The view from my desk — every morning I say thank you to the trees and the river, the sky and the squirrels and Mother Nature.
In The Language Of Treesby Louise Gallagher
The language of trees
lays buried
deep within their roots
digging into the earth
stretching their arms
in search
of whispers of life
within the cracks and crevices
of time lying still
beneath Mother Nature’s soiled covers.
The language of trees
is felt
rising up through crenellated bark
and rugged trunks
standing tall
against the wind
hurling obscenities
at their unwillingness
to give up ground
to its demands.
The language of trees
is heard deep
within the sibilant whispers
of its leaves
telling stories
to the birds and bees
and scampering squirrels
who clamber along its branches
in search of place to hide
through winter’s storms.
The language of trees
is written
everywhere.
We must listen
before it’s too late
to hear
their roots calling us
to help them
stay grounded.
She Could Not Let The Gods Die
By Louise Gallagher
Tired now,
she prayed feverishly
to her Lord
God of her faith
committed
to following His way
to the other side.
It was the way
of the cross
she’d carried away
from the land of her birth
when she’d left
to follow the way
of a man
who appeared
like one of the gods
she could not let
die.
She carried her faith like a cross
but could not let the gods
of her land of birth
die
just in case.
You never know when you might need
a god of another colour
she whispered into the shroud
of mystery
that encircled her
in the dead of night.
You never know who will meet you
at the door
of Heaven or Hell or Svarga loka.
And when the time came
for her to pass over
through the gates
of an unseen world
she held tight
to the rosary she’d carried
with her from the land of her birth
as her lips silently moved,
praying feverishly for her soul
to achieve enlightenment.
I have never let you die,
she whispered with her dying breath
where karma met Moksha on the way
of the cross
releasing her from all earthly ties
free
to live in peace
forever
on the other side.
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To read the story behind this poem, please visit me on my blog, Dare Boldly.
EXPOSED
by Louise Gallagher
Exposed
bare naked limbs
leafless
hanging on to memory
of a branch fallen
against wind-worn trunk
standing stalwart
against time
and weather battering
limbs and breaking boughs
made fragile by the wind
blowing relentless
through your branches
sheltering the sap within
that flows
more slowly now
with each passing season.
I lean against your body
scars and ridges harsh
against my cheek.
I too am facing
time’s relentless pull
I whisper
into the wrinkles etched
upon your weathered skin.
My body tells the same story
of time passing
of life lived
sometimes walking
with the wind
sometimes against
my limbs move,
not as smoothly now,
the bones more fragile
able to break
with one fall
yet still I stand
stalwart against time
while inside
the blood flows
sluggish
as I weather life’s journey
leaving me exposed
to each passing season.
Airborneby Louise Gallagher
She wandered through her days
like a leaf tossed by the wind
aimless, directionless, weightless
her heart aching
her feet leaden
tethered
to some invisible thread
of memory
caught
in the veil
of yesterdays
lying
in the darkness
of believing
she did not know
how to fly.
It’s not true. You are born to fly,
a voice deep within
whispered
in one of those moments
when her attention
grew weary
of the world beyond
the pale
of all she could not see
in the here and now
leaving her exposed
to the exquisite mystery
of her life.
She didn’t believe it
the idea of flight
seemed too impossible
the mystery too deep.
She had feet,
not wings
she whispered back,
closing the door on chance
as she turned back into certainty.
But then, one day
when she least expected it
she felt the urging
to stretch
beyond the realm
of her imagination
and on that day
she discovered
her wings
hiding
beneath the layers of life
hammering at her
to stay tethered
to threads of memory
keeping her tied
to life’s heavy toll.
It was that day
she discovered
she was born to fly
and her dreams
were too.
In the Dread of Winter’s Grip
by Louise Gallagher
November 2020
An arctic wind nips
in eager expectation
of the sun’s waning light
as shadows lengthen
and geese fly south
in sisterly formation
beneath a moody November sky.
And memories of summer blooms
fade
in the lengthening shadows that herald
the approach of winter's kisses.
Silently, as vapid sunshine seeps
stealthily across the far horizon
a frosty chill descends
upon the pristine stillness
of a wintery landscape
lulled to sleep
beneath a blustery grey sky.
And the promise of spring waits
patient
deep beneath the silence of snow
falling into the dread of winter’s grip.
A Poetry Affair 