PoetryArchive3a

The Untrod Path

A thousand whispering leaves

fall

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

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

"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! "

-'Abdu'l-Bahá

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

yellow-green.

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

prospect

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

congregate

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

found;

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.

Dear,

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

wakefulness,fearlessness

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

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

to BECOME

champions of inevitable peace.

Believe, and it shall Be.

Martha Meshberg

O Concourse!

A deepened wound

near arrests the warbling

Nightingale

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

encounter

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

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

whispered

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,

a-thirst

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

and

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,

save

through the Mercy and Compassion

of He whom

they themselves

are unable to comprehend...

Though they once

met Him

face to Face.

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 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

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

The Ultimate Deja-vu

Here am I, pausing...

reflecting

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,

disgrace

(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.

Reckoning

with the trappings, mesh and nets

of the glittering and seductive

mother earth....

Oh God , kick my ass!

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

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

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

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

aloneness.

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

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

There I Be…

(For Jennifer T.)

There I be...

all trembling

as a bird too near death;

alone

in dark corridors

searching for the light

in wingless sorrow.

Isolated

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

Waiting

Waiting...waiting

forlorn

in distant, mirage’d plains

of waiting.

Extended time

drapes itself in gray, moody

coverlets

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-

Smoothing

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

Hearts

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