PoetArchive3

Poetry Archive # 3

Poems 2002-2003

Note: All poems are

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O Precious Gem

Crying out in desperation

you look toward me and say:

"give me healing"...

as I cringe and retreat

from a flowing tide

of unceasing pain, anger,

bitterness and rage.

You wash upon my peaceful shore

leaving scattered bits and pieces

of yourself

as fragile, broken glass-

yet, know not

that the unceasing and repeated

honing of this restless, crashing sea

will turn your jagged edges into

a translucent and precious gem.

If I were to declare the swirling hurricane

a bastion of hope,

would you laugh at the obvious

face of destruction...saying:

"how pitifully naive and blind is faith" ?

I ask you:

Were I too place the Most Holy Book

as a "grail" before you,

could you lay aside false rewards

and self- fulfilling prophecies

long enough

to open it's illumined pages

and drink in the promised Wine

and healing light

before an unbiased and truly searching face?

Should you identify yourself, mindfully,

you would discern that, indeed,

the "death" which haunts you is real...

that what you feel as real...has become "unreal"-

that your destined journey,

in "abundant fullness",

has come to a stark end

at a frightening precipice

before which

you will either retreat

backwards

into the world of the "living dead"

or cast yourself, with absolute detachment

and humility, into to the Great Ocean.

There, listening carefully,

you may perceive and hear

the songbird of your own throbbing heart

and recognize it's sweet, warbling melody

as the harbinger of your own birth.

Likewise, you would harken

to a "Nightengale's" poetic words,

as those familiar mystic songs

which were meant for you to recognize-

(from the seed of your ancient beginnings

unto the fateful longings of now-)

to be God's beckoning, healing reflection in an awakened and deserving heart.

Martha Meshberg

Preludes

Of "time", we are weathered-

emerging from this wilderness triumphant...

grasping the honed gem of "self".

At last then, we may seem

to wear the tiara as a rightful crown... But, as the curving pathway transmutes

into deep waters

and the gloom of night approaches,

at dusk we shall say:

"We travel this road confused and alone" !

For never does the journey end

but where "preludes" embark

upon the new again!

Dearest-

lightening breaks

to trumpet the approach of rain,

as the Sun will foster a garden's growth...

And the sacred flowers

shall always reach

for the illumined, warming light-

to spring forth in perfected beauty

along every winding and pebbled path.

Martha Meshberg

Fireflies

Every one issued forth

as heavens ornamented offspring....

Colours and hues freely flew

as illumined fireflies dancing

and descending earthward

from the womb and firmament of birth.

Far they flew in dimpled, innocence-

as laughing babes and the dawning of soul...

Born to reach as outstretched leaves-

as the adornments of the human tree

of the world.

Behold these sacred children-

all and every one-

verily, glimpse the grander theme...

For no greater prayer ascends

or heals this Day

than that of these

manifest colours of light.

Martha Meshberg

On Wisdom

You Ask:

From what fathomed depths

will Wisdom finally spring forth?

Say: you were well-born and well-contented-

holding a silver spoon!

But, life has burned you out,

as a shooting star, too soon....and

you find yourself

in a realm of voids and vacuous "space"-

"out of tune",

inhabiting a "tunnel"-

not knowing

if the light you seek

is known as birth or death.

Leaving arrogance

and attachment to views,

you must sweep all aside

and come to Him "as a child"

For what you "know" now

no longer matters...

only that

which purges you

and makes you "empty".

From this,

shall the Hyacinth of Wisdom

ever spring forth.

Martha Meshberg

Turtle

Scattered words scarcely

brush the surface...

Brightly elusive,

as summer's twinkling suns

flashing from the water's rippled sky,

crystal bits of meaning

grace my heart

from the lucent, magic wings

of flitting dragonflies.

Penetrating warmth

bathes me as I wait,

sunning

upon an ancient floating log

in perfectly peaceful silence...

Martha Meshberg

Speak To Me of Roses

Speak to me of Roses

and I shall inhale

your fragrant words...

as fragile fragments

set adrift

from the sacred world...

I lie in a field of foxglove-

as a healer of weakened hearts-

and weave my magic wreath

to crown afflicted and weary heads.

For I hear

His broken-hearted offspring

weeping at the Garden Gate

amid the flowers so gaily-jewelled

gracing the trellised Maze .

Gather to me the ivy-clad lives

of all those whose love has died;

and hasten to the willow tree

whose treasured weeping boughs

disclose their withered and helpless cries.

For I shall offer grief's reward

from a goblet of Morning's wine-

a potent dew from the Roses' lip,

an elixir of All-Healing and

the sacred mystic Sun.

Martha Meshberg

City Of The Heart

I cannot be contained,

nor the cartography of my soul

be mapped.

You may find me...

as different from one city as another

and as familiar as the water

in every flowing river.

I may rise to the heights of heaven

or drown in the earthly depths-

rise to the pinnacle of understanding,

or hold a ransom of sinful debt.

I go where the wind carries me, free...

sailing thru life's rushing current, a mariner

cast ashore content,

upon unknown and foreign ground.

I am the winging bird and Song

heard among the rocks and crashing mist,

the navigator within the lonely ship

cresting the cruel and churning Sea.

I am the mother of every healing word,

the lullaby of shards and broken hearts

the keeper of hopes and dreams-otherwise

swept away by the broom of time.

I am the dust and the ash

and the rain and the mud.

The light and the dark shall be called mine-

for I am a child of the times,

born of the sun to wash ashore

with the changing of the cosmic tide.

I am a leaf upon the ancient tree-

which bears the most succulent fruit,

the reflective green of spiritual growth

from the ancient and growing root.

Martha Meshberg

Black or White?

You see yourself darkened

by dualities existing within your soul...

Yawning, you inhale

deeply needed

and satisfying oxygen...

deciding to go another round,

searching out

and labeling

the good and the bad-

dividing yourself

right down the harried middle.

Dismayed by the "bad" that you see,

you fearfully suspect

that what you are

is overtly blackest black

and a meagre flimsy of white...

A flaming and smouldering coal-

or a whispering of under-defined purity.

As time outstrips your sense

of balance

you linger on a finely drawn line-

pausing to review the passing

of years.... and the cache of

a lifetime of tears....

asking the so-called friend

who inhabits your "all-in-fairness"

shoulder,

if you are blameworthy (?)

Idiot! You are human

Life is only an archade...

it deems thee to see how best

you can play the game.

Know your strategy.

Weigh the balance

of causes and effects...

then ask:

if your actions have come to

a "good" or "bad" result.

This "line" is the singularity

at which you may invoke

the opportunity to define true clarity.

Get on with it.

Martha Meshberg

I Shall Not Sacrifice My Clarity

I shall not sacrifice my clarity

to drown in a false and

bottomless ocean,

replenishing nothing

but gloom and doom-

For, discovery lies beyond

the closed doors of the defensive mind.

One must grasp the handle

witnessing

that what is held in the hand

is the truth...nothing more.

It is the real and unadulterated

that opens the door.

Grasping at straws,

these passive attempts

guzzle away the light-

dim the senses and alter

the true diamond

as a dazzling faux gem.

Drink the numbing mead

and to no path will it lead

Inhale the heady breath-

and one will become entrapped

in a spider's alluring

and jeweled web.

Martha Meshberg

Flawed, But Undying...

If you place your trust

in my hands

freeing yourself of any responsibility,

sad experience tells me,

you'll most likely fall-

as I watch to see

how hard you land...

If you set me on a pedestal

holding my principles and ideals up

as a holy test I should never fail,

realistic experience tells me,

you'll most likely watch me fall

flat on my "can" 'cause

it's "human", I am...

If you accept me as all that I am

I'll be your flawed, but undying friend...

For, if you'd love me,

honest experience tells me

you'd witness both

the light of the sun

and the dark side of the moon

as the dual nature and myriad universe

that I am.

Martha Meshberg

I Hail Thee

I hail thee,

Oh, Master Sadness of the world,

drowning in the ocean of thy

disconsolate words...

I hear thee set thyself apart

saying thou art a stranger

in these parts...or doth

the region of imprisoned hell

be the grounds

we all must dwell?

I see thee burdoned

by the digging of a grave-

I see thee alone-

and thou knowest not

there are those awake.

I give thee a clue:

He lives not far o'er cloudbanks,

but closer than a life vein,

inside the hibernating soul .

He will not descend, but arise,

as a wick

to be lit by thy heart,

as a flame....

Oh, Master Sadness

all is not lost-

It deems the not to reacheth out,

but doth deem thee

to reacheth within!

Martha Meshberg

Rarest Honey

Friend Raven appears,

swooping in

to claim his favorite branch...

As I hear the "medicine rattle",

he plucks

a single feather,

then drops it before me,

expectantly-

uttering a throaty note

beneath his mystic breath.

I am at attention, mindful

and frozen,

noting my surroundings-

listening and watching...

captured

within the timeless world.

Absorbing the pressing heat,

realizing the roaring fire blazing

within the beating drum of my heart,

I throw back my head

and open my throat

emitting the howling

sun storm wind.

As I chant and dance,

I am consumed

flaming up,

as fragrant bee's wax...

Only do the golden drops

of rarest honey remain...

Suddenly, I have returned,

grasping this shining feather,

to observe him laughing

and swooping-

my fearful cares away.

Martha Meshberg

No Sea Serpents

There's not much to say.

Happiness, like a playful thief,

stole turbulence away.

I am calmly mesmerized, here,

sunning on the skippers deck,

inhaling the salt mist

and healing breeze...

No Sea Serpents

shall arise,

to crash in the uncertain tide-

but only the silent and ever-present

water slicing Dolphins

joyfully leap and ride

in the wake

of this ocean-bound Navigator's

grateful ship.

Martha Meshberg

An Inkling

Insatiable,

my yearning mind

reaches

in too many directions

at once

enveloping me in a world

of confusion....now lingering

cautiously

on foreign ground.

I must untangle the

inter-laced and woven skein

giving every thread a name....

I am the needle,

darning its way

upon a winding path,

a thread trailing,

unknowingly leaving

it's measured mark

within something more grand.

A strand, searching

for it's pattern-

stretching to understand

the ultimate and final unity

of the Tapestries plan....

Striving mindfully and prayerfully

to picture the object

of my un-quenching thirst.

To grasp the inkling of creation

written by my own hand,

to be cognizant of who I really am.

Martha Meshberg

Shhhh......Don't Move

Numbed, the rude

thought intrusions subside...

Somewhere they hide

behind the band aid's protective

cover...but,

There are sparks arcing

like fireworks

when I close my eyes...

I meditate upon them

as they gradually descend,

then fade.

Soon the swirling, undulating pattern

of deep purple spins from its central core

outward

toward a welcoming dark blue void...

and I feel calm, in a petrified stillness-

Shhhhhhhh.......

Don't make any sudden moves.

Martha Meshberg

Visited By Darkness

I was visited by darkness

which emerged stealthily

from the utensil drawer.

There (the silver blade drawn

from it's protective sheath),

I stood,

open-eyed and gaping-

hovering

above the kitchen sink....

arguing silently upon

the alluring and aching edge.

Rocked me, rock me.

Talk me, talked me

into the receiver's solidity...

grasping the outstretched voice

as a staying hand...

Waiting upon Angels

to brace my fall, to

wrap me securely

and trundle me

down the corridor.

No tears, no shouts-

just the terrible trembling,

shaking and tumultuous fear

I was still not dead...

a Manic at the opposite end

of a depressive fact.

In wincing, but welcome dread,

I was a live wire

exposed

to the mind numbing,

medicinal cure.

Martha Meshberg

"Butter and Eggs"

"Butter and Eggs",

beloved inhabitants

springing up

in outright roadside happiness,

whisk by

as a painter's impressionistic smudge

of simple, yellow joy.

Stop. Get out. Take a breath. Look around.

Sand and grit and hot blacktop

ripple in the summer prairie heat...

as a wavering mirage hangs elusively,

like quenching water

at the horizon of miles gone by.

Skinks scurry

in blue-tailed haste

beneath the cooling shadows

of roadside cast-away rubble

and corrugated roofing-tin

as barbed-wire fence posts

lean and creak, harmonizing

with the distant barking of dogs.

A mild scent of cow dung

fills the swishing grassland wind,

rustling the painter's canvas

in wholesome

and simple

wild snapdragon

two-toned yellow

joy!

