop away from your grasping lungs.

Leaving you with life in its most basic form.

The holy breath of the desert grants you one more moment of love – one more moment of sensation.

You vibrate with the harmony of the presence around you. A quiet force of divinity fills the air. The beauty of your simplicity, your natural nothingness leads you to the place where you recognize the treasure of your life.

Then you hear the thunder rumbling, the small scratching sound of movement around you. You feel the breeze awaken your skin.

When you open your eyes to the heavenly rain, shout your praises.

Raise your arms in gratitude for the renewal and the remembrance.

Go to the holy desert and welcome yourself again.

poem by nina peterson, all rights reserved

back to voca femina home

 

One Cup of Tea, by Michelle Jungbauer

I am a wife, mother of 4, a proud new grandmother, and nurse educator. I love gardening (though I kill more than I grow some years!), hiking, reading and playing poker! I am enjoying a life season of rediscovery and honesty, and am weaving a rather eclectic tapestry of old and new dreams. I live in Arvada, CO and have a home based career, which I love!

___________________________________________________________________________________________

One Cup of Tea

Welcome, oh tribe of most despicable emotions.

Come boldly across the threshold of my humble heart.

I shall welcome you with one cup of tea.  Just one, mind you..

Even enemies are offered the hospitality of one cup of tea.

But I know not yet, whether you are enemies or friends.

Either way, I welcome you today as my teachers,

Though quite reluctantly, I come to class.

Tea in hand, class has begun.

You begin with eloquence, speaking of ‘the common bond of all humanity’…

Your cohorts keep interrupting you

And it is quite hard to make any sense of your lesson.

By the end of your lengthy discourse —

I am ready to toss you all out on your ears

And move to a hermit’s cabin with only pine trees and

Squirrels to keep me company!

But absent my all too human family and friends-

To whom would I attribute my own human frailties?

“I guess we’re all in this together,” I sighed.

“Ah,” responded my early morning teachers,

“You’ve got it.” And off they went.

Their one cup of tea only half finished,

As they went on their way to some other pilgrim’s classroom of the heart.

poem by michelle jungbauer, all rights reserved

back to voca femina home

 

I Trust Me, by Sandra Flear

Sandra Flear is a somatic therapist and writer, living in Toronto, Canada, with her two beautiful children, and her wild heart. She would love to hear from you, if you are inspired, about any manner of thing, but especially about living an authentic life, because she just loves to talk. That’s why she’s a writer, it’s just one more way to keep on talking… . You can find her at www.write-sandra-write.blogspot.com

___________________________________________________________________________________________

i trust me

i trust myself. oh, me
that juicy little red beacon of beautiful happiness
of love
let her love me, i pray. i do.
i desire this self
she seems so divine
i am so in love with myself
can you say that?
if you let yourself see yourself, see yourself from the inside
can you stop yourself from falling deeply head over heels?
it’s been her i’ve wanted all along
she is the mother i’ve wanted
and here she is inside me
oh, i adore her
i don’t get it
i wasn’t expecting this
and it’s just me loving life
if i love myself. i am adoring life
here she is
why do i love her so?
because she is
children know this
they love just because you are
i trust me
start from there

poem by sandra flear, all rights reserved

back to voca femina home

 

Heart and Soul, by Donna Wise-Coombs

Donna Wise Coombs is the author of a poetry book titled “River Beneath the River” by Turkey Buzzard Press. Proud mother of two grown daughters, Emily and Julia, she is now in the process of figuring out what she wants to do for her second act. In the meantime, she is busy enjoying new life and love in Oregon with her husband Mac.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Heart and Soul
–For my daughters

It was so long ago
that I knew you
as babygirl, laughing
child, hip hugger.

What was all that
commotion?
A profound life’s work.
Vanilla cupcakes, thickly frosted.

Giddy elation swapped places
with disquiet on any
given day.  The scene
anointed, backlit by God.

