White-Eyes, poem by Mary Oliver

WHITE-EYES
Poem by Mary Oliver

In winter
    all the singing is in
         the tops of the trees
             where the wind-bird
 
with its white eyes
    shoves and pushes
         among the branches.
             Like any of us
 
he wants to go to sleep,
    but he’s restless—
         he has an idea,
             and slowly it unfolds
 
from under his beating wings
    as long as he stays awake.
         But his big, round music, after all,
             is too breathy to last.
 
So, it’s over.
    In the pine-crown
         he makes his nest,
             he’s done all he can.
 
I don’t know the name of this bird,
    I only imagine his glittering beak
         tucked in a white wing
             while the clouds—
 
which he has summoned
    from the north—
         which he has taught
             to be mild, and silent—
 
thicken, and begin to fall
    into the world below
         like stars, or the feathers
               of some unimaginable bird
 
that loves us,
    that is asleep now, and silent—
         that has turned itself
             into snow.

Zen Poem by Ikkyū

Zen Poem 
by Ikkyū (1394-1481)

Rain and hail, snow and ice
Are divided from one another;
But after they fall,
They are the same water
Of the stream in the valley. 

Photo: “Zen Snow” by Holly Garner-Jackson, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Read the poet’s Wikipedia biography here.

Haiku by Madoka Mayuzumi

Haiku 
by Madoka Mayuzumi

Wishing and wanting

to see you

I step on thin ice. 

Photo: Marga van Hulzen

December Moon, poem by May Sarton

DECEMBER MOON
by May Sarton

Before going to bed

After a fall of snow

I look out on the field

Shining there in the moonlight

So calm, untouched and white

Snow silence fills my head

After I leave the window.


 
Hours later near dawn

When I look down again

The whole landscape has changed

The perfect surface gone

Criss-crossed and written on

Where the wild creatures ranged

While the moon rose and shone.


 
Why did my dog not bark?

Why did I hear no sound

There on the snow-locked ground
In the tumultuous dark?


 
How much can come, how much can go

When the December moon is bright,

What worlds of play we’ll never know

Sleeping away the cold white night

After a fall of snow.

Painting: Phoenix Arts Group, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Winter Morning Walks, poem by Ted Kooser

WINTER MORNING WALKS
by Ted Kooser

Just as a dancer, turning and turning,
may fill the dusty light with the soft swirl
of her flying skirts, our weeping willow –
now old and broken, creaking in the breeze –
turns slowly, slowly in the winter sun,
sweeping the rusty roof of the barn
with the pale blue lacework of her shadow.

Photo: K&D Graphics, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

What Black Elk Said, poem by R.T. Smith

WHAT BLACK ELK SAID
by R.T. Smith

It was in the Moon When the Cherries Turn Black.
We cut birch saplings,
packed our tipis on travois
and followed the Bison Wind to the banks of the Rosebud.
But that was not a good year.
The Arapahoes we called Blue Clouds
attacked our hunting parties under the Bitten Moon,
and the leaves fled early.
In that hungry winter some say the snow reached
the ponies’ withers. The elk were hard
to find, and many of our people forgot
to slit bone masks and went snowblind.
Some of the bands got lost for a while. Some died.
I think it was that winter when a medicine man
named Creeping came among us, curing
the snowblinds. He packed snow across their eyes
and sang the song from his dream.
Then he would blow on the backs of their heads
and sing hey hey hey hey, and they would see.
It was about the dragonfly
whose wings wear eyes that he sang,
for that was where he claimed his power lay.
We also spoke to the snow of dragonflies,
and soon the deep patches melted
and the hunters brought us fresh meat.
Creeping left one night on a pony drag.
Some say he was a man of much craziness,
and I thought so too, but the next summer
I had my vision of giants slanting down like arrows
from clouds. They sang the song of the elk
speaking with the sacred voice.
The next year was the good year.
A song was singing me. 

###

“What Black Elk Said” is found in SPLIT THE LARK: Selected Poemsby R. T. Smith, available on Amazon.com.

 Image: “Dragonflies Moon” by Borealnz, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Haiku by Madoka Mayuzumi

Haiku 

by Madoka Mayuzumi

Wishing and wanting

to see you

I step on thin ice. 

Photo: Marga van Hulzen

Zen Poem by Ikkyū

Zen Poem 

by Ikkyū (1394-1481)

Rain and hail, snow and ice

Are divided from one another;

But after they fall,

They are the same water

Of the stream in the valley. 

Photo: “Zen Snow” by Holly Garner-Jackson, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Read the poet’s Wikipedia biography here.

What Black Elk Said, Poem by R.T. Smith

WHAT BLACK ELK SAID

by R.T. Smith

It was in the Moon When the Cherries Turn Black.

We cut birch saplings,

packed our tipis on travois

and followed the Bison Wind to the banks of the Rosebud.

But that was not a good year.

The Arapahoes we called Blue Clouds

attacked our hunting parties under the Bitten Moon,

and the leaves fled early.

In that hungry winter some say the snow reached

the ponies’ withers. The elk were hard

to find, and many of our people forgot

to slit bone masks and went snowblind.

Some of the bands got lost for a while. Some died.

I think it was that winter when a medicine man

named Creeping came among us, curing

the snowblinds. He packed snow across their eyes

and sang the song from his dream.

Then he would blow on the backs of their heads

and sing hey hey hey hey, and they would see.

It was about the dragonfly

whose wings wear eyes that he sang,

for that was where he claimed his power lay.

We also spoke to the snow of dragonflies,

and soon the deep patches melted

and the hunters brought us fresh meat.

Creeping left one night on a pony drag.

Some say he was a man of much craziness,

and I thought so too, but the next summer

I had my vision of giants slanting down like arrows

from clouds. They sang the song of the elk

speaking with the sacred voice.

The next year was the good year.

A song was singing me. 

###

“What Black Elk Said” is found in SPLIT THE LARK: Selected Poems by R. T. Smith, available on Amazon.com.

 Image: “Dragonflies Moon” by Borealnz, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Winter Morning Walks, Poem by Ted Kooser

WINTER MORNING WALKS

by Ted Kooser

Just as a dancer, turning and turning,

may fill the dusty light with the soft swirl

of her flying skirts, our weeping willow —

now old and broken, creaking in the breeze —

turns slowly, slowly in the winter sun,

sweeping the rusty roof of the barn

with the pale blue lacework of her shadow.

Photo: K&D Graphics, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED