Deb
Reader, Thinker, Writer, Lover.
Poetry
trail

My head is a glass jar

full to brimming with voices

and expectations,

fighting each other

for their survival.

~~

I sling my pack over my shoulder

and cinch it tight

around my belly

to hold in my anger,

to hold in my rest.

Read more…

October 21, 2015

Written by Posted in Poetry Comments 2
aspen

Each morning

begins a little slower

than the last.

 ~

I wander outside,

early,

which is my custom.

Orion’s Belt hangs above me,

lazy,

in no hurry to head west.

 ~

The sun takes its time rising,

pacing itself for the long journey south.

 ~

As the day slowly heats up

the smell of sage and leaves

fills the air

and I make my way around –

setting things in order

for the coming cold.

And the geese,

sure signs of change…

I hear them calling

far to the east, near the sunrise

~

I stand still,

struck quite dumb

as they move west over my head

honking,

their wings stirring up the atmosphere above me

 ~

They’re hurrying,

always hurrying

to some important destination.

 

fog

I am cocooned in a symphony of sound.

Each melody, specific,

Each accent, amplifed.

 ~

In the distance, a train’s engine rumbles

as it clatters along the tracks,

a low, mournful horn song drifts on the

dense morning air.

Every bird song is distinct –

Twitters and squeaks

Chatters and winnows

Some percussive

Others rhythmic:

A dawn chorus.

The clouds push it down to my waiting ears,

rather than allowing it to escape upwards.

 ~

The farm is my chamber

for a musical festival

where I am surrounded,

Delighted.

 ~

I shiver and smile

and pull my jacket close around me

the mist falling across my face.

The cottonwood in the distance

a ghost,

black and skeletal.

September 29, 2015

Written by Posted in Poetry, Prose Comments 1
gray

Some days I look in the mirror,

and am shocked by how young I look…

because on these days, I feel the length and width and

breadth of my 42 years

in my bones.

~

My body no longer reacts quickly to anything.

Today I feel last place up the hill-

knees

shoulders

hips and ribs moaning in argument.

It takes a century to

make my lunch, finish my workout, walk to the car.

I marvel at everyone around me

who seems to be moving so fast.

~

I feel the 23 years of raising children

heaviness of

triumphs, heartaches

busyness, worries, and constant movement

in every cell and muscle.

~

I feel days into weeks into months into decades

of need,

of no rest for the heart.

~

Some days I look in the mirror and expect to see

silver, thinning hair

loose skin

sunken, rheumy eyes.

I expect to see hands shaking slightly as they reach up

to touch my lips, remembering when they were

young

and full

and kissable.

~

I expect to see winter.

~

And yet, staring back at me is late summer.

There is color and roundness in my body

and sparkle in my eyes.

And I wonder if this is what autumn feels like –

full to bursting, putting on a show,

but knowing it is slowly moving into rest.

~

And I think it must not be so bad.

September 25, 2015

Orb-Weaver

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image1-4

She is all quiet urgency.

It is autumn,

her moment.

She was born to weave

spin

propagate.

~~

She must sense

her limited timeline,

the shortness of her life.

~~

Her legs move quickly,

deftly-

a master 0rb-weaver;

~~

only months old,

but with pattern engrained in her brain cells

by ancient codes.

~~

The web is delicate

moving with the slightest

breath of breeze,

hardly visible 

until sunlight touches its edges…

her touch

a pinprick of gentleness.

~~

It is complex,

a mathematical miracle,

space, geometry, time

a perfect equation.

~~

She has picked this spot

This moment

This September.

She will perform her duty,

the only purpose to which she is bound,

and pass.

~~

Video

September 22, 2015

My Name is Tempest

Written by Posted in Poetry Comments 3
storm

I am a storm.

Sometimes a hurricane

Sometimes freezing rain

Sometimes blazing heat

or dust.

~~

You love like a sunny day;

You love me all straight and narrow,

~~

while I love winding and wide

with no signs, no directions.

