Poetry Archive # 3a
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Poetry Archive 3
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The Untrod Path

A thousand whispering leaves
scattering patterned messages
to decipher upon
cold, solid ground...

Then, be quick to understand
and comprehend,
before the sly, playful wind
whisks all traces
that might have been found.

Shhhhh, step lightly,
never be heard.
Train thy beaded moccasins
to walk upon air....to
gather invisible signs
which mingle freely and slither
spinning dream catchers among the vines...

Follow as a tranquil spirit
the un-trod and lonely path...and open
the Gateway
beyond what thou may hear and see...

'Tis there thou wilt find
ultimate shelter, and
The Great Spirit
laughing and beckoning thee
toward the everlasting
embrace of Peace.

Shhhhhh.....still thy restless heart....

A thousand whispering leaves continually fall.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2002
The Blessed Sparrows

The blessed sparrows
congregate in the Forsythia
at my back door,
chattering with enthusiasm
and anticipation
as I fill the feeder
with wholesome wild seed.

Cheeky, happy little birds
flutter and prune themselves
daring to fly and perch
within just a few feet
as I silently observe, grinning-
gratefully amused
by their charming and endearing antics.

I noticed, around a week ago,
a single small Black Bird
among them- not like the others,
but seemingly protected and adopted
by the flock.
They huddled around him
and tended to his wide open beak
with seed...feeding him
as if a lost fledgling.

As they fly from the feeder
and hop to the Forsythia branches
they surround him, keeping him warmly
in the center of the flock...
chattering and pruning themselves,
they tenderly approach him
with cheerful and gentle songs.

In the beginning he was weak,
but day by day, they have made
the little orphaned Black Bird strong.

Now, he feeds himself
and associates in obvious joy
and friendship,
a permanent member
of the Sparrow flock.

I have witnessed Sparrows
adopt several lone Parakeets
in the same way
over the many years.
And it appears
they are among the most tolerant
and caring of all birds...

Non-prejudicial in their behavior
and outlook,
Cheerfully sending a joyful, pure message
for All who would comprehend,
see and hear.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2003

"In the world of being, the meeting is blessed when the white and colored races meet together with infinite spiritual love and heavenly harmony. When such meetings are established, and the participants associate with each other with perfect love, unity and kindness, the angels of the Kingdom praise them, and the Beauty of Bahá 'u' lláh addresseth them, "Blessed are ye!
Blessed are ye! "


I Look Around

I look around me...and
See the light through the trees.
Melting snow and early spring
mud bogs
into the house bring
  dark sludge....

Blue sky. No clouds
hanging over us here...
sweet dear.

Lots of dead twigs and moldy leaves...
and moist bleached,
and half-"freezed" dog poop
in between
tufts of awakened

Every yard
looks the same.
Winter-grayed people
emerge from their doors,
peer around, take a deep breath,
relieved ..and yet,
grumble under their breath
of the soon forward
of cleaning up
the mess.

Cats tiptoe in between patches
of mud and ice,
while dogs joyfully break free
from the leash
and go for a yelping good run.

Twittering sparrows
and chatter loudly, with excitement,
of the building of family nests;
and where they might find
the best cache of last Falls seed...
Of twine and twigs and woolen yarn,
skillfully woven round
fluffy breast feathers,pussy willows,
and tufts of fluff
which they stuffed in
secret stashes
somewhere among the groves
of wild red-berried Ash Trees
all winter long.

Robin's declare its Spring
"Cheer-up, cheer-up",
cheering up
every living thing...
'cause every season has a
trial and blessing to bring...
"Cheer-up, cheer-up, cheer-up".

I look around me ...listening
watching, experiencing and
understanding with age,
more and more...
year after year, it has always been
the same.

We make our choices in life
by recognizing the ever-present
yet, elusive cycle...
which perfectly merge
with our microcosmic own.

The mystery unfolds as a book
into the knowledge of the future

Go ahead, reach out and grasp
at options- But, by God,
we can foresee
the right choice beckoning
in front of our astonished faces,
clear as the blue sky
shinning in enlightening warmth
over our buzzing, talking heads.

ask for what you need,
and it will be miraculously provided,
just as the mother earth
feeds all her wild creatures,
under the nourishing light
of the illumining Sun.

But, we must Learn
to See and Hear
the rarified Moment
and Live to blossom
as a fruit
sharing the sweet-meat
of those "moments" which have
taken root in our hearts.

