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The Natural Way



Pacific Golden Way

Locked and closed in night,
full throttle in sunlight,
blanketing the rise and fall
of rolling hills, turning them
to carpets of pirate-booty.
Greedily they gobble
the land from mountain to shore.
Fog-horns outside
the bay, trumpet
the glory
of California's
golden, prodigal poppy.
             ~~Judi Van Gorder

This morning I looked outside to see my field covered with California poppies. These wildflowers turn my empty, horse-pasture into a land of gold.  Their vibrant color appears in mass in a meadow or on a hillside.   I've had this photo,  taken by Philip Robertson, for some time wondering who I would share it with.  This is so California.  Our state flower and state bird.  Quail coo and dart through the tall grass.  I see California outside my window every day of Spring into Summer.  I love driving over the hill and down to the coast this time of year because, the poppies cascade right down to the cliffs above the ocean. 


I missed a couple of Thursdays Blogs but looking outside, the color just begged to be shared.    Nature in its variety is a perfect catalyst to awaken a poem.   Emily Dickinson wrote about another spring wildflower known as the Mayflower Trailing Arbutus, which is now a protected species in many states because it has become very rare.  One of the things that first drew me to Robert Frost was his connection to nature, so many of his poems paint natural images, I include one of his shorter pieces. I also share a poem by Angela Morgan, an American poet I had never heard of before. I thought her perspective in this poem interesting.  And the ultimate naturalist Henry David Thoreau had to be represented.


Pink - small - and punctual -                  
Aromatic — low —
Covert in April —
Candid in May —

Dear to the Moss —
Known to the Knoll —
Next to the Robin
In every human Soul —

Bold little Beauty
Bedecked with thee
Nature forswears
Antiquity —
~~Emily Dickinson 1875















Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down today.
Nothing gold can stay.
~~Robert Frost 1923 New Hampshire               


















God The Artist

God, when you thought of a pine tree,
How did you think of a star?
How did you dream of the Milky Way
To guide us from afar.
How did you think of a clean brown pool                
Where flecks of shadows are?

God, when you thought of a cobweb,
How did you think of dew?
How did you know a spider's house
Had shingles bright and new?
How did you know the human folk
Would love them like they do?

God, when you patterned a bird song,
Flung on a silver string,
How did you know the ecstasy
That crystal call would bring?
How did you think of a bubbling throat
And a darling speckled wing?

God, when you chiseled a raindrop,
How did you think of a stem,
Bearing a lovely satin leaf
To hold the tiny gem?
How did you know a million drops
Would deck the morning's hem?

Why did you mate the moonlit night
With the honeysuckle vines?
How did you know Madeira bloom
Distilled ecstatic wines?
How did you weave the velvet disk
Where tangled perfumes are?
God, when you thought of a pine tree,
How did you think of a star?
~~Angela Morgan 1914

Pray to What Earth?

Pray to what earth does this sweet cold belong,
Which asks no duties and no conscience?
The moon goes up by leaps, her cheerful path
In some far summer stratum of the sky,
While stars with their cold shine bedot her way.
The fields gleam mildly back upon the sky,
And far and near upon the leafless shrubs
The snow dust still emits a silver light.
Under the hedge, where drift banks are their screen,
The titmice now pursue their downy dreams,
As often in the sweltering summer nights
The bee doth drop asleep in the flower cup,
When evening overtakes him with his load.
By the brooksides, in the still, genial night,
The more adventurous wanderer may hear
The crystals shoot and form, and winter slow
Increase his rule by gentlest summer means
                                     ~~ Henry David Thoreau 1850













There are millions of nature poems out there to enjoy. If you feel inspired to go out and connect, write one of your own and share it here.

Happy writing, ~~Judi


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