~~

And sometimes I’m spinning

Gales and sheets of rain

reaching miles beyond me,

stirring up the water – 

~~

And you, with unbreakable mast,

sail directly for the center-

Not merely surviving, 

but arms open wide, sails full of wind,

head thrown back,

smiling as the drops hit your face

like the tempest is beautiful.

~~

You point at the heart of the storm 

without speaking-

knowing its power,

condensing the energy,

pointing it in the right direction.

~~

The heart of the storm

is the heart of me

and you’re not afraid,

so neither will I be.

~~

deb linne

companddeb

If I’m not listening closely, I can miss it.

It’s deep and quiet and rumble-y…like a train you hear rolling down the tracks from miles away on a clear night or a Night Train of the Harley Davidson variety starting up a block down the street.

It originates from deep inside his belly and reverberates through his big barrel chest. It seems to bypass his throat entirely and exits through his soft muzzle, the air escaping and making his nostrils bounce almost imperceptibly. Read more…

July 29, 2015

White Hot

Written by Posted in Poetry Comments 0
thistle

Zenith. 

Everything is full to bursting.

The trees cannot hold one more leaf

and the air is so thick

I swim through it

like molasses.

Stillness.  Heat.  Swelter.

Life is slow and ripe,

the grass is high and the corn is higher.

Everything tender or fragile

long ago disappeared;

now stands the heartier thistle

and sage 

and goat weed.

To get even a small breath of cool air,

I rise at dawn and sit in the morning,

the leaves rustling in the cottonwood

with a slight breeze.

But even the earliest eastern rays are strong,

they portend scorching hours ahead.

I try to remember February, when I couldn’t imagine

ever feeling warm again.

Now, at the peak of summer,

I can’t remember what cold felt like.

And my thoughts are bulbous

and heavy and ripe,

like summer squash which

feels a lot heavier than it looks…

yet I can’t hold these ideas;

the shimmering white hot sun

makes them dissolve, 

running like water through my fingers

before I can make sense of them.

So I find some shade

and take a bite

and let them ease down my throat 

like bitterroot 

like honey.

July 7, 2015

Be the Joy

Written by Posted in Blog Posts, Poetry Comments 1
image

Dear Woman,

Even a weed knows to turn its face towards the sun. The dandelion looks east and the Lamb’s Quarter opens its dark green leaves to allow the light to touch every spot. The wild sage fills the air with the music of its scent when warm. They instinctively look for brightness, seeking warmth on their faces, and they turn it into air.

And so why do you seek out the dark? Dwell on the sadness? Why do you stand in the shadows of trouble while it blocks out the light?

Tomorrow worries about itself. Never fear that. People will still shoot each other and say horrible things about each other and there are plenty of people to gleefully report this on a 24 hour news cycle.

Tomorrow doesn’t need you to worry and fret and be squashed by its ugliness; and neither does today, for that matter.

Today needs you to find the nearest flower or weed, observe it, and orient your face in the same direction. It needs you to pay attention to the lovely, the miraculous, the tiny bits of art in the quiet places.

It needs you to sing like the robin and float above the chaos like the clouds, cooling what is overheated and sprinkling cool rain drops on what is parched and making shapes at which children will laugh and exclaim.

The dust and dirt kick up and choke those around you. But you, dear woman, are a crisp drink of water, infused with lemon and honeysuckle and apricot, cleansing the palates of the thirsty.

Do not be a stone, sinking into the sand, being dragged down by the gravity of the universe.

Be the bubbles rising joyfully in the glass of vintage prosecco, tickling the tongues of those who dare to take a taste of you.

Seek joy. Allow joy. It’s ok.

June 25, 2015

I Must Rise

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sun-trees

When I wake, I must rise.

Quickly, urgently, quietly –

rubbing my eyes

and shaking the sleep out of my brain.

Sometimes in winter, at 4:30 am –

when the world is still and dark and frozen;

no ray of sunlight has broken through the deep quiet;

I rise, quietly lighting candles and

flicking on lamps. Read more…