Martha Meshberg

A Ruby

Sweet, dear man

your words dwell

in the realm of despair...

Saddened and perplexed,

the analytic mind

reviews its own apocalypse-

the inheritor of life's grief, oppressed.

These death-fires find thee flaming

as the searing words of hell's smoldering,

ruthless art.

Hush then, and lie in stillness.

Reach thou within thy breast,

for the Raven sees thy pain:

There be a forged Ruby

of priceless, and unmatched fire

to crown thy weary and martyred head.

Martha Meshberg

Hope Offering

Offering prayer, as hope,

the flame is lit from a wick

floating

upon a measured amount

of oil...

Then, one may surmise:

that hope may be consumed

by time....

But, "hope"

burns as a

consuming flame,

emitting traces of its essence

as an element

of wafting vapor...

by which the fragrance

of it's intended message

may be inhaled, as a healing spice

to ease the heart

and subdue

the restless, wavering mind.

May this Sweetgrass

be wafted

as a purifying manna

from the heart of one who prays

for the Greater Hope

that is Offered for the Healing

of these darkened days.

Martha Meshberg

Beloved Cat,

I needed you here next to me...

to hear me out.

Never mind that you were always

beneath my feet, tripping me up

and down the hallway and stairs.

You'd be dependably there

with your jewelled , Green Tourmaline

understanding eyes-

Listening to my every word,

analyzing my every move,

brushing your whiskers delicately

across my typing hands...

adding serendipitously your

keys of feline thought

to the forging of my words.

And when it wasn't going well,

you'd remind me

it was time we both eat....

you and me sharing rare treats

and afternoon tea.

You'd push yourself into my face

and nip at my nose and chin

and force your head beneath

my massaging hands

again and again and again.

And blessedly sit with me during

dawn prayers in solemn respect,

yowling your own amen's.

And when you became sick,

I cared for you more than I've ever cared

for any creatureand tended to your fragility

with my deepest love,

but felt your declining body receding

far, far from me-

taking with it a piece of my breaking heart.

And when, at the very end,

I held you protectively in my aching arms,

your exquisite Tourmaline eyes gazed

and locked onto mine in magnificent strength,

sharing for a last time

your knowing and grateful soul,

gracing me with a heartfelt goodbye

amid my sobbing cries.

And now, I am here

occupying a lonely and vacant

office, endeavoring to write

of you, my beloved "Marcel",

this broken hearted

love poem.

Martha Meshberg

Me and Vickie

We were two of those kids that were

what our folks called: "tom boys".

We climbed a lot of trees, and

jumped off a lot of roofs and stole

a few more hens eggs

than we'd like to admit...

We still remember the terrible ecstatic thrill

(and awesome guilt)

of smashing all those hens eggs

down the side of Isaiah Crippens

brand new tin shed.

Wow, those eggs, they'd splat everywhere-

and then they'd ooze

down the side of the shed

all yellow and mucus-like, with chips

and specks of eggshells all dripping, gooey and sticky...

And how:

absolutely "fossilized"

eggs became when they dried!

It was so coolly disgusting!

And we'd belly laugh loudly,

rolling around on the ground, throwin'

and smashin' those eggs again and again.

But what made it totally "the best" was:

they were Isaiah Crippens's eggs!

(Vickie would raid the coop

while I coolly kept watch...tsk,tsk, tsk.)

So, we kept this up for a week or two-

always drawn to that dastardly frolic

until one day, in the middle of our reverie,

Mr. Isaiah Crippens himself, made a

surprise appearance on the crime scene!

He was like a red hot poker

as he came charging our way

and we lit the hell outta there

barely escaping, by the seat of our pants,

scrambling under the rickety fence.

He waved his arms and ranted and yelled,

swearing he was calling the police

to have us put in jail.

Geeze...we ran faster than jack rabbits,

until we fell, scared, exhausted and spent

into the hay loft of Vickie's barn.

We hid out for hours...at least 'til dark...

then parted ways,

with our "stories" straight,

and crept quietly home.

We got through the night and next day

and never did become "captives"

of the police.

(darn good we made our selves scarce.)

Next day, we decided that: after all,

what we were up to, was really wrong.

It was stealin' and wasting perfectly good eggs.

