Category Archives: Earth Whispering: Poems

It’s my discipline to write a poem a day, and I post a poem here almost every day. To find a given poem or poems on a given topic, use the search bar at the right. To receive my poems by email, please subscribe, at right.

I’d love to hear your comments on any poems. To comment, click on the little speech bubble just under this text, to the right.

Cleaning out closets

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You can fill your head with
boxes, with sheets and blankets
pulled from shelves, and musty things
that skulked around for years

You can fill your mind with tasks —
they hum along in orderly succession,
they stretch to fill the whole allotted space,
they are important, and they give
a sense of usefulness, efficiency —
they have a certain paper satisfaction

But where is the poem in all this?
Where are the gaps, the permeable surfaces
to put down roots,
draw up the crosswise meaning?

It’s here, apparently,
though yesterday I couldn’t find it —
after I stopped, I could see it —
the rhythm, the breath of it,
the why.

©Wendy Mulhern
May 2, 2019

Harbor Song

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Mystic harbor, grey on grey,
the breath of peace descending,
rainfall, nightfall, come what may,
the buoy clangs unending —
this, too, could be your song

Beyond the thought of what to say
or how the mood is trending,
the quietude can find its way
to meet your heart ascending —
you, too, belong.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 30, 2019

It’s Universal

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You may be rising
but the tide is, too —
we don’t go anywhere alone

Landmarks fall away,
measurements, too —
we can’t compare,
so much is new,
so much is felt in the attention
to these moments, all subsuming
as they are

Try to notice one
in the fleeting space of a thought,
try to hold it through the scrim
of day to day

If you miss this one,
the rhythm will come round again,
the place to grasp, in here and now,
infinity.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 29, 2019

Walking in Truth

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Feet step out in wonder —
Try to describe this,
soaring down the tailwinds,
bright spirited day after the squall

Flowers bloomed where she walked —
that was one way to say it,
joy meeting joy

not something precious or singular,
just the natural way of moving
and its expected effects

Surely goodness and mercy
shall follow me
(I shall have a legacy of blessing)
all the days of my life

that’s a way to say it, too,
in the house of presence
where each breath
brings forth fruit.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 27, 2019

Huh

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Turns out, it seems,
I’m not afraid of death.

It is a subtle thing,
the lack of terror — no struggling up
of something held at bay,
no frantic pushing back
against the upflow,
no fear-frayed patches present in my prayer

A thing to only notice in thunderstorms
(bike tires plowing through the water,
lightening flashing, touching down ahead)
or in an airplane, when they talk about the life vests,
or other times I haven’t yet observed

Not that I have a death wish, either —
I’d rather have my life be affirmation
that Life is here, and kind,
I’d rather be here for the folks that count on me
but being unafraid —
that’s something I don’t mind.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 26, 2019

Shifting

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There was movement everywhere
but presence was defined
by stillness,
a translucency
whose glow was seen
between the arcs and threads,
between the strides,
between the branches

There was music ringing out
from deep within the silence,
what seemed dark
becoming clear
in the sheen of rolling curve

We turned our focus
from what we thought defined us
to what was underneath,
to what has been here all along.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 25, 2019

My ipod serves up love songs on the plane

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I listen and my empathy
follows the threads of passion
(threads like water veins
upon the land below,
the rivers, lakes, the melting snow,
the cities clustered there, along the roads)

I feel the longing and the pain,
I feel the exaltation —
my spirit hums an all-embracing chord
that circles round the threads
and drops beneath,
enfolding them in overarching blue.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 24, 2019

In the afternoon

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It may look like I’m weeding
but I’m harvesting — these dandelions
are destined for great things,
performing their wizardry
on crusty ground,
pushing through,
making room for more life

The sun was here briefly,
later the cold wind came through,
but didn’t deter us from harvesting
sweetness and strength
from the field of our connection
and the truth that is with us
wherever we go.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 23, 2019

The Taste of Freedom

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At a certain point
I started wanting
that texture, that color,
that I couldn’t name
but still could feel and see,
still could taste

(at the back of my tongue,
the place before the swallow,
the place of longing
and satisfaction)

(the color of water
when you drink it,
the clear and the shine of it
as it goes down)

And the longing settled
in between my toes,
urging my feet to find
the steps ahead

Time to move out of the narrow place,
time for a new yoke —
the yoke of freedom itself
with the consummate attention it requires
to keep myself
within the present dewdrop of its taste.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 22, 2019

The World of People

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Everywhere we stopped,
I wanted to eavesdrop,
wanted to throw myself
into the current
of other people’s lives,
wanted to feel
whatever it was they were feeling,
though I never really could quite hear

Out on the land
I am alive to the sounds
of geese and ravens,
turkeys, owls, the cycles
of water, of the seasons,
and the tutelage of Spirit,
my mind cleaving eager
to what it teaches

The world of people
drifts so far away,
I forget the goals, the games …
and though I don’t know
if I’ll ever play again,
I still, it seems, am drawn to watch.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 21, 2019