Praise the Day – A Poem

image

Tree in Yellow © 2014 Bo Mackison

Praise the day, first light
illuminates tree tops,
then a glow glides through the leaves,
flickers upon the trunk, touches the earth.

Praise the bird chatter.
Cacophony. Praise that word,
such a wild word, a burst of joy.

Praise the velvet acacias, yellow bloom,
yellow fuzz masks the pavement
encircling its shaggy trunk. Bees and stardust.
The tree alive with buzz and bee swarm.

Praise the mountain, a silhouette.
Its face awakens, creased in purple and gray,
shadow and light.

image

Tea Kettle © 2014 Bo Mackison

Praise the tea kettle, the tea, the water.
My cup with tea leaves clustered in the depths,
dispersed into shapes and symbols – a butterfly,
a beetle, a crescent moon.

Praise the ease, the work, the solitude.
Sip the tea and praise.

The tree a storyteller; the bees her audience.
The tea a refreshment; the tea leaf a message.

6th Annnual Photo Alphabet – Invitation to Labyrinth

I is for Invitation

Central Park, New York City

Invitation to Sit a Spell © 2013 Bo Mackison

When I see a bench in a garden, it’s an invitation for me to slow down and sit for a while.

“Dawdling” my grandfather would have said, but gardens are meant for strolling, sauntering, absorbing, meditating, observing. I always think a garden bench is the fine invitation to stop and sit a spell.

~~~

J is for Journeys.

Pictograh by Native American Artist, Agate Fossil Beds National Monument Visitor Center

Journey Life Map 2013 Bo Mackison

On my cross-country trip last May, I stopped at Agate Fossil Beds National Monument in Nebraska.

The ranger spoke extensively of this replica pictograph created the Lakota Sioux. A single drawing, the most significant of happenings, would summarize a year or a decade or even a hundred years. Over time the Lakota told their story in a spiral of tiny drawings.

Their journey begins with a simple drawing, representing the creation of the world.

Next is a drawing of a mastodon, then the animal’s fossilized bones. Hundreds of drawings make up the pictograph, drawn on animal skin. It is a pictorial map of their history.

Wouldn’t it be an impressive project to capture memories passed down from our ancestors, add our own, and create a spiral map like this.

It would be an illustrated, spiraling journey of a family.

~~~

K is for Kettle.

Marigold Teapot

Kettle © 2012 Bo Mackison

There are times when nothing will do except to put the kettle on and brew a pot of tea.

If I’m in the mood for to settle into a good book, or write a few letters, or perhaps I just want to sit and daydream, a cup of tea is always a welcome addition. And the brewing of the tea itself is one of the best mindfulness practices I know.

A slow practice, a sacred ritual.

~~~

L is for Labyrinth.

Turns on a Labyrinth

Labyrinth © 2013 Bo Mackison

I am a seeker of labyrinths.

I walked a labyrinth on the edge of the Sonoran Desert in early spring. What an extraordinary experience, connecting with the rhythm of the labyrinth pattern. Now I seek other labyrinths to walk. I journal after walking the labyrinth, and then I work my journal writing into poetry. Here is one from earlier this year:

Labyrinth, A Journey

I walk in circles, around and back, around and forth.

There is beginning, middle, end.

Guided by lines of crooked rocks,
an invisible hand on my shoulder,
encourages me, presses me onward.

Take a step,
One more turn,
Approach the center.

And there I stand immobile, my breath fragmented.

The labyrinth’s center, a large pock-marked rock
resting place for mementos and memento mori
small rocks, rings and bracelets, dog tags, holy cards.

Center – the farthest distance from beginning or end.

I move on.
But no longer do I walk a meditative pace.

I am anxious to leave,
ready to bolt, yet
I do not disregard the worn path
the labyrinth’s unspoken boundary.

I stumble to its exit, blinded, my feet guided by the rocky lines,
expelled from its sacred interior
into the other world. My world.

A ghost keeps vigil, its eyes the eyes of the cactus wren
perched on the spire of a tree cholla.
Its whisper, low and moaning, travels the arroyo
carried on swirling winds.

~~~

Want to read Part II? Here it is — Elephants to Highways

Coming tomorrow, Part IV :  Metaphors to Place