And besides there were kids in China

who had nothin' to eat.

So, we humbly apologized

to Mr. Isaiah Crippens,

and mercifully paid for the loss

of them eggs

by cleaning Mr. Isaiah Crippens hen house

for two months.

We were really sorry for what we done

and went to church

and did a whole lot of prayin'

Well, I guess

we've been forgiven...

it's been all these years

and we ain't NEVER

stole nobody's eggs

or nothin'

EVER AGAIN!

Martha Meshberg

Prairie Fishin'

Look, Look, look, look, look!

There he goes straight down

into his dark little hole!

(I'm down on my belly,

looking deeply into the hole,

trying to glimpse

the place where he hides).

An intrusive

"National Geographic " camera

might reveal him shuddering

in the farthest reaches of his den,

digging frantically deeper,

never to be seen again.

Me , I wait here outside

hoping to overtake him by stealth

and surprise.

I loop the hole

with a noose of fishing leader

and back off, feeding out more line.

Hiding the pole, I lie down on my belly,

flat as a pancake on the prairie floor.

Behind some clumps of sagebrush,

I wait in the quintessence of stillness

and silence watching

for his apprehensive

prairie dog whiskers

to tentatively appear

from the top of his mound.

There he is !

Whizzzzzz, Bang. I Got 'im

wriggling on the line!

Now, when he lays there

playin' like he's dead,

that's when ya reel him in!

That there is: "Prairie Fishin'".

This was a tremendous source

of amusement

for a lot of us farm kids .

Sometimes we'd make

a family weekend "outing" of it.

All of us laying around in the

middle of the prairie and sage brush

with our ridiculous fishing poles-

waiting for the excitement

of actually catching a prairie dog.

And exciting it is!

They kick up a real fuss.

Better than any trout I ever caught.

Of course we never kept them,

but always let 'em go.

They're real cute up close.

Prairie Fishin's about the only way

you'd have of seein' one

"up real close"....

( uuhhmmm bio-scientifically speaking)

So, I don't suppose it was all so

"animal activist" wrong!

So, I don't suppose it was all so

"animal activist" wrong!

We learned about the creature

and learned to care

about what's right

and what's wrong.

Wasn't too long

before we stopped Prairie Fishin'

all together.

Martha Meshberg

My Dad

My Dad was a charismatic man

He had a way with people,

a tenderness and concern

for their happiness and growth.

He was also a visionary, establishing

his musical career with elegance

and downright mind-boggling struggle.

Self made, he was loved by many...

as well as scorned,

but truly known by only a few.

He was a proud man

who held fears around his virility....

when it was obvious to all else

that he was a man of success

with noble principles and values.

He was hard on himself, having been

unable, through a physical ailment

which affected his hands, to become

a concert violinist as he had planned.

Carpal Tunnel Syndrome

made it seriously impossible to withstand

the pain and numbness in his fingers

and hands.

He could no longer reach

for the artistic perfection

he'd once possessed and held

with grand ambitious plans.

He bravely changed his direction

and took a serious look into the music

of his Irish Ancestors, recalling

the wonderful folk songs and fiddle tunes at Grandpa Sullivan's place

on Saturday nights.

He found he could still play the fiddle..

just as he'd learned from his Grandpa

and remember the songs too.

He became so intrigued

that it changed his entire life

and set him on a whole new course:

The sharing of the Beers Family

musical tradition.

Ultimately, it led

to the very concert stages

he'd dreamed of as an aspiring violinist...

Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center, The White House...International tours, Cultural exchange.

And so life rolled along,

including with it, my Mother and myself

Supporting, (in every way we could) father's professional dream.

He was a musician and a perfectionist,

driven by artistic visions.

As a taskmaster he was strict

and could sometimes be cruel.

But he was a heart filled with joy

with a rare love of music and humanity-

a seeker and gladdener of souls,

a "David and Psalmist" of peace

and brotherhood, an earth angel,

plucking his sacred Psaltery....my Dad.

Martha Meshberg

Ancient Amber

I inherited a love

of my Mother's exquisite taste,

worn twirled round her matronly breasts...

Amber, was the color of her eyes

which unified and became one with

her amber beads as they'd glint

in warm and beckoning mystery....

her favoring, honest, wholesome

Danish beauty gazing upon me

in my tender, growing years.

She wore it at her throat

as a deflector of that awful flem

That continually plagued

her exquisite singing voice...

A beautiful talisman to deflect what made her feel

insecure...

though we all knew

it was really that tin of "Meggezones"

that did the trick!

The vile little lozenges

that tasted like hell

but seared her throat open and clear.

Many a side trip we made,

in search of those little "Meggezones".

Then, she'd sit like an

Elegant Queen on stage,

wearing her Mysterious Amber Beads

and sing like the rarest bird

you'd ever heard...

(all the while gracefully clinging

to her lace kerchief

which contained her emergency stash

of amber colored "Meggezones"

and wedges of lemon, two or three).

Dearest Mother, how much I remember

with absolute love, joy and amusement!

You still need to clear your throat-

even after all these years!

Listen Ma, If I could track down

some "Meggezones"

would you trade me for your

Mysterious Amber Beads?!

Martha Meshberg

A Divine Rose

What is there

in this ugly world

that still remains

in unadulterated beauty?

Say: The Glory of the Rose.

We see her multi-colored beauty

overflowing in Reunion

on the garden trellis's of the world,

in the faces of God's returning souls.

We hear her voice

in the chanted warbling

of the Nightengale's healing Word.

and perceive her intoxicating fragrance

in the healing prayers and hopes

of all the peoples of the world.

Love may be found in the Rose Garden

where "feelings" are the beginnings

of "knowing thyself" ( never as a "fool"),

but as the fertile soil of the heart,

questioning and mindful

in the honest, intelligent and necessary

work of personal growth.

Every drought will come upon us

as a longing thirst

until through our fervent searching,

these storm clouds burst

into the nutrients of spiritual birth.

What need we care of the dust heap

of this world

when through

the incessant assault of serpents,

we rid ourselves of poisons

in ultimate process

until we discover

hidden within ourselves,

the rudiments of true value

and the principles

of the cure.

In each heart and mind

we may find the seed

of our true Nature

and the recognition of

The Divine Rose.

Martha Meshberg

Nazi Neighbors

Bright were the days

of innocent play

in backyard frolics with Frisbee

and dog.

Carefree the times

when no racism arose

in impassioned, discriminating

and Nazi tones.

Clods of dirt incessantly thrown,

fruit and vegetables hurled from

cowardly and huddled corners;

We, assaulted,

in hard-hearted anti-Semitic fervor.

Witless rocks and wicked ice balls

from babbling, boisterous and bullying

backward neighbors

who baiting-ly unleash

their charging, snarling, growling

and fanged attack dog.

Bestial behavior from these

so- called "holy" Catholics-

who inhabit a vehement hell

of their very own!

Outcasts from the Kingdom-

though they know it not,

kneel in pious sanctimonium while

staining the Pure, White Robes of Christ

with the stench of a cesspool of shit.

A thunderbolt approaches evil doers

while sleeping

upon their couches of hatred...

caught (unbeknownst)

in the coal-dark and cobwebs

of Satan's poisonous snare.

We say nothing, do nothing-

but silently watch them

as day by day they fall

from any fragment

of Christian grace...

"for they know not what they do".

Martha Meshberg

Still Thy Raging Heart

You weave your way into our lives

masked within the withered winter bushes,

murmuring Bigotry-

soiling the blessed branch

where wrens in early spring

summoned summer's joyful songs.

Smoldering smoke mingles

with the winter's chilled air,

choking the fresh blue sky...

singeing our gasping breath,

filling our lungs, muffling us

as manipulated marionette's

dancing masked

before Dante's flaming depths.

Flame-lit and soundless

the smoke-wreath surrounds us

suffocating- as a diadem of hate

threatens to crown us

as horn-ed beasts with lowered,

charging heads.

Heaven heaps these tests,

as we fall backwards, stumbling-

groping toward the thunder-roll

of the promised light of tomorrow's

throne of inner tranquility and peace.

No personal anarchy shall swallow us

as we mutely turn our backs, walk away

and close the gaping door....

withdrawing into the arms of sanctuary

and God's helping and healing grace.

Martha Meshberg

A Fallen Tree

Take a taste...."sweet cakes",

Fill your cravings in this

season of frenzied materialism

and call it

the "Christmas Spirit"-

joining Santa Claus's

velvet, red- suited and

jolly "wizened" beard

to your children's repertoire

of falsehoods

based on the merchant's

greeding cheer.

Seated on what was once the

Thrown of Christ, "good 'ol Saint Nick"

upstages the simple, tranquil and sacred

Nativity Birth.

No Star of Bethlehem remains

in sight...

just the blinking false twinkling

of garish and competing extravaganza's

of neighborhood exhibit's

and the downtown neon

of extravagant

Christmas window displays.

Christ has become the image

of a fallen tree, harvested ruthlessly,

as millions of tokens of greed.

Wasted, dried out, then

thrown away-

after the "family warmth"

of Christmas Day...

Heaped away

to a garbage dump

forgotten, destroyed and decayed.

It's the time honored way

of wayward wonderers who weep

and wail for better days,

sleepily hoping on a "new start"

personal revolution

as they begin to devise deadened lists

of drunken New Year's resolutions.

There's got to be more

to Christ's Holy Birth and Words.

Thistles prick His Crown

in ever-altering degrees

of pain...only

the Blood of Christ remains-

His White Robes stained,

as He observes

the children of men

from the cross and crucifix,

snared by materialism's chains.

Surely, He tearfully searches

the whole world

for a single, pure and fragrant

Rose.

Martha Meshberg

Music of the Night

I lean my back against cool glass

to steady my gait

and wonder

while gazing at the moon

at the miraculous origins

of the stabilizing influence

which supports my staggering body...

hanging in the dizzy, spinning spell

which overcomes me...

Simple sand come silica-

the sliding glass panel

of the patio door,

a wonder and marvel to me now

in this unsteady and heady reality.

The shadows of the trees

cast bright auras... as does the halo'd moon,

forecasting a cleansing rain

as crickets earnestly call out

in cheerful and hopeful darkness

for yet another generation of song

in the seasons ahead.

Some semblance of reality

overtakes my brooding, wavering mind

forcing me to inhale

the deep cool of the night air.

As oxygen fills my lungs

with life saving regularity

I slide slowly down

the glass panel to the cold solidity

of stone.

Lying here, mindful

in the middle of the night,

I am nothing more

than part of the vast ecology,

harkening to light wind chimes

which fill my transcendent soul

with the healing music of the night.

Martha Meshberg

Nurturing Manna's

I follow the fluttering patterns

of the flitting butterfly

alighting gracefully

among the flower heads

and hitch a ride

upon her joyful, fleeting reverie

to seek out the golden nectar

and delicate morning dew...

How silent and sunlit it is, as

her wings carry me along

a blessed journey amongst

the magic thickects...

transforming my earthbound

captivity.

Enthralled, I become transfixed

and transformed within the warm caress

of nature's healing -

as an ascending and mystical wanderer,

lifted beyond all sorrow,

as an ageless and ancient earth angel

barely visible to "for granted" eyes.

Gratefully, I sip the mead-like dew

and drink the rarest wine of simple pleasure

and manifest offerings

as a Manna,

Perceiving the perfume of joy

as an elixir of evanescent Return.

Overtly here and self evident

for the nurturing of all mankind.

Martha Meshberg

Ten Goin' on Eleven.

I was six when I arrived

from my stay with my aunt in St. Louis.

By the 5th grade, I was fairly settled

in a fun neighborhood with lots of other kids and

went to grade school in Billings, Montana.

Way back, when I was ten goin' on eleven.

Billings was a western town with lots

of dust and Stockyards, The County Fairgrounds.

There were Ranching, Forestry and University people.

Mining people, Lumber people, Oil people, Geologist people and Sugar Beet people.

A "strong people" with growing family's in a

kinda large "on the Map" town, eaten up by

vast prairies and surrounded by rugged rim rock cliffs.

The Crow Indian Reservation

was on the outskirts of town.

Mostly, the Indians kept to themselves,

but there were those who chose

to leave the Reservation and

send their kids for schooling into town.

Some Indian families moved into town,

off the reservation and lost all government "privileges" ( the government cheque)

in order that their children

could receive a better education.

Most relocated Crow families were very poor.

They had few skills in white society and their

choices for work were very low wage jobs.

Crow parents, (just like any other family) were

desperately trying to better the lives of their kids.

Needless to say,

this caused divisions

in both the

white community

and the Crow Community.

So, relocated Crow families

truly struggled

with a variety of local prejudices

as well as estrangement from within their own reservation community.

They were not of the

"good strong white people"

of Billings, Montana, but represented

the street poor

who lived in tin shacks on the edge of town.

Dirty and unkempt, they were unhealthy, on welfare

and were often alcoholics.

They were a bitter, disillusioned and sad people.

But, when I looked a local Crow in the eye,

I saw something much more; the proud challenge

of a strong, vibrant heritage clinging to life.

Wisdom staring back at me

from deeply knowing and troubled eyes.

It was a mercy that the children

of the town Crow families

were at least fed once a day by the

knowing and generous

school cafeteria staff.

There were two Crow children in my 5th grade class.

A brother and sister.

That sat in the very back row. So you had to

turn all the way around to see them..

The teacher never called on them.

They just sat there, bored and depressed.

The kids ignored them at recess.

It was like they didn't exist.

(But I sure saw them).

My heart went out to them.

I noticed all these awfully

unjust things.

How "mean" others were to them

when, from what I could see,

they were real kids with real problems

just like me.

So, I befriended them

and the three of us became schoolyard friends.

And we played the games

that all school yard kids play: tag and jacks

and rope rhymes, and "Zorro" fantasies

joyfully grateful and happy to be friends.

Meanwhile, all the ot her kids were playin' War

and planning the capture

of all "Injins and Injin lovers"

in the schoolyard :

in order to force us to play

their game.

We didn't wanna play.

So, we mostly kept to ourselves at

the farthest corner of the gray wired-in fence.

All year through, I was grateful to have

them as playmates and friends, because I too,

somehow could never quite "fit in".

(but that's another story).

Then, on one unfortunate day,

our 5th grade class had an

emergency visit

from the school nurse.

She suspected that we all might have head lice!

(eeeeyuuuu)

And we all needed to be quarantined and inspected,

and treated for infestation or for the possibility of being carriers

of hatchlings and eggs!

Then she boldly pointed,

and in front of the entire class,

branded the Crow kids as the cause

of the outbreak of head lice

in our school.

How totally disgusting.

The Crow children were immediately whisked away

by several "suited-up" strangers

as if they were two filthy infested varmits

or perhaps as dangerous as "rabid" animals.

I caught the look in those children's eyes-

the humiliation, the helplessness, the fear

the terrible angry injustice of it all.

And there wasn't nothing I could do

to let them know

it didn't matter to me one way or another;

I was still their friend, a kid with little power

to have an effect on the whole damn world.

Still, it burned and me and made me mad

to see a cruel thing like that.

To me, it was more important that they

didn't have shoes, or regular meals,

or warm winter coats,

like the rest of us kids,

than getting all worked up

about head lice. That could be fixed.

What about the lives of those kids?

Could that be fixed?

Martha Meshberg

Make No Distinctions

Intolerant statements,

like vinegar, lack

the honey of compassion...

for the Everyman serves

his Appointed place.

Appearances have no meaning

if judged as only

the "cover of a book".

Take another look

at your own thoughtless tongue

and confine all judgment

to the self.

For trammeling the "ignorant masses"

speaks only of

the imperfection of one's self.

Make no borders or distinctions,

For each man has his own

"personal work" to do.

Vilifying others

brings one's darkest demons

to life.

Multiply that

by the whole human race

and one will surly glean

the Global Face

and the defining future o f the

Triumph or Fall

of planetary fate.

Martha Meshberg

Shadows on the Wall

Existing like a shadow

on the wall-

an illusion made

visible

only by the light,

darkened reflections

leave no trace of the real...

as the golden sun disappears

behind the revolving earth.

Night, the harbinger and theater

of dreams,

offers mysterious

and illumined answers

reflected upon an alternating

and opposite screen.

Matter, steadfast,

blocks the outspreading rays

beneath the cloudless sky...

For what is real

cannot not be seen...

'lest one unites with

the timeless, immortal

and placeless

light.

Martha Meshberg

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