Heaven is what we can have...
here, on earth.

Have Faith
that you may actualize it
and live up to
the exemplary principles
of what you believe.

It is not so lonely here,
but that we crave
for all those things which make us slaves
to our restlessness,
real or imagined oppressions
and soul-numbing depressions.

This is the pathway given us
and must be received
as a gift;
As the soil of  our own
green-growing struggle
to reach the maturing
refining, mind-sweeping,
and purified light.

The sacred moment demands
and the ability to see through
life's myriad patterns,
the complete map
of it's omnipresent tapestry.

Now then, sweet dear,
I challenge you....
just look around you.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2003

A Prince Lives

The hollow bitterness
of their words
assault the common hope
for peace...
all is gray against
the illnesses
of these dying days.

They see the death-fires
in resignation, debarring
the rapturous flight
of the Phoenix
Who rises from the climax
of such brimstone and ash.

Sad, sad, tempest-tossed
and tear-blind,
They strain to see through
watering and stinging eyes;
plodding through the muddy bogs
of history's momentous lessons;
trapped in an on-going odyssey,
translating into nothing but
wreathing anguish, anger and fear.

Say: The Prince of Peace is here,
crucified and staked within
their bleeding hearts, 'tis He
through Whom they shall hear and see
the uninterrupted signs of downfall
and the ascending transfiguration
of truth...on the crimson battlefields
of earth's torched and tortured harvest...

Let not their minds be deceived
by the cruel indifference they have seen,
nor their smog-choked lungs hatch
more bottle flies...but cherish
what they receive
and perceive;
that which shall guide them to proofs
and divine solutions
champions of inevitable peace.

Believe, and it shall Be.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2003

O Concourse!

O Concourse!
A deepened wound
near arrests the warbling
within my breast
numbing the nuptials
of milk-white purity-
where the milestone's Quest
now whispers, quizzically whimpering
of days despicable and lost
in the invisible hours
of eclipsed and dormant Suns.

And that which I horrifically
is like an encampment
of wretched errors
taken to life as maggot worms-
continuing to breed and infect
the open wounds...
arising from stained windows
of darkened dreams.

Cry me out for Thy angels
and Concourse on High!

Enwrap Thy protecting wings
of sweet love, beauty and soul
as a healing and anointing balm,
That I may again arise
to warble the Nightingales Song
as proof of His healing Truth
my whole life long!

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2003
Of Covenant Breakers
(For T. A.)

Cloaked in shadowed robes,
the wicked ones
stoned the Faithful Servant
behind closed doors.
The whispering of the evil whisper
in men's breasts.

Where these prune-like hearts
so shriveled
that light could no longer
plump a fruit to life?
Were these soul centres but a stone
cast with no power
of proof or growth?

What fire could fuel such souls
but the fire of ignorance and prejudice,
the fire of hatred, division
and sedition.
Let the condemners be condemned.
"Let the dead bury their dead"!
For it is known
that those who heap
their malicious cruelties
and wicked machinations
on righteous Lights
do that
which they themselves deserve.
How evident then,
their lack of Mercy.
Of Compassion, they are bereft.
Of justice, no wisdom
may be fathomed.
Their ignorance fills the deepest
and darkest abyss.
Low, low, are their motives
and dead are their hearts.

Like venomous snakes, they circulate
amid tall grass
and of a sudden, strike their prey,
wafting the poisonous breath
within the body of God's chosen ones,
transparently presuming
to wave their names
on banners of self glorification
and egoistic interests,
quenching the last remaining sparks
which might still be found
in their vacuous hearts.

They self righteously trample
the weak and helpless Temple,
for their own succor and sustenance.

They pervert God's Word
through unwisdom and ignorance
then, use it to advance themselves
upon a corrupt course
in which the darkness
of their own natures seek
to eclipse the light
within the pure, innocent
and sanctified breast.
O God!
Help the enlightened soul
who strives to live a life
of true service,
who offers up his very being
at God's  All-Seeing Threshold
in spite of himself
his  condition.

O God!
Protect and strengthen
the downtrodden and lowly spirit,
who humbly bears the chain
of living martyrdom
within the prison
of men's minds.
Such weighty chains
do carve and cripple the flesh
and anguish the worthy soul,
Thus, through the fire of pain,
is tempered, a cleansed
and perfected Mirror,
a faithful and purified heart...
Of this Kawthar
may the righteous partake!

