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Posts tagged ‘silk’

Haiku and Loku Days-Thistle

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2016

 

Thistle Blossom-ç Jo Hewitt 2016

Thistle Blossom-© Jo Hewitt 2016

A test of courage and finesse, there was a game we played as kids-sitting on a thistle. Early on as I was learning the names and attributes of the weeds around the farm, were they friends or foes, I learned to distinguish the thistle from another weed which, for awhile, I confused with the thistle. I don’t remember what the other weed was, but the thistle has stuck with me. I was amazed that from a plant so hard to touch, to hold, emerged such a beautiful and elegant blossom. And later, it transformed into wisps of magic, silken seeds, whispering farewell, off to the unknown, on the cooling winds of the shore of autumn.

I understand why it is looked upon with such disdain as a vile plant. I know it is prickly. But the blossom is so lovely and the seeds so soft, like butterfly wings and gossamer with dew. I defy the common wisdom; I let a few grow and bloom among my roses.

Life is not so unlike the encounter with the thistle. There are people who are prickly, who are hard to know, and stand alone on the edge. Maybe, given a chance, they will begin to bloom, to yield something special. Maybe life is like maneuvering to sit on the thistle. One has to have courage, finesse, to maneuver to find a way to sit on, or stand and function among the prickles of it all.

In some ways, we are not so different than the thistle. We start out in what ever soil or rocks in which we landed. We are tender and green, but sometimes develop prickles as we go through life. Hopefully we get a chance to bloom and show the world our potential and beauty.  And in the end, our essence, like silken sunlit seeds, wisps of spirit, lift away on the wind.

Thistle

 

Green growth, purple hope 

 

Thistle-prickle, silken seed, 

 

Wind-seed send-begin.
 
 
 
Thistle Seed Pods in Sunlight -© Jo Hewitt 2016

Thistle Seed Pods in Sunlight -© Jo Hewitt 2016

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Uzbeki Traveling Band

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2016

My  neighbor is in and out. I keep an eye on her house for her. Sometimes she tells me when she will be gone, and sometimes she forgets. One time I kidded her, in a most random fashion, that I was concerned she had been kidnapped by a band of Uzbekis.  She was out again and this word play came to mind.

The Uzbeki Traveling Band 

 
She left the ole’ homestead land
To take up, so they say, as I understand,
To ramble with an Uzbeki balalaika,
Tanbur, an’ tambour traveling band.

 

Each member wore a matching cumber band,
Rosey cheeks and skin well tanned.
With dancing feet and waving hands,
They whirled and twirled; the music outward fanned .

 

To the music both humble and grand, 
She danced with her heart on worn out rands,
On rock and sand and village meadowland.
Such their music journey spanned.

 

Watchers watched, drinking tea with gha’nd.
And when hearts melted by music strands,
Singing souls began to understand,
Why she traveled with the Uzbeki band.
 

 

They traveled the earth,-silk, sea, and sand.
Then, the day was done; it was time to disband.
They loaded the caravan well manned.
And she returned again to the ole’ homestead land.
 
 
 
 
Klavdy Lebedev Plyaska 1916

Klavdy Lebedev Plyaska 1916

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