Poetry: Theresa C. Gaynord

Theresa C Gaynord

Chanting sutras in green meadows
hardened by pure white snow,
I awake trembling shadows;
sky over endless blue mountains.

Beyond the pine groves, into the
moonlight, words soar through
high still air, as blue envoys of light
await beneath the swells of open seas.

Some of the greatest words are
written, within the silence of our
souls; echoing white noise, breathing
harmonies, with sweet embrace.

Kusha Grass 

Let seed be green grass.
Let the hard times pass
to God.
Windfall fruit of mass,
finds source from a lass.
Small pod;
laughs at death with sass,
planting seeds of grass.
Hope Sod.


Behold the tallest dryad
drawn by firelight, mountain
ash born to Gaia, nurses
Zeus moon deep in Rhea's
Cretan cave.

Embedded in rapture They
summon the dawn with
bluelet handfuls of velvet
hysteria, holding down a new

Falling from the end of twigs,
sweet and mild manna of ash,
fine-grained honey of bees,
celestial music tumbles together
with operatic cries.

We've seen them move in winds
of night, listened to the extent of
their vulnerability as limbs burned
over sky blazed with the warmth of
Ourano's vengeful blood.

The breath of their life continues
through the darkness for the spirits
they say are confined from the start.
Listen; listen to the Meliai's song
clang-cling it plays.

Lie very still; breathe it deep, the
smell of night-blooming orchids, the
oasis of His carnal touch. His form
suspending a moment, tenderly alone,
tenderly calm.

Now watch Her in the jewelweed thistle
of the earth's balm. Believe Her
performance as you draw one finger along
the edge of this world, twisted root on
common ground.

The salt of His fatherhood speaks of slaughter
castrating all facets of hope as He falls
plummeting before you. Oh, but how He fell
and rose again with such mastery! And I
would take you and take you and take you.

Listen to it through the darkness! Listen;
listen to the Meliai's song! Clang-cling
it plays; it’s what we hear when we do not
learn to say goodbye. In the Heavens, a small
image of us holds sweet dreams...

And all farewells return.

The Rowan Tree 

The Rowan Tree sways with whispers of love.
Powerful winds peel away at the bark, I watch.
I watch the Rowan Tree sway with whispers of

I’m Sorry ~For my husband, Matthew

Rising waters give way to a fractured pipe.
There’s a picture of you I particularly love,
smiling blue eyes, devilish grin, topped off
by a cowboy hat. As plaster falls, I see the
flesh of the fabric on the snapshot begin to
fade, and I think about the damage something
so simple can cause.

In that instant, I see what intentions were,
and what they have become. This telling
varies widely from me to you and I take most
of the blame for the melting of those dermal
fibers that represent both our tears. I guess
I’ve broken one of the chief commandments
in my initial self-examination,

but I felt I needed the change that would
challenge my spirit into respecting my soul.
Sometimes the vault of our hearts can be
closed to the storms that bring with them
the highest beams of light, warming us
with their touch. Sometimes what comes
from insult is the drive,

forcing us to be thankful for the blessings
initially given. I don’t have any reservations
in saying I love you, even if that love has
settled like little flecks of dust around the frame,
but know that their preservation still lives
in the rapt of the foundation, that has me
scrambling to protect and preserve the whole.

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