Thursday, March 11, 2010

Song for Together

The water-like ripples of the bird songs wake me
lifting my eyelids from their slumber
like a miniature sunrise

My quaky bones stretch like cold birch limbs
into the courting air of March
humming silent murmurs to the hidden flowers

My heart reaches for the melted ground
where the leaf litter crumbles
into muddy compost

Yet my ears still search
for the calling home
for the welcoming.

Where's the village song?
Where's the calling down
of the rain
and the blissful chant of the grain?

Where is the Daughter when the Mother falls ill
Where is Grandpa when the Son's heart breaks
Where is the feeling of together.

Far away we fly
on metal wings
slicing through flocks
to get to the beach or the jungle
"to see the world"

To see that it's true in some ways
in some pockets far away
that we do call with our voices
the rain, the sun, the agony, the blessings
We sing in the spring
And chant our mourning
until the haunting dissolves

And in our pocket here
where bounty is expected
and freedom reigns
we wake lonely
with the bruising of far away pains.

Where is the Daughter when Mama falls ill?
She's flying overseas calling home on her cell

Where are the Grandpa's with stories to tell?
They're back at the homestead; abandoned home-shell.

We're selling our souls to the mortgage Gods
and breaking our backs to feel worthy.
We're starving for wholeness of wheat and of tribe.
We're selling our fancy new knowledge
for what? Cars? Fashion? Pride?

I rise from my sleepy blankets and listen
for that call of the red bird
to sing me back home
to the vision of whole
where I can rest my birch bones.

Where the sunrise is sung
up by children
and the stories are still told
where the trees are known from each season's skin
and the senses stir wisdom from deeper within

I call out my voice to the wandering souls
to the hearts lost on the islands alone
to sing yourself home to the land
you call home
and sink in to the flavor of each moment born

How we long for the leaves to speak
to us
for the roots to tell us when to plant
How we long to belong
to feel safe
and yet free

How we long to sing
our wild heart song
to the wind and hear her call us hers.
How we long to shed our costumes of "independence"
and fall hopelessly in love with togetherness.


jim mcdonald said...


how nice it'd be to have these writings all bound up together. Surely I'd be not the only one to desire such a trove...

Shamana Flora said...

love love love this!! You are gifted and such a gift girl!!

The Plant Whisperer said...

Thank you so much dear ones :)

Jim, that means a lot to me ~ I'd like that one day and often ponder how to go about it. Part of my trouble is the pressure to "get it out" when it flows - and I wonder if I'm capable of not posting it right away :) and keeping it until it's published on paper.

Sarah said...

Beautifully crafted, Ananda, and very thought provoking, as was your previous work. I think Jim's correct in asking for a collection of your work. It would have to be self published as it's like trying to find hens' teeth to discover a commercial publisher. or its derivatives are the easiest way to go unless you have a friendly calligrapher who might transcribe for you onto handmade paper and then produce pre-ordered numbers. Good luck!

Irene Sturla said...

Very moving. Thank you. Irene