A Return to the Energy

Deep in the forest green
Quiet in thought, mood serene
We'd sit on a bit of sand
Entwine the two little fingers
on our hands.

Hours we spent in this special place
Oft at sunrise, a new day's birth
Feel the Energy sending grace
From the very 'soul' of Earth.

To the very roots of Life
Precious water spreads
Majestic trees rise to form
The canopy o'er our heads.

To this Energy, I bring you again.
With trembling heart, I empty you in.
Again to be Life to those trees.
As you were, and are, to me.

As you rise high to meet the wind
To join with and sing,
You'll forever remain the strength
that gives me wings.

Soar high . . . Soar free.
Ride 'mongst the stars, My Love.
Be now what you were and are meant to Be.
The Purest Energy

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Photo credit... Headwaters The birthplace of the stream that ran through a farm in Murphy, North Carolina where Miracles dwell. Where the materials of a body that, for awhile, contained the Spirit and Energy of a most special life was released to whence it came...to be again, what it always was...

Music... You'll Be In My Heart by Phil Collins. And, so it is.....

I am honored to present the beautiful work of a fellow poet and friend, Joseph Porter of Venice, Florida. Joe is a member of the Poets Rule poet's group and has had his work honoring the pilots of WW2 presented in the Bartow Flight School Museum in Bartow, Florida. In Love Remembering, I think, without even realizing it, Joe has written a gift to anyone ever suffering the loss of a loved one regardless how they made their final flight. Thank you, Joe.

LOVE REMEMBERING

Sometimes the heart does not have the words.

They are there too deep to be spoken.

I tell my heart to speak to me but it cannot.

Its words are a secret to be spoken only when it decides.

Is there a magic key that opens our hearts

for words to flow that we fear to speak?

Does the heart speak out of its own compassion or do we from ours?

They are one and the same.

That is the key that opens the floodgate to our grief.

Do we cry of our passion and love for one lost?

Or does the heart cry to us to remember the life of one loved.

Do we not grieve for ourselves in this time of loss?

Now I hear the heart speaking.

It is saying embrace one another with love.

Grief and sadness are the voice of love remembering.

Chugach dwells in Alaska, in the heart of a National Forest nestled at the feet of the Chugach Mountain chain. The Chugach peoples thought all nature and spirit are forever connected. My husband’s one unfulfilled dream when he passed on was to visit Alaska. He was only whole with Nature surrounding us. I took a remnant of him there and we left him in a place called Chugach National Forest just beyond the carved wooden sign announcing entry. The following poem is for him . . .

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Edge of Chugache

“The Edge of Chugach”

by: Susan Haley

Three Poppies of yellow,

the resolute progeny of seeds blown astray.

A clump of solitude along the roadside

at the edge of Chugach.

Spruce sentinels, a pair,

limbs saluting a cerulean sky,

mark entrance into the deep woods . . .

just beyond the edge of Chugach.

A fern-garnished carpet covers a rock-walled hollow.

Sunrays slicing through the trees,

dance on wildflower petals amidst hues of green.

A deep woods cathedral in Chugach,

pungent earth smells its holy incense.

Yet scarred, by a glacier’s stroll,

the rock rises as testament to the pulsating Planet

ever on the move with eternal possibilities

and writing the new epitaph of a restless soul.

On a small mound of moss,

embraced by a lone seedling spruce,

shielded from the elements by the scarred rock.

In this Cathedral of Chugach,

we left remnants of a passed soul.

In this Eden realm called Chugach,

drawn here by the restless spirit

of one unfulfilled dream . . . a deep woods forest, nestled

near the foot of a glacial mountain in the Athabascan north.

His final words to me, “Never give up . . .”

He never did.

He, now, will be absorbed

into the Alaskan forest of Chugach

sharing his Energies with a seedling spruce.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Susan Haley (for Jerry A. Haley) © July 2010

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