#4

Day of the Dead (11/6/16)

Always
when the wind blows like this
and the leaves
are giving themselves
to a new life,
I am here.
Kneeling.
Holding the blue rock
to my chest.
Bending over in the woods
in mourning.

Melancholy bats at my ears
My chest curls into
the tight fist
of the snake.
I try to hear my heart beat
beneath those cold
slippery coils.

We feed them
by candle light.
We say their names.
The ones we have lost
all of them.

They were glorious, and,
how they suffered,
and, hurt us too.

The stories come
with flocks of silver-black Grackles
mounting in the trees outside
the window.
there are crumbs for everyone.
We must feed the dead.

-Llora H. Kressmann

#3

Returning to the Island on the Regional Retreat (10/23/16)

And the stillness settles in
like a lamp
like the light
like the safe circle of return.

In spite of the November wind
whose got things going
the grass
the leaves
the river
awe-fully stirred up
awe-fully awake
awe-fully alive.

Now you see it-
the leaves
picked brightly from the trees
are doing cartwheels
across the lawn
just because
it feels good.

Now you feel it-
the toe dipped into
the still water
has taken you over
on the inside.

Ancient pools of knowing there.
They are bubbling up.
This sun
this star
this watery entry
inside my chest.
The island within.

-Llora H. Kressmann

#2

On Vision Quest (9/19/16)

In the wilderness
the dance begins

The tide of oneself
returns to shore
beaconed by your prayers
beaconed by the truth.

-Llora H. Kressmann

#1

The Desert (9/15/16)

The tears
the tears
they fell
on the red parched earth

and turned to stars

that rang
that rang
that rang
at your arrival

-Llora H. Kressmann

#24

Re-membering

Crimson, gold, turquoise
and pitch-black night.

You've fallen back
into the arms
of your Beloved

who is whispering
you awake
into a time
when your body
knew all the rhythms
of the earth.

Feet, skin-tied
danced with urgent
certainty around
the sacred fire
with your family.

There was no question of home
or purpose or belonging.
You were not lost then.

The moon pushed
through the trees
to kiss your face.

The trees spoke.
The rivers laughed.
And you were the bird
that could soar for hours
over the land.

The blood spinning
through your body
is still this blood.
Is still the blood
that knows
where to put your hand
how to sleep
how to drive back
the bow and dream.
Knows how to make
a million things
into poems.
Knows
everything.


-Llora H. Kressmann

#23

Preparation

I'm leaving on my fast soon.
Walking through the woods
barefoot today, I think of
"lamenting for a vision"
and I am "lamenting for a vision"
and wondering, just wondering.

The acorns are here. I love to
pick them up and roll them
between my fingers
to shine them.

I am laughing,
standing beneath the Oak's
giant silver branches,
as I ask,  "Darling acorn,
have you ever lamented
for a vision?"
Laughter.

So I am here.
Holding the acorn
beneath the oak tree.

-------------------------

If only
if only
if only
you could let go
like that.

Down the trail
is acorn's reply-
Walk across the bridge
of your life
into the unknown
and become
an oak.


-Llora H. Kressmann

#22

Low Tide at the Marsh

The tide is low.

I don't suppose 

she wonders at

the eta

of her beloved,

the sea?

Mud flats lay dappled

with pools. 

Sandpipers scamper

with a delicate touch.

crabs emerge

clams open

mud breathes 

and dries a little,

seaweed relaxes

and the periwinkles sing.

What is your low-tide song?

How beautiful and abundant

can the in-between time be?

Until they are not between

anymore, they are holey,

they are with the other always

kissing, always embracing

in the quiet emptiness.

How, too, can we 

be like the sea?

We don't even have to try.

All we have to do

is blink

and breath

and listen 

to the wind tickling

the autumn leaves.

and wait in wonder

for the next step

because it will come

like all the rest

happy to fill in 

happy to give back

happy to be reunited

with its beloved,

the shore.

-Llora H. Kressmann