For all of us

Wake Robin-  Red trillium

For all of us            

From our perch beside the little branch
behind boulders and an ancient root sculpture
in the brilliant new green of May,
we sit and see what there is to see.
Lichen of all colors,
flowery and tenacious,
spiderwort, chickweed (yum!)
and mean old poison ivy,
saying “hi” from the rock face
right behind our heads.
Though we are each sixty,
the boulders laugh out loud
at our foolish youth.
Watching and watching, we wonder
who in the woods is watching us?
Straight and low, a pheasant flies,
annoyed by our disruption.
I gaze and gaze, and suddenly there appears
a yellow trillium, the wood’s own gold,
singing her own song in the moist humus,
for nothing, for no one,
for all of us.


Annelinde Metzner
Little Pine
May 4, 2013

Chickweed in bloom

Garlic mustard

Fiddleheads

Mayapple

The Peace Choir

Sahara Peace Choir

Sing, O heavens, shout, O depths of the earth; 
break forth into singing, O mountains,
O forest, and every tree in it!    Isaiah 44:23
 
The women come to sing.
In the cold and icy dark, we gather
to rehearse the songs of peace.

       “I’m gonna lay down my sword and shield...”

Putting aside aches and pains, and serious ills,
we come to sing with that wee bit of faith,
that last urge somewhere hidden deep in the heart.

       “Oh, if I could ring like a bell...”

The great Black Dome, the great mountain
hears them coming, the mountain heart leaping.

        "a song of peace, for their land, and for mine...”

until we arrive, there at Black Dome’s feet,
to open our mouths and hearts for Her love,
leaving our homes with all our annoyances,
to sing, to wail, to cry out
for the world we can see, within reach.

How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those who publish peace.  Isaiah 52:7

Annelinde Metzner     
April 10, 2010



While yet again, maniacal leaders call for war across the world's stage, I want to remember all of us who put our minds, bodies and spirits into the call for peace.  
     
      Sahara Peace Choir has been singing songs of world peace since 2008.   On Saturday, April 6th, 2 PM, we will sing another concert, "Everyone in the World", at Ten Thousand Villages in Montreat, North Carolina, at the foot of the incredible Black Dome, the highest peak in the East.

Black Dome (Mt. Mitchell Range, North Carolina)

Florida Panther

I won’t show you my face.
Dawn and dusk, cool nights,
I slip out and observe my succulent prey,
and I may be watching you!
I stretch out cool under saw palmetto
letting Florida sun bake and buzz and bleach,
but I move like lightening when evening falls,
and in the peripheral shadows of your dreams
I’m stalking you, too. 

Annelinde Metzner
July 1990 from "Voices of Gaia"




"Voices of Gaia" is a series of poems which I devote to endangered species in their own voices.  The Florida Panther has been on the endangered list since 1973.    The Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission has recently released one female into the wild at Picayune Strand State Forest, and will soon release a young male.   The female panther and her brother had been raised at the White Oak Conservation Center in Yulee since they were 5 months old. The FWC rescued the two as kittens after their mother was found dead.

You can read more about the release of Florida Panthers by following this link: http://www.care2.com/causes/rare-release-of-florida-panther-could-help-save-species.html#ixzz2NhdH8XWb

Frozen Lake

The lake is frozen over!
Embedded in her surface,
branches and fallen sticks,
heads-up like ancient monsters.
Walking, walking,
I exclaim over the green softness
of the laurel leaves in the icy cold.
What a world!
I raise my head and call
to the wood thrush,
to her deep song, Canto Hondo,
which she carries with her across the world.
“Come back!  Come back! 
I await your beauty!”
I bend to the ground,
entreating the first purple of Spring,
the many petaled Dwarf Iris,
little ancient one of the forest,
embedded on the lake’s bank.
I await you!  Sleep until you’re ready,
‘til the new buds burst forth from the dogwoods,
‘til the bear cubs tumble wide-eyed from their den,
‘til Spring warms and thaws our hearts again.

Annelinde Metzner
Hidden Lake

 

Ice Bells

The icy branch

Twenty degrees, the very earth
     crunches and cracks under my boots,
     ice forming everywhere.
The world is bracing, nose-tingling,
     eye-opening, and brand new.
The lovely little creek is water-full,
     singing, singing,
     heedless of the cold,
     ice bells tinkling from each fallen branch.
Winter, and alive, and new again,
Lo!  It all begins again,
     crackling with anticipation.
The first day of the year.

