Harvest Poems 2025
Poster Art: Holly Sierra
POEMS OF HARVEST
the poets of the 2025 harvest writing workshop
w/meredith heller
SOUL FOOD by Arielle Guisto
Is there poetry to be found in writing about writing?
Seems like a tough ask.
But all I know is if we are talking about
food for the soul it has got to be
my Jetstream ballpoint and this pad of paper.
Two days ago I made a pact to write
30 minutes a day. With the tagline -
Lower Your Standards
And what a few days it has been.
These words, chicken scratch across old trees,
may very well be my salvation.
WD-40 for my soul,
every fascia and tendon lubricated and supple,
ready to welcome anything the muse feels
inspired to throw at me.
Thinking too much got in my way before
so this time I prefer to just
open the hatch at the top of my skull
and translated whatever drops in.
I admitted to a mentor recently that
I have a teacher’s pet syndrome.
Now I want to create my own feast of
words and stories and poems so that
one day I can be a learner at my own garden.
One good line, two interesting ideas,
three word combinations to roll around my tongue
that feel fresh.
Feed my soul with each
delectable dish
cooked by my right hand and my clear energy
just for me.
Arielle Giusto has spent her life between two loves, cooking and writing. A former chef and now stay at home mom, she lives with her two young children and husband in West Marin, CA and attempts to continue her passions. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times and on her personal blog ariellegiusto.com.
FIBROMYALGIA by Armanda Barone
Why me I ask myself?
I am blindsided, full of rage.
In pain, angry for what is lost.
Darkness, depression, devastation.
I hate my body.
I am a prisoner of this body.
Hidden under this disability; no one sees it or understands it.
Everyone sees me as perfectly normal.
I cry for what I have lost,
but then I start to learn to sit with it,
to understand it,
to focus on light, joy, love.
I realize I have not really lost anything.
I just have to change my perspective.
Because what exactly is normal anyway?
Armanda Barone lives in Fairfax, California. She is a retired librarian from the University of California, Berkeley. A true Virgo at heart, she is practical yet imaginative, and thrives on order, beauty, and meaningful intention. This poem is from her very first writing workshop!
ORIGAMI REINDEER by Dawn Li
Origami in my hands—
flowers, trees, small animals
emerge from paper and thin air.
See the reindeer I am folding:
from an angle to an oblong,
a side becomes a slope,
a corner becomes a cheek.
Two narrow parts open
into antlers.
Dots of white for the skin,
an eye on either side.
Legs form with a twist—
suddenly they stand!
My fingers remember themselves
as creators of life,
simple, warm shapes,
this time in paper.
Joy quietly returns.
Dawn Li loves poetry and lyrical writing. She has attended Meredith soulful poetry workshops for five years. She enjoys hiking in nature and practicing Tai Chi and Qigong. Dawn is the author of Song of a Lotus Leaf and recently published New Dao Fables: Wisdom of the Wild, blending storytelling, philosophy, and nature-inspired imagination.
I STARTED TO SING by Helen Baxt
I intended to thank her
present, like an organ in her body
Feeling her essence
Walking from space to space
Resting at every crevice
Looking for the source of her beating heart
realizing it was everywhere
As I strolled from room to next
With burning sage in one hand
And feather in the other
I welcomed my intent of gratitude
From the four corners of each room
When in abrupt redirection
Somewhere along my quest
I felt the need to apologize
She had briefly been whitewashed
By the Bay for sure
But not a beach house
Though the quintessential pictures
Of Thomas Point Lighthouse or a blue heron
were momentarily in deliberate display
Vanilla, or as the “kids” today say…
Ya [look] “basic!”
Beautiful, yes
Like a Lilly Pulitzer Dress
On a tanned blond
at a William Paca House Garden party
Nice, very nice
but not you
Far sooner than I anticipated
Though still as no surprise
You caught one’s eye
And charmed him
And it seemed overnight
That my beautiful fish out of water
In an over-sided bow
Was empty
I stood in the loud, deafening silence
Visualizing every momentous occasion
Every beat of your heart
The beautiful baby brought home through your door
The slumber to early morning dance parties
Screaming toddlers
Cackling tweens
Angst-ridden teens
Blazing fires
Spells cast
A life of her own playing on endless reel in my head
And organically, without effort or plan
as natural as I breathe
I started to sing
I sang the way I used to sing
With every morsel of me pouring into the room
in your empty but still very alive chamber
the words and intent bouncing off the walls
became an enchanting dance
My voice returning from a long and unintended hiatus
Rose to a serenade
Then lowered to a bellowing chant
Alas arriving at my signature soulful blues
A song of thank you and I’m sorry and honor
My very own Ho'oponopono hymn
And for a moment
As I swayed to my own swoon having no care
Pulling from my diaphragm with faith in the sound
I remembered who I was
who I am
The message a simple one
The anthem crystal clear
The one true color of you
Your indigenous tongue
Return to your music
It’s time to come home!