Of them, who oppress,
no light shall there ever reflect,
through the Mercy and Compassion
of He whom
they themselves
are unable to comprehend...
Though they once
met Him
face to Face.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001
Evil In The Morning

Evil in the early morning...
from the kiddy screen portrays:

The dark, bone clad sorcerer-
King of Warlock's,
lasviously conspiring from within
the subterranean and erotic lair
of the well-stacked, cat-eyed, black leathered
and whip snapping High Priestess...

to do away

with the clean shaven, muscle bound,
loin clothed he-man hero-
by the use of bondage, torture,
spikes and chains
and the casting of vile transfiguring
magic spells...

Oh  swell,
just where we want
our children's vulnerable minds
to dwell...tsk.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2002

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 do
the regions 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 of 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 reach-eth out,
but doth deem thee
to reach-eth within!

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

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,
uttering a throaty note
beneath his mystic breath.

I am at attention, mindful
and frozen,
noting my surroundings-
listening and watching...
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
Copyright ©2002

The Ultimate Deja-vu

Here am I, pausing...
on the secret truths
known only to myself
and The God of All-Seeing.

"Thou knowest me better
than I knowest myself..."

You bountifully open
the screened doors
of self-sacrifice, throwing in
a little drama, or perhaps,
(as You quietly watch
me squirm toward the reaches of
outer space.)

Wordlessly, You "kick my ass"
and order me  face to Face before
Your Mighty Robes of Justice.

As I beg Mercy, hoping to capture
Your Favor
into leading me, guiding me
to that Glorified field where one finds
one's rarified and Ultimate Deja-vu of:

The Moral and Principled Choice;

The Truths that
torture and test me
with the things I've loved most;
Dueling with me
until I recognize, face to Face,

This is my test:
the Forging anvil,
fiery coals and embers
as a worthy "gift from Heaven".

And, as much as I may wish to die,
I would continue to fly
as the phoenix from ashes,
to seek and find
the Everlasting Son of Heaven.

So, here, am I bound.
Way deep, and low down.
with the trappings, mesh and nets
of the glittering and seductive
mother earth....

Oh God , kick my ass!

Copyright ©2003
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.
Prairie Dogs, 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!

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
Copyright ©2002

The Sunlight Cafe

There is a Sunlight Cafe
on my neighborhood corner,
where I meet with deepened,
philosophical thoughts
written upon the worldly faces
of magnificent strangers...
and hear warm, laughing truths
echoing among afternoon patron's
beneath boldly stripped green canopies.....

There, one may hearken to
the tinkling crystal-light
of tipped glasses ringing amid
splashes of brilliant color, as
fragrant flower baskets hover
above the heads of young lovers 
lowered and blushing eyes.

Melodeous tones, sweet and hushed
brush electrified, sensuous knees
beneath loves trembling
quaint and checkered
table skirts.

Magnificent, spiritual paintings
grace the interior walls of those
worldly hearts and minds...
While sidewalk easels gather
eager portraits of the changing times...
Capturing the voices of camaraderie
amid Spirit's and Poet's,
Painter's and Thinker's and
the "essence" of  all that is
Philosophical,Ethical, and Spiritual
versus the paths of
"Bohemian" life.

Oh, to the Sunlight Cafe
which is very much alive
and exists
on the neighborhood corner
of every dreaming and open mind!

Martha Meshberg
Copyright 2002

The Mason Jar

I keep a stash of stones
in an old fashioned canning jar
perched on my window sill.
I often sit starring at it...
waiting for a mystic verity
to suddenly emerge from it's contents.
Magic stones selected from obscure outings...
Gleaned by vision quest
along roadsides,
in meadows and on mountain tops.
Some, from my own back yard...(funny, how clues may rest close to home).

Having discerned messages and signs,
I stash reminders of lessons learned
where they may be continually reviewed
while starring at the glass jar
perched on my window sill...