Annelinde Metzner
Montreat, North Carolina
January 1, 2013

Her Winter Face

She wears Her Winter face.
Cold, cold, cold and clear,
layer upon layer of skeletal trees
lead us up to Her summit.
This is a Bone Forest now,
the land of the Dead.
The air an oceanic indigo blue,
deep beyond knowing.
It is quiet, all quiet,
the people home by their quiet hearths.
She is powerful now, today,
showing Her Winter face.
The clear lapis sky and the unstirring air
offer no resistance to Her divine emittances.
She is in Her element, the Earth,
Her arms extended above Her,
giving, giving us of Her power.
My Grandmother, undisturbed,
goes about Her business, Her divine charge,
replenishing the Earth with Her energy.
Still, She smiles at me.  “Welcome, daughter,
dancing one, my beloved, poet and friend.
Take my warm love into your heart.”
I sit beside my Grandmother, basking in the sun,
grounded in Her giving,
at one with all my Earth.

Annelinde Metzner
Grandfather Mountain
November 9, 2012

November dusk

Dusk in early November,
the woods already dark,
the branches black against glow of sky,
stillness all around.
The forsythia holds forth its brilliant leaves,
bright yellow as its blossoms in Spring.
My pumpkin is half-eaten,
a squirrel’s banquet in the garden.
A few plants hold out: the nasturtium, the beet.
All is suspended.
The world holds Her breath, pensive, unmoving,
graceful in Her holding-on,
a leaf here, a vine there.
I breathe deeply, relishing the new cold,
the waking-up of my skin.
The dove titters as she flies,
oblivious of the cold,
like the mallard pairs on the lake.
My ancestors all around me
hold forth their warm spirit hands,
reminding me to love, to live this life each day,
this ever-changing gift, our life on Earth.






Annelinde Metzner
November 4, 2012

Rules for Sacred Space

                          

1.     It can be anywhere.

2.     It might have a road through it.

3.     You must find it for yourself.

4.     You must spend time there.

5.     The more time you spend, the more you will:

                 see,  hear,  feel,  smell,  taste.

6.     You must be still!

7.     You must be quiet.

8.     Do not have ego.

9.     It is good to be:  old, female, plain-faced, unfashionable. These help to make you invisible.

10.  Stay until you see, hear, feel, smell, taste something new

                 and amazing.

11.  Stay longer than you planned.

12.  This sacred space is now yours.

13.  Give great thanks.

Annelinde Metzner

Biltmore Estate

April 14, 2000

Alone on the Earth at Hawkscry

Hawkscry sky

Alone on the Earth at Hawkscry, all quiet,

     a fullness of beauty, of light.

In sun and shadow on the mountain peaks,

     a circle of love.

Lying here long upon our Mother’s warm skin,

     one feels a sound, deeper than any sound,

     energy reverberating from within Her Heart.

It is late summer,

     when the Earth speaks through singing.

Do you hear Her song?

A soft warm cradle of Her singing,

     this hum of the Great Mother

     we can only feel.

In Her soft warm cradle, in the circle of Her arms,

     She sings for all of us,

     the finned, the furry, the feathered.

She sings, too, for the Stone People, Her most ancient ones,

     the peaks and valleys and rivers where Her waters run,

     Her oceans and Her air.

Can you hear Her song, so huge, so wild,

     so deep within, yet immanent in all things?

That song is for us, for you and me,

     here where we lay close to Her on the Earth,

     and where e’er we walk,

     each step springing from Her deepest heart.

Annelinde Metzner

Hawkscry, August 25, 2012

Here is William Stanhope's blog about Hawkscry.

Hawkscry door

Hawkscry shrine

Black Dome, This Slowness

Black Mountain range with Mount Mitchell

Join the natural world with your quietness and your slowness!

At this blessed pace, the wild raspberry

     can see you sitting nearby,

     slow as apples ripening.

At this blessed tempo,

     birds drift to the tops of trees,

     to gaze off miles and miles through the clouds.

In this sacred slowness,

    the bees take their time to choose

    this blossom, then that,

    then that one, and maybe the next.

This is how slowly the clouds creep,

     white and bulbous,

     all of us present here

     in the same breath,

     slow, inaudible, eternal.

I breathe, I fill my lungs with air.

This is all we have, all of us,

     from now until the end of the world.

Annelinde Metzner

August 6, 2010

America is a Moon Child

America is a Moon Child.
Born on the fourth of July,
She is a Motherer, did you know that?
Her true nature.
America prepares a home for us,
     rich and sweet with ferns,
     honeysuckle and spice,
     a soft green moss for us to sleep upon.
America is our Mother, born at the sign of the Moon,
     happiest when She holds us tenderly in Her arms,
     happiest when our sleep is deep,
     grounded in relationship.
America is our Mother, responsive to the Moon,
     tidal in Her pulling, water-bound,
     merciful and tender with all Her beings,
     Her infinitely varied brood.
America is Our mother, and we Her children,
     beloved every one, in Her beautiful web
     interwoven and connected beyond our knowing,
     Her family.

On the fourth of July, the full moon
     shines in my window to bathe me as I sleep,
     curled up and at peace in Her arms.

