WingSpan Poetry Project

CULTIVATING EMPOWERMENT THROUGH POETRY


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The Day

This fortunate day, so full of sun
with clouds scudding away on high thermal winds
A plane quickly passes, high, high up
just a thread of silver exhaust with a blob for the plane
passing high overhead–all those passengers having lunch
a wee speck in the sky.

Meanwhile, here on the ground,
autumn is approaching.
Changes from one season to another.
Reach out the numbing fingers of cold.
Snow very early the other day, falling
on the mountains, but falling as sleet
down here on the ground.

A dear friend shared with me the wound
a wonder of golden light emerging
from her flesh after a healing on her painful arms.

Oh, to be so gifted as to see that light!
That light which encompasses us all,
each one–the creator’s light.

We sense it, even feel it some times,
it comes like a warmth filling the body
or even like the caress of the wind.

Andromeda is here!

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The Community in Community

Planets growing in a garden
crossing over the wheelbarrow bridge
the rocky faces, the rabbits and squirrels
at play. Golden trees with beautiful light,

creatures hiding until you’re pure enough
for them to reveal themselves.
Underground house for us to live in
to protect us from humans and elements.

Bell-shaped flowers tinkling a song
that will help us find our way.
Emerald grass for us to take a sunbath
and a peaceful nap.

Waking up to the calling of the birds
where the rocks turn into bread
for us to eat, where we watch
the flying cars go by to their own truth.

Flowers that are really stars to map
the way to a warm smiling face.
A forest full of playful trees
a botanist’s dream.

by Rainbow Girl


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Mother

From green to yellow, gold brown and red
A change of season, a change of colors
like a woman’s changing beauty in every feature
like a woman’s palette of eye shadow,
beauty in every feature like a woman’s beautiful face.
This is who you call Mother.
She shines bright like a diamond,
shining her golden jewels to Father Sun.

It is time for the trees to rest like a sleeping baby,
they take in energy for a couple of month’s rest.
Harvesting crops, getting ready for winter,
Like a hard-working farmer tired from many month’s work.

Wind, rain, snow, sunshine,
spring, summer, fall, winter,
like a calendar going day by day,
beauty in every color, every change,
like a precious human soul going about their life.


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My Father

He paved highways– only

after they were worn down– or new

and “bleeding” with black tar–

that seeped upward.

 

He drove miles and miles

across the state– yet his spirit

remains parked on the driveway of my heart.

 

Welding horseshoes and

collecting barbed wire.

Always on time

never veering from routine.

 

The Bull of Taurus

strong, sturdy, and wise.

A raging bull

A bull fight

throughout Spain’s spirit runs.


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My Father 2

My father never abused us.

He raised us

as good women

to work and graduate

to stay independent

role model for me and my sister.

 

He wanted us to grow into

pretty young dandelions

into beautiful carnations

We’ve led a life of situations

 

complete love in Daddy’s hazel eyes–

my moon and sun and hero

the cloud beneath my wings

My pottery reminds me of him.