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Fat Cats

(For A Beloved Fat Cat)

Fat cats at crossroads of fate.
Sitting on the garden fence,
yowling and sleepless.
From darkness, mice emerge, scurring among
myriad back yard networks and pathways.
Tense and rapt, yellow, glowing eyes
pierce the shadowed night,
searching for prey.
Fat cats (with watermelon bellies)
find it difficult to move.
And gracelessly fall from the fence
giving ample notice to those who would flee.
Fiegning un-ruffled ease,
Fat Cats groom themselves and stretch.
Ignoring fortune, they saunter silently
amid tall grass.
Tails held proud and high....
fading into the moonlit night.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

The Opening Door

Opening the door, I perceive
the lavender-scented breeze,
wisping invisibly through my nostrils, as a waft
of refreshment and relief;
cleansing my mind and succoring
my soul
from a long cold, frosty,
dead and dying winter
of solemn and sedentary

Stepping through the door,
I am transformed,
as a figure of perfect awe;
gazing into the eyes
of a new and welcoming universe.
Closing my eyes, I am transfixed in stillness,
absorbing the ever-altering music
which surrounds me...An orchestration
of such beauty, simplicity and magnitude
that all fears, doubts, struggles and tests
dissolve as the ice of winters last gasp.

I raise my hands in praise,
above my head
stretching my fingers
toward the rarity
of the fostering, healing days
of Springs
first moments of birth....

Inhaling deeply, I chant,
in prayer, joining
the chorus of angelic birds:
Of Nightingale, Sparrow,
Meadow Lark, Cardinal
and Thrush.
Subtle fragrance envelops me,
warms me in golden light...
as our mutual prayers take flight.

Opening my eyes, a vision
of delicate and muted colors
grace my wearied eyes
with the promise
of what is to come
beneath a cloudless cyan sky;
painting a portrait of the future
onto the tablet of my open,
receptive and thirsting heart.

Tender green
soothes the spirit
of every living thing...
as the up-turned, muddy,
and vacant earth, like a mirror,
faces toward
the bounty of the sun,
entreating blessing
from the great sphere of light,
giving the power of growth
to all images which reflect
in the great cosmic mirror.

Steadfast, I am here.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2003

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 strong, proud man
who conquered alone
his isolating fears ...
when it was obvious to everyone 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
and 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 dreams.
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
Copyright ©2002

Hopeful Heart

Shining moments are
shattered and arrested.

Shivering and barefoot
in the shadowed and frosted night,
I cry out in prayer
from the outposts of longing,
offering up, yet again,
the soil
of a hopeful heart.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright © March 21, 2004

There I Be…
(For Jennifer T.)

There I be...
all trembling
as a bird too near death;
in dark corridors
searching for the light
in wingless sorrow.
within a fluttering breath.
There I be, a bird too near death
noticing only the passing of shadows.

Then let these red trickling scars bleed forth
the purity of my heart. for verily,
I have known love.

I looked into her eyes of strength
and the profundity of her womanly compassion,
there, nestling my head
upon her soft warming breasts
as a child, returning.

Woman to woman
I do confess like unto a broken winged bird
singing of unrequited love
and caress for a rarefied moment
her knowing sensuality.
But alas, this earth bound  song
may not be sung, oh beautiful, pure
and healing one...
but may only be quaffed
as an illumining sun
among the spiritual Maids of Heaven.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright © March 21, 2004


in distant, mirage’d  plains
of  waiting.
Extended time
drapes itself in gray, moody
moaning beneath false canopies
and illusive prayers.

Getting there,
where crystalline visions
absorb the vacuum
of vacant air;
forgetting all
significant and ancient
forms of nocturnal despair-
the clouded
but opening skies
for the entrance
of light
is the holy habitation, and
just cause
of the true searcher's  plight.

Fallen  tears reflect
diamond wisdom and
a myriad of crystal suns
deep within
a mine
of precious gems;
In a spectrum of Valleys
where wild flowers bloom,
heaven’s  birds adorn Glory
with joyous new songs
ushering forth
the rosy  New Dawn.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright © April/2004


Hear! I am the Hill of Poetry
brought about by soulful
and natural forces.

Through hail, sleet and disruption,
I glean with my Eagle Eye
a spiritual truth
in the healing defense of time,

And throw myself upon
the purifying shores
of the Rivermouth
of  Divine Utterence.

It is here I greet the Rain of Bounty
and cast my life upon
the true journey
of the soul, helplessly
and utterly charmed...

For I am the Tear of Growth
and a Spiritual Warrior
who will be victorious in every battle,
setting my course
for the planets and stars!

For upon the boundless Ocean,
I will be set adrift
to seek and gain
salvation's Spiritual Sun,
to return hope and order to all men
as a world tree of transcendent light.

For I am the Heart of  all mankind.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001