Annelinde Metzner

Black Mountain, North Carolina

July 4, 2012

Among the Galax

Galax in bloom

I’m entranced by the smell of boiled cabbage!
     or a mean old skunk, maybe,
     or some moldy old boots.
I’m standing thick in the Galax,
     blooming now in June,
     rain so plentiful the white noise of the branch
     fills my ears and carries me away.
I’m entranced among the Galax,
     enchanted really, as this thick abundance
     of shiny round greenness sings to me,
     standing here, wet, wet.
Yes!   It’s a rainforest, wet and cool,
     lichen and moss growing up the tree trunks,
     ferns growing from stones,
     magic, magic everywhere.
Who lives in that twig house atop the standing stone?
Who giggles at me from over my shoulder, entranced like me?
It’s June!  and the Galax is flowering,
     proud white candlesticks among the rounds of green,
     here in Gaia’s garden, so perfect, so huge,
     the rhododendron buds sticky and bright pink,
     opening to white,
     the leaves so pale green and new.
I’m entranced among the Galax, and it’s June,
     a wet one, a rightful rainy one,
     and the moss is green upon the stone.
White Indian Pipes, ancient as time,
     arise like magic among the Galax, hidden and shy.
Be still!  Receive what She has for you,
     all this, the wetness, the ancient ones,
     the skunky smells, the whispers.
You are in Sacred Time now.  Don’t go too fast.
She is here for you, in the Galax.
She is more than you or I will ever know.

Annelinde Metzner
Greybeard Mountain, NC

Twig house

Rhododendron bloom

Gnome tree

Indian Pipes

There is a great story about Indian Pipes told by Mary Chiltosky in the book, Cherokee Plants...
"Before selfishness came into the world-that was a long time ago- the Cherokee people were happy sharing the hunting and fishing places with their neighbors. All this changed when Selfishness came into the world and man began to quarrel. The Cherokee quarreled with tribes on the east. Finally the chiefs of several tribes met in council to try to settle the dispute. They smoked the pipe and continued to quarrel for seven days and seven nights. This displeased the Great Spirit because people are not supposed to smoke the pipe until they make peace. As he looked upon the old men with heads bowed, he decided to do something to remind people to smoke the pipe only at the time they make peace."
"The Great Spirit turned the old men into greyish flowers we now call "Indian Pipes" and he made them grow where friends and relatives have quarreled. He made the smoke hang over these mountains until all the people all over the world learn to live together in peace."

This newness

How soft are the new green leaves of spring?
I gently pull my palm along the tenderest
pale bright new sprouts, new as a baby.
I brush the stamens of the azalea, and my thumb
feels nothing, they are too tender for me to sense.
“Whenever you see the birds, you have not actually seen them.”
Can I really absorb this newness, my Mother’s own birth?
Can I know this now, in this body,
with these five senses, so crude and dull?
What is it that knows?
Like an astronomer gazing at the sky,
I try, I sense as best I can,
reaching, imagining, breathing with Her.


Annelinde Metzner
Meher Baba Center, South Carolina
April 13, 2011

The Mulberry Tree

Mulberry tree

A walking meditation, I step downward
to the edge of the sea wall.
Silent as the marsh grass and the pluff mud,
all sound is absorbed but the “tweee” and “caw”
of the waterbirds.

Here is how I step:
        Give thanks for the egret.   Give thanks for me.
        Give thanks for the pelican.  Give thanks for me.
        Give thanks for the crow.    Give thanks for me.

Gazing out to the Beaufort River,
not really a river but a ceaseless pulsation of water,
forward and back, ebb and flow,
I sink my roots deep as the oaks by the shore.
Homeward I turn, and almost in the door,
above me, mulberries!
Ripe and black as the night,
they offer themselves to my fingers and mouth,
turning them purple with delight.
Goddess, how you surprise me!
How I kiss you with each step,
‘til you tap me on my shoulder,
opening me, purple, indigo, black as night
with my burst-open welcoming of You.

Annelinde Metzner
Beaufort, South Carolina

Beaufort River

Sea wall

Red Oleander

A salamander pale green as the new leaves of May
opens its orange lung-sac, brilliant, to the sun.
Three times at every pause!
In the breeze, red Oleander bends on her long stems, celebrating.
I am drawn down a quiet lane by the scent of jasmine,
filling my heart, a path toward joy.
The dear Earth wafts up into me
like the warm smell of fresh-baked bread,
filling my womb with Her love.
With my feet in the sand,
I pull Her love further up into me,  to power all my days.
Mother holds me as tenderly as the mourning dove
in her palmetto-basket nest, giving, giving,
we Her babies, Her vast dream,
we Her future and all Her now.
The black fin of a dolphin arises from the sea, ancient as days,
loving Her, riding into the fathomless tomorrow.

Annelinde Metzner
Folly Beach
June 1, 2010