Helen Baxt, part feline, part witch and once-upon-a-time guitarist and songstress, who loves her fierce redhead daughter with every fiber of her being, aims to answer the call to find her voice again!
HEART LETTER by Jac-Lynn Stark
I am always here for you
even when you have a hard time hearing me
even when you shut down
under the seasonal onslaught of darkness
and harsh cruelty of the political world
Just remember
how you feel my joy
when you learn the identity of a flower new to you
perhaps the scarlet pimpernel
found on a walk near the rocky shore
tiny delicate pink flower thriving in a harsh location
perhaps the deeply purple fox grapes
on Baker’s Island on a late summer day
ripe and ready for picking
A few weeks ago
I expanded with excitement within you
as you watched flocks of starlings soar above you
grouping into short-lived shapes
before scattering and then
coming back together into a new shape
wings fluttering in synchrony
as they painted the sky with their creations
Lately I’ve kind of been hibernating inside you
as you fight against dark clouds
trying to enclose you in their suffocating embrace
I whisper within you
words of strength and hope
sending messages to help you
fight your way out of this evil cocoon
maybe I’m speaking too softly
maybe I need to get loud
channel your inner Bronx girl
who don’t take no shit
Come on you!
you’re stronger than this
you’ve got what it takes
to punch out this
motherfucking spiral of numbness
to kick its ass
and send it whirling away
from your orbit!
don't let the door hit ya on your way out!
Jac-Lynn Stark was born in the Bronx and lives north of Boston. She often writes about undervalued animals, such as slugs, spiders, and hermit crabs. Her work has been published in Maintenant 19, Orange is not a colour, Writing by Heart, and others.
SALT SPING ISLAND by Jenny Harrow-Keeler
Scrambling over the rocks,
amidst the sweet resin of the pines,
I search for the perfect spot
to watch the sun slip into the sea.
The salty air swallows
the sorrow of lingering smoke.
Forget your perfect offering—
this, right here, is enough.
In this small pocket of the planet,
the Pacific is still, calm,
smooth as glass.
She beckons me, she calls.
I slide my body slowly
below the surface—
freezing bursts of life
wrapping around me in
silky, cool wetness.
The red ball of fire descends,
reminding me that yes,
we can start again.
A sweet older couple joins me.
With playful courage, they ease away
from the dock without hesitation,
seaweeds and the dark depths of the sea
like a second skin to them.
“A seal just grazed my leg!”
the old man cries with joy.
“This is where I belong,”
my heart hums in response,
each beat a purposeful pulse of presence
reverberating through the chilled water.
The clouds soften, merging with the calm sea.
On that tiny island in the Pacific Northwest—
adventuring alone, yet the opposite of lonely—
my soul is free.
Jenny Harrow-Keeler’s writing weaves nature, healing, and the quiet work of tending the inner world. Her work traces the subtle thresholds between grief and renewal, body and land, stillness and awe. She’s drawn to the transformations that occur when we slow down and let the natural world remind us how to return to ourselves.
POWER OF MY DISSERTATION by Jessica Ulrich
Searching deep within
for truth and discovery
for growth within my heart
expansion of my mind
I hold my passionate dissertation
with graduate and deep appreciation
The journey–
once deep within a mountain
movement of muscles and bones
frustration and little celebrations
Each chapter developed
in my mind body and soul
baby steps faith and trust transferred
to awareness of growth
attitude of yes asking for support
and believing in self confidence
I CAN
I WILL
I DO
I AM
I demonstrated a new approach or transformation
no longer was it about my passionate dissertation
it is about living life!
Jessica Ulrich has been attending Meredith's workshops for four years. She has a passion for writing and allows the poems to write themselves. In summer 2026, her dream of earning an Ed.D (Doctor of Education) is coming true. Jessica's self-published collection, Healing the Heart is available on Amazon.