We pounded Heart and Soul
on black and white keys.
A long head rush of prayer led to
morning, another bowl  brimming

with Cheerios, fresh
blueberries, cold milk.
The years were short, days long.
Vibrato trembled in my throat.

poem by donna wise-coombs, all rights reserved

back to voca femina home

 

Winter Window, and Cassanova the Cat, by Shirley Rhoads

Shirley Rhoads is a 77 year old retired nurse who lives in Colorado. She has always loved to write and has done so in many forms, and has published several articles, prayers and poetry in an anthology. She has spent nearly half of her life in the Arizona desert and loves the widely divergent beauty of both Colorado and Arizona. She lives with her daughter and their kitten in Littleton, close to the lovely green foothills of the Rockies, and spends time with her son and his family. She revels in watching the many birds, bunnies and squirrels that abound in their area.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Winter Window

Our house has many windows and I love looking out

At sunny blue skies and hungry birds at the feeder

But, when winter sun is weak and seeks shelter early

I hurry to close the blinds and shut out visions of cold

Except for the window in my room

There, across wintery grounds, a light atop a high pole

Casts a glimmering pool on the snow, with only shadows

Of bare black trees to break the dim white carpet

Silence is profound though only seen, not heard

A night scene, perhaps, from an old film

Bogart might walk through in belted trench coat

Collar up, fedora brim turned down

To slip soundlessly into the darkness that rims the light

Such a scene should make me fearful

Yet it holds no terror for me

The shadows and light are lovely

The stillness speaks of peace

They say if you stand alone on the shore

When your heart is full of despair

Sirens of the sea will beckon to you

And fear will be gone with the first soft step

Into the promised rest

Perhaps my window scene holds sirens of the night

For it calls out to me, it beckons

And that small sliver of despair

That dwells in the back of my soul wants to respond

To find that promised rest

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Cassanova the Cat

The gentleman cat, Rasputin, resides with us

We call him Razz when we are pleased with him

We call him other things when we are not

He is most handsome with coat of silken smoke

And down of silver white beneath the smoke

The lady cat, Beauty, resides next door

Her coat is shiny black and sleek

Razz finds her lovely indeed

She comes to our glass door to visit

And Razz races to join her

He pirouettes and preens to impress

Bringing a teen aged boy to mind

The Lady Beauty, beyond the glass

Stares intently with bright yellow orbs

Yet shows no sign of response

Razz tries hard to climb through the glass

Determined to reach his lady love

The glass defeats him with rigid rebuff

His pleading cries become piteous

We cannot deny such adoration

We take him out to be with the lady

They each hunker down mere inches apart

They stay immobile, carved of stone

Razz utters a low, questioning rumble

Beauty stretches a paw and swats his face, hard

Stunned, Razz turns tail and flees for his life

His dreams of true love left behind

His golden moment shattered to shards

Casanova the Cat has become Puss the Wuss

poems by shirley rhoads, all rights reserved

back to voca femina home

 

Stirring, by Emma Gazley

Emma Gazley is now an 18 year old writer, living with her parents, her brother, and her cat Sebastian, in Tehachapi, California. Emma has been cracking open books since she could hold them, and writing since she could hold a pen steady. She likes obscure and well-known bands of every genre, and her favorite word to say is antidisestablishmentarianism. She spends a dangerous amount of money in used movie, book, and CD stores. Don’t ask her what her favorite anything is, because she will not be able to make up her mind.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Stirring

I wake up cold, bearing the night & watching it wake–

turn, lifting the covers

lifting the skirts and greeting day, taking it by the hand.

I grab it fully, like the cold grips me

I make it what it is, what will be

I wake up cold.

stir the air with my breath,

become the room, the fir

I bear the night on my shoulders,

and my neck,

curving like a swan, seeks the air

I stir the night with

my hands,   turning the day

in my palm

like a snowglobe, things topsy-turvy

look delightfully dying

I stir the snow with my eyes

the way I turn the day

into what it will be.

poem by emma gazley, all rights reserved

back to voca femina home