Journey of the Heart

  I TOOK A SHORT WALK            by  Lisa O'Neil-Guerci  I heard the music  of wind and water as I took a short walk today. Nature had graciously asked  if I wanted to join in their afternoon of play. I might have known  I'd step into their home- that they of course would become the words  of another autumnal poem.  That I'd come upon and smile to see a heart-shaped yellow leaf propped against an oak tree~ both seeming to be waiting  patiently for me. I should have guessed that sorghum and cattails  would be slow dancing  with each other... of course they would~ it was clear to see they're longtime friends  turned lovers. I then inclined my gaze upwards towards branches which held the sun tenderly in their arms. A few leaves were stained  with the first blood  of the season's russet hue it shouldn't surprise me  that the afternoon sky would be so perfectly blue~ and that the white la...

  Autumn by Joy Sheridan I feel them all – my dreams Like Autumn leaves leaving September On a soft-scented drift A memory of summer. I feel them all – my dreams Where love has gone, it does not mean That an expelling has meant an ending, Merely a change. Love can never ever die – should that Heaven forbid the thought, be Then there would be no more, And no more would you hear these words As I pronounce them. I feel them all – my flames, my rosebuds, My daisies, my hyacinths, my tiger lilies, My gentle weeping snowdrops, my daffodils, My white lilies – I feel them all. My flames – lighting the high reaches On those other planes,  Where the light of Heaven is the light of day And in the night, when the stars are at play I feel them even deeper Through that blue-black cloak Of Perfect Love Like mists these fingertips  Will trace their forms. Their names, their lovely smiles Until we meet again . . . Until we meet again . . . (October 8th, 1985) Photography by Daniel Krakan ...

  Our Aunt Grace, Grace Lillian MacKenzie Callan (1916-2004), began to write poetry and musings, and to paint, as a young girl… As a young woman, she was quarantined in a hospital for an extended stay due to having contracted tuberculosis while a nursing student.  Grace found beauty in her solitude, and her art began to emerge in the form of lonely seascapes and poignant love poems. She continued to write well into her eighties. When our beloved Aunt grace passed away, cousins Valerie and Garnet found her poems and writings scattered over the three floors of her home in Victoria, British Columbia, in every nook and cranny, on paper, shopping lists, napkins—everywhere! Aunt Grace wrote that she wanted her poems published, and that her hope was: "…to help others to enjoy, or to aid in their efforts to write to others in the name of sympathy or encouragement."  This is a poem Aunt Grace wrote in the fall of 1946. She would have been delighted to know that it has been include...

Autumn Song   The smell of cider in the crisp air, The songs of geese heading south, My desire to go with them, The gift of picking up and leaving;  Instincts leading the way.   But to follow them would mean No more smells of apples or  Sounds of dried leaves   Crunching under foot; The gift of the colors…   My eyes would miss Gold, red yellow, orange and brown, The crisp, tart taste of an apple  Straight from the tree would no longer Tempt my tongue.   After hiking through wooded land I sit on a stump, left from a fallen tree Too old to no longer stand. Looking around, knowing this is  Right where I belong.                        *   *   * (This poem soon to appear in the author's forthcoming poetry collection) Camellia Stadts is an artistic spirit who loves expressing herself via diverse creative mediums from writing and poetry, to painting, knitting, crocheting, an...

AUTUMN Lazy on the trees balanced in the sunbathed air flowing over grass like memory- soft gusts of chill and sweetness mix her palette painting sky crisp circled in clouds to offset the warmth: yellow, orange, red- one clap of her powerful hands washes millions of leaves onto upturned faces; overburdened, who glance- minutes here, minutes there- not much time to spare, to catch something of her indifference. Nannette Schweig Hoffman : Nannette was a fine artist, teacher and poet, who passed away on December 9, 2010 at the age of 81. She was a native of New York City and had lived in the D.C area for 40 years before moving to Virginia in 2002. Nannette received her B.A from Hofstra University, her M.A in English from Georgetown University, and was a Master Copyist of Fine Art at the  National Gallery of Art  in D.C. She loved children and had one son, two daughters and four grandchildren. (Her daughter-in-law hosts this site) It was Nannette’...

This poem is about the trees that speak through the seasons... Autumn is retreating ushering in winter. The poem actually speaks of all the seasons and the voices the trees speak when moving through them. Though we are entering the deep slumber of winter and the trees reveal their “death speak” they know that Spring will soon return allowing them to speak of life. The Trees That Speak by Maureen Kwiat Meshenberg The trees that speak, peace through the rustling- of the wind, settling ease- oh colored leaves, they release- they speak… in whispering gesture, of relinquishing all- that was once before, becoming after, what was once spoken- wildly through the, heat of summer’s breath, now dances, with the winds that come- they beckon their way, to be… as it always has been. the sun holds them- gently to her silent song, as she retreats her warmth- awaiting the cool winds, of winter’s returning- the trees the...

For the last two days, my garden has been calling me... The leaves are changing from shades of chartreuse, emerald and peridot to vibrant lemon, sassy scarlet and tenacious tangerine. The roses, once delicate, are faded and rosehips punctuate the bare stems. Hydrangeas, ever faithful, still perform one last burst of color. The earth is blanketed in a mossy sodden nest; ready to take a much needed respite. Here, in this transformative space the messages unraveled me. My heart, leaky as I raked through the knots and untangled the overgrowth. I combed the garden beds with a heavy rake and unearthed deep secrets. I scraped up the past and folded memories into lumpy piles of mulch. More than a few times, I had to set aside my tools and lend a tissue to my heart. Here, I unleashed another layer of healing and the words spilled out, similar to the falling leaves. I let go of more, so I can soar. A Stained Glass Heart The images fell like shards of stained glass...

It’s 4pm on an October afternoon and I am out jogging past the Cooper River Park near my home… The trees are nearing their most magnificent performance of the year!!  I am struck with a message in my heart. Out poured the following itty bitty piece.   Advice From an Autumn Maple you prepare to graciously release  that which the world deems your beauty without fanfare or ceremony laid bare  your spindly skeleton steadfastly awaits a new spring Anita Brown   is a content mother of two teenagers and wife of 20 years, both of which she is grateful for every day. She began writing poetry in the fall of 2012 after a mini-breakdown cracked open her heart and allowed this newly found gift to shine through. Many months later, she is realizing the truth in the saying that ‘breakdown equals spiritual awakening’ as she is pleasantly shocked at how much more peace she has in her spirit and how that is reflected in ...