VISITING WITH THE SKY by Julie Bittman
I try to visit with you every day
It’s a special time for me
first, I lower the left window shade half-way
the other shades stay closed
then I lie down on my bed and look out
and there you are!
The open sky and silent dancing clouds in all their glory
no buildings, no buildings! Only sky.
I watch. And I wait to see what you will do
what beautiful shapes will you create and dissolve today?
“Oh look,” I whisper to my child self
“It’s a dragon in the sky”
and now he’s dissolving.
A plane glides by silently under the shapeshifting clouds
it’s okay, it doesn’t ruin the game
the plane carries a gently exhilaration on its wings.
You are my silent savior and I love you
you connect me to the depth and beauty of nature
you heal me and you nurture me
thank you for this sacred, secret escape
I am so grateful to visit with you.
Julie Bittman is a seeker, adventurer and retired civil servant currently living in Manhattan. She loves puppets, creating collages, writing healing poetry and most of all, connecting with nature and spirit.
LEARNING BEETHOVEN’S PATHÉTIQUE, ADAGIO CANTABILE by Karen Burt-Imira
~ A piece my father used to play often most of my life. And which I loved.
At first I crawled awkwardly
confronting notation that long ago fled
the meadows of my memory –
leaving few familiar traces.
I labelled each note on each page
stumbled through one hand
then the other
stood, fell and got up again
as I played hands together –
my brain stretching across foreign terrain
memorizing one measure at a time.
A year? Two?
In turtle time
the last measure too was in my fingers.
But oh, slippery elder memory!
parts easily disappeared
into lapses of silence
hands frozen in mid-air, nowhere to land.
I re-learned, re-visited, returned
New parts attempted escape
I re-learned, re-visited, returned.
One day, it was whole.
Slowly, day by day
month by month
fear of the disappearances
diminished
like a rainstorm ending in quiet mist
my shoulders relaxed
the music entered my hands and arms
my breathing slowed
as music entered my chest, my breath
Another year in turtle time
a flow began
a playful spirit entered
moving my body
closing my eyes
diving deep into my own depths
the music began to play me.
Floating in turtle time
Being in an ocean
too beautiful
too peaceful
to name.
Karen Burt-Imira studied piano from ages 10-16 and then quit due to pressure to perform. She did not play again until 2021, when, as a retired physician, newly living with limiting illness, she began playing again– including for family and close friends. Karen also finds joy in poetry, photographing flowers, languages, meditation, and contributing to Integrative Medicine.
SILVER SCISSORS by Kelli Mulligan
Harvest Moon howls
deep in Earth's rotation.
Shaking leaves
force fall
a gradual chorus
of earthy gem tones.
Time to find necessary tools
seasoned with experience:
what to harvest
what to surrender.
Autumn calls
for my old, sturdy,
lightweight,
woven basket.
My silver scissors
of light speed
wooden handles
to ground down.
Ready to prune
dead ideas
snip dried tails
of overgrown authority
trim antiquated beliefs
sever old ties
clip my own needs
and wants.
Give people knowledge
to enhance and save lives
planting seeds
that last generations.
Needing nothing
and wanting less
I create art
spirit guiding the dance
for expansive new growth.
Kelli Mulligan began writing poetry as a young girl and rediscovered it as an adult in Meredith’s workshops. Poetry is her therapy, muse, outlet, comradery with other women poets and her inner peace practice. As a high school science educator, writing enriches her teaching practices and brings out her most authentic self.
BELLY MUSE by Kelly Goodin
I call it the year of letting go
you call it the year of being heard
An unshakable partnership of confusion
oh Belly of Discontent
what is your desire?
I try to love your voice
I breathe deeply into you
over & over
breathe, repeat
Feeling your expansive inhale, on the precipice…
yet willing to take one more sip
I hold and soothe you
my little creature nestled and hiding
in my eternally gestating womb
I take you out to play
to dance
I feed and clothe you
But you won’t stop bleating like a lost lamb
simultaneously recoiling and demanding my attention
lurking in the shadowy maze
gnawing with devotion at the raw and exposed antennae
protruding and undulating
from the inner and outer circumference of my being
The year of letting go
of everything and everyone, I thought I needed
Can I even let go of letting go?
The year of letting go
pulling back my skin to expose all the mysteries
fears, desires, possibilities
dying, composting, birthing
Letting them drop… kerplunk,
into whatever they yearn to be
No more grasping tentacles of desperation
no clenching the musical strings of the belly
Just a release - maybe a little “twaaang” as it goes
allowing belly to fill with the vast emptiness of everything
Sweet Belly, what is it we are letting go of?
Not Mother, Lover or Son
just the stories
just the shadowy illusions
Sweet belly, we get to keep all the good parts
the true parts
Those can be held softly in the womb of safety
being gently rocked and tenderly loved.
Kelly Goodin lives a conscious and adventurous life inside and out in SW Colorado. Harvest was her very first writing workshop and the poems that unfolded were also her firsts. She discovered the exhilarating freedom that writing brings– unlocking a powerful ally she will forever dance with and be grateful for.
BOUNDARIES by Lindsay Chinapen
Boundaries, grief, trust
the holy Trinity of my heart.
Boundaries for your heart,
so open and inviting,
always leading
only slightly protected,
perhaps only situationally.
Your watchmen occasionally dozing off,
So, you let them in, all of them
not discriminating against a smile or a scowl
“Come on in!”
Be kind, accept them all
Be an asshole.
You will somehow find their sliver of light
How about no!
It’s okay to peek out the door and choose who to let in,
who to welcome to the light
the bright, and even of the dim,
for you can help them shine,
but the dark, the shadow,
Lock the door, deadbolt, seal it!
It is OK, protect YOU!
Lindsay Chinapen lives in Eagle Idaho. A former teacher who found her true passion and purpose in being a stay-at-home mom, raising her two beautiful daughters. She enjoys being active, cooking, nature, and pushing herself to write.
PRESENCE by Marianne Hale Levitan
It comes in the night
a quickening of crashing acorns
blinding moonlight
Quietude after Crow’s caw
before Hawks screech
foot lands exactly where it’s supposed to
That… That. What is that?
That voice, yet not just a voice.
A presence
Effervescent bubbling of vitality from your inner solar system
That one that blinks and bellows
shrinks and shivers
bubbles and bursts
with an idea
a connection
a quickening
felt inside your bowl of light
Felt between the stream of connected cosmic consciousness, running, invisible, as spiraling vibrating yes’s in the space of possibility in a moment in which you and it and I and all of it colludes for the combustion
of a new idea, dawning, dream and re-awakened purpose
I bow my head down into the alchemical singing bowl of my own radiant belly as still and reflective as the belly of the Mother.
The portal opens and out flows my song, my peace, my presence, my gifts, my offering
A resonance, resounding through space and time
blending sweet songs and dissonant harmonies
like spun sugar
twinkling sparklers
into an offering of dancing love and light into being
Blue Heron drops a graceful, dufty soft, yet, straight-like-an-arrow feather, at my feet.
Forgiveness… as she takes flight from her own handwoven nest
Marianne Hale Levitan is a photographer, poet/writer, Waldorf teacher, natural born weaver of people and possibilities, lover of nature and inspired by everything and everyone creative. She is a ceremonialist and facilitates expressive arts playshops for busy mama’s and women in recovery. Follow her on IG: @mariannehalelevitan
NEW GROOVE MAP by Mary Pritchard
Out with am I enough
In with I am so much more
Out with Hallmark movies
In with writing from the heart
Out with negative mind games of can’t
In with unlimited potential to explore
Out with checking bank balances all the time
In with knowing I have all I need
Out with crazy carb snacking
In with protein, water, protein, water
Out with denying the rusty fingers my keyboard
In with imperfect, beautiful music
Out with retail shopping therapy
In with reflective “I love you” therapy
Out with pleasing so I am liked
In with pleasing and liking myself
Out with taking a job to not let anyone down
In with, Hey, remember you’re retired.
Do what you want, when you want and how you want to make YOU happy.
Out with the shyness I feel within when with others
In with confidence to show Me through and through
Out with Solitaire and Blast on my phone
In with watercolors, embroidery, and sewing
Out with fear of foods and eating
In with joyful nourishment
Out with mind games of is there something wrong
In with trusting my beautiful always healing body
Out with fretting over sleep or lack of
In with herbal tea time, reflection, gratitude journal, and deep soul rest
Out with focus on old traumas and losses
In with embracing the beauty grown from them
Out with fear or worry of solo adventures
In with courage to spread my wings
Out with the limited Mary in old roles
In with discovery of who I am today, right now, this moment
Out with the old Little Mary Sunshine
In with saucy, cheeky, irreverent, come-what-may Mary.
Mary Pritchard was born in San Francisco and has lived in Marin County, CA for over 45 years. A longtime educator, now retired, her joys are family, friends, community, music, and poetry workshop with Meredith Heller and our poetry family.
SINGING MY SOUL FOOD by Meredith Heller
I sang before I spoke, so they tell me
my mom, my sister, and the old woman
who lived next door to us in Brooklyn NY
Would sit at our kitchen table listening
as I played alone in my room for hours
at 1, 2, 3 years old weaving my melodies.
Singing is my mother tongue
when I sing it’s like some ancient
holy river is moving through me.
It asks of me the deepest ask:
that I be 1000% present
while getting 1000% out of the way.
I never have to think when I sing
each note knows exactly
where it lives in my body.
It searches out every crack
every wound
every sorrow, every joy.
Runs its tongue
through each of these
until the song sings true.
My voice is my altar
song is my prayer.
Meredith Heller is a poet, author, singer/songwriter, nature devotee, and educator. She leads dynamic workshops for a global community of women writers. Her books include Write a Poem, Save Your Life, Writing by Heart, and four poetry collections, Yuba Witch, River Spells, Songlines, and Caterpillar Girl. www.meredithheller.com
THE PULL OF THE MOON by Michelle Andre
Her lunation has been mine for four decades
An inevitable rhythm of waxing and waning
But this year she dropped me from her tides like a discarded lover
The moon freed me from the contract of her ebb and flow
She has returned me to the dark womb of Mother Earth,
to all the things I had forgotten due to the biology of my own fertility,
before the monthly map of the moon
And just like when she welcomed me all those years ago to her push and pull,
This is a fucking wild ride of what the hell
My body grieves the moon’s betrayal,
My skin still wants to reflect her luminosity,
My belly wants to thrum with possibility,
Instead I get puffy misery,
ringing ears, aching joints, brain fog
But Mother Earth says “Welcome home,
I have so much still to teach you,
now you can slow down and pay attention.
The moon was only a distraction.
It is time to become wise, to become a witch, a sorceress.”
It's true, the time has come to open up to Earth’s knowledge,
let my rhythms be those of the seasons now,
of the soil, the cadence of the wind and the heat of the sun,
of spiders’ webs, and falling leaves, scattered stones and blackbirds’ flight.
Earth will bring me home to my new self.
But the full moon in Taurus yesterday did not go unnoticed.
I nodded to her, and she nodded back.
Michelle Andre owns a global marketing company with her twin sister and holds degrees in communications, studio art, design and marketing. Her corporate work has received several international awards. A sixth-generation Oregonian fueled by opera, alpine sports, quick trips near and far, thriving house plants, and good books, Michelle lives in the mountains with her family, two tiny dogs, and giant cat.
IN MY BODY by Mireya Quirie
In my body I feel right
I am at home, at peace
As I stand on the hilltop,
the wind batters me,
but I don't budge.
My feet are planted firmly
I have grown roots
They have woven their way
from the light shining beyond
and within
All the way through me to the soles of my feet
And on down
Digging, pursuing, with purpose, with relish
They encircle the great guts of her being
And embrace her
Dank, fertile,
Crawling with aliveness
And I heave a huge breath
The sea joins the air
And the brilliant blue sky picks up her conducting wand
And the great and beautiful orchestra commences,
Triumphant
And all for me, this creation, this moment
I am alive, here,
To be gifted this knowing
So I take off my clothes
Shed these clinging bits of evidence
that I hold myself separate,
And I walk across the cushiony grass and the craggy serpentine
And with joy fizzing out of every cell
I immerse myself in the pool
This wellspring of three thousand years
All my senses eagerly engage in this nourishment
This union
I gather with the old ones
And the songs that were sung here
I gather with the moss, the morning crescent moon,
the birds overhead, the loam, the salt, the seaweed,
the dolphins in the channel
Oh my god, yes!
This moment,
Yes.
Mireya Quirie loves to be outside, at the ocean or on a forest path. She loves being with her family, making food, playing cards, sitting around a campfire singing songs. She writes to understand herself and others with genuine honesty about what this life has gifted her.
DARK GARDEN by Naomi Villa
in darkness
in this deep
cauldron
words brewing
words, portals
depths unknown
rolling off the tip
of my tongue
words, spells
they hold magic
once locked away
now expressed
a seed
planted in dark earth
a garden of possibilities
growing
my voice
now in full bloom
Naomi Villa is a poet, sacred alchemist, threshold guardian, and tarot practitioner. She walks with others through liminal spaces as they navigate the dark, connecