This week we feature two poets that touched my heart and befriended me when I entered the door of online poetry. They made me feel welcome in a wide world of words and groups of poets. Barbara/bkmackenze and Bubba/ Eric Alder.
Barbara lives inNorthern Californiawith her husband and dogs. She writes poetry mostly to ease her soul. The images and words come to her as if they want to be put in some order. bkmackenze’s poetry can be found at Signed….bkm
my other soul
fell off the wagon
hemorrhaged in plain site
virtual reality thought otherwise
disregarded – it lay torn
three fingers clinging to tracks
a railroad of thoughts ripped it apart,
wings crushed, frayed
beneath a warning of sound
and a survey that went wrong –
but the Tennessee River still flows
declaring the south will rise again
and so my other soul – baptized
in a lone faith – of a Penn, a Faulkner
an Appalachian trail uncut, unfed –
now bled by the sins of my other soul….
Eric lives in Michigan with the love of his life. He is often inspired to write by nature and music. Eric is a photographer along with a wonderful poet. We featured his photography in our first edition. Eric’s poetry can be found at Bubba’s Place
Earth Mother’s Song
I’ve seen a broad field awash in fog,
gray-blanketed like a misplaced pond.
That same field, one dark summer morn,
lay a-twinkle, festooned with bright fireflies.
I’ve seen a great horned owl appear,
alighting atop a tall pine, majestic and wise.
Resting briefly, then silently swooping down
to disappear into the dark woods.
I’ve seen a pine martin stealing along,
dipping between the fallen birch and cedar,
popping up unexpectedly in a new spot,
red eyes glowing in my flashlight beam.
I’ve heard a tom turkey’s questioning call,
seeking to uncover this brash imposter.
A slow, hidden funeral procession
bursting forth to claim their roost.
I’ve heard lake echoes of spring frogs peeping
seeking mates among the green reeds,
the surrounding din of a million crickets creeping
on a hot August night, throbbing with life.
I’ve heard thunder roll along for miles
’til a blinding white flash strobed silhouettes
of stark, stiletto tree shadows all around
and the deafening clap froze me in place.
I’ve smelled the sweet, pine-scented winds
that blow through the north woods, thick
with undertones of green moss carpets
and ferns inexplicably bright in the shade.
I’ve smelled the musty down of a grouse
that loudly took flight at my approach,
unseen through the yellow aspen boughs,
revealing this visitor clumsy in his ream.
I’ve smelled an oncoming storm
blowing in from the west,
deepening the sense of isolation,
submersion in a still-wild place.
As a child I learned Earth Mother’s song
and it still sings deep within my heart.
I learn a new verse each time I venture
into those places where she yet dwells.