Twelve Moonsby David Steindle-Rast
When the wolf moon grows fat
and the North wind roars on the shore,
an angel shall feed your fire
and bolt your door.
When the clean spring moon rises,
an angel, unheard and unseen,
shall clean your seven springs
and keep them clean.
When the sap moon draws sap
upwards from bulb and root,
an angel gardener shall guard
each new green shoot.
When the grass moon makes grasses
nod to each other in bloom,
an angel in white shall greet you
at Christ’s bright tomb.
When the planting moon mirrors
her face in the cold-frame glass,
an angel shall breathe at your seedlings
till all frosts pass.
When the rose moon blooms
in the sky like a silver-wrought rose,
an angel shall show you a rose garden
no one else knows.
When a frolicsome angel
rolls the hay moon over the hill,
you shall dance with the deer in the dark
while time stands still.
When the green corn moon glides
through the ripening corn, row by row,
an angel shall make swelling spikes
sweet as they grow.
When the harvest moon lantern
hangs golden and plump in the sky,
you shall hear an angels scythe zing.
You won’t ask why.
When the hunter’s moon races
black clouds like a galloping prince,
an angel shall draw his bow,
yet, you won’t wince.
When the frosty moon blinds
every pond with a thin film of white,
peeling scales from your eyes,
an angel shall heal your sight.
When the long night moon wanes
and the darkness keeps deepening fast,
an angel shall forge from your fears
faith that will last.
You can find this poem at Grateful.org.
BelongingRosemerry Wahtola Trommer
And if it’s true we are alone,
we are alone together,
the way blades of grass
are alone, but exist as a field.
Sometimes I feel it,
the green fuse that ignites us,
the wild thrum that unites us,
an inner hum that reminds us
of our shared humanity.
Just as thirty-five trillion
red blood cells join in one body
to become one blood.
Just as one hundred thirty-six thousand
notes make up one symphony.
Alone as we are, our small voices
weave into the one big conversation.
Our actions are essential
to the one infinite story of what it is
to be alive. When we feel alone,
we belong to the grand communion
of those who sometimes feel alone—
we are the dust, the dust that hopes,
a rising of dust, a thrill of dust,
the dust that dances in the light
with all other dust, the dust
that makes the world.
You can find this poem on Grateful.org.
Thanksgivingby Ella Wheeler Wilcox
We walk on starry fields of white
And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
To crown our lives with splendor,
And quite ignore our daily store
Of pleasures sweet and tender.
Our cares are bold and push their way
Upon our thought and feeling.
They hand about us all the day,
Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
We pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives,
And conquers if we let it.
There’s not a day in all the year
But holds some hidden pleasure,
And looking back, joys oft appear
To brim the past’s wide measure.
But blessings are like friends, I hold,
Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise
While living hearts can hear us.
Full many a blessing wears the guise
Of worry or of trouble;
Far-seeing is the soul, and wise,
Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
To thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
To gladden every morrow.
We ought to make the moments notes
Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
As weeks and months pass o’er us,
And rise sublime at this good time,
A grand Thanksgiving chorus.
You can find this poem on Poets.org.
The Cure For It Allby Julia Fehrenbacher
Go gently today, don’t hurry
or think about the next thing. Walk
with the quiet trees, can you believe
how brave they are—how kind? Model your life
after theirs. Blow kisses
at yourself in the mirror
especially when
you think you’ve messed up. Forgive
yourself for not meeting your unreasonable
expectations. You are human, not
God—don’t be so arrogant.
Praise fresh air
clean water, good dogs. Spin
something from joy. Open
a window, even if
it’s cold outside. Sit. Close
your eyes. Breathe. Allow
the river
of it all to pulse
through eyelashes
fingertips, bare toes. Breathe in
breathe out. Breathe until
you feel
your bigness, until the sun
rises in your veins. Breathe
until you stop needing
anything
to be different.
You can find this poem on Grateful.org.
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The Forestby Nikita Gill
One day when you wake up, you will find that you’ve become a forest.
You’ve grown roots and found strength in them that no one thought you had.
You have become stronger and more beautiful, full of life giving qualities.
You have learned to take all the negativity around you and turn it into oxygen for easy breathing.
A host of wild creatures live inside you and you call them stories.
A variety of beautiful birds nest inside your mind and you call them memories.
You have become an incredible self sustaining thing of epic proportions.
And you should be so proud of yourself, of how far you have come from the seeds of who you used to be.
You can find this poem in The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace & Renewal.
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The Treesby Mary Oliver
Do you think of them as decoration?
Think again.
Here are the maples, flashing.
And here are the oaks, holding on all winter
to their dry leaves.
And here are the pines, that will never fail,
until death, the instruction to be green.
And here are the willows, the first
to pronounce a new year.
May I invite you to revise your thoughts about them?
Oh, Lord, how we are all for invention and
advancement!
But I think
it would do us good if we would think about
these brothers and sisters, quietly and deeply.
The trees, the trees, just holding on
to the old, holy ways.
You can find this poem in Evidence.
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First Snowby James Armstrong
As you lie in bed,
you can tell it has snowed
by the radiance in the window--
light comes from the ground and not the sky
as if you suddenly lived on the moon.
In that moment, you are back to childhood
when any change of the exterior world
is a change of heart, when the light
tells you what to feel, when you need the sky
and its endless changes.
When that first snow fell,
each snowflake whispered
a secret so intimate
it took the rest of your life to un-believe.
Here it is again.
Your chance to repent.
You can find this poem in The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace & Renewal.
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Joint Custodyby Ada Limón
Why did I never see it for what it was:
abundance? Two families, two different
kitchen tables, two sets of rules, two
creeks, two highways, two stepparents
with their fish tanks or eight-tracks or
cigarette smoke or expertise in recipes or
reading skills. I cannot reverse it, the record
scratched and stopping to that original
chaotic track. But let me say, I was taken
back and forth on Sundays and it was not easy
but I was loved in each place. And so I have
two brains now. Two entirely different brains.
The one that always misses where I’m not,
and the one that is so relieved to finally be home.
You can find this poem in The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace & Renewal.
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There You Areby Victoria Adukwei Bulley
There you are
this cold day
boiling the water on the stove
pouring the herbs into the pot
hawthorn, rose;
buying the tulips
& looking at them, holding
your heart in your hands at the table
saying please, please to nobody else
here in the kitchen with you.
How hard, how heavy this all is.
How beautiful, these things you do,
in case they help, these things you do
which, although you haven’t said it yet,
say that you want to live.
You can find this poem in Quiet Poems.
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What Can I Say?by Mary Oliver
What can I say that I have not said before?
So I’ll say it again.
The leaf has a song in it.
Stone is the face of patience.
Inside the river there is an unfinishable story
and you are somewhere in it
and it will never end until all ends.
Take your busy heart to the art museum and the
chamber of commerce
but take it also to the forest.
The song you heard singing in the leaf when you
were a child
is singing still.
I am of years lived, so far, seventy-four,
and the leaf is singing still.
You can find this poem in Swan: Poems and Prose Poems.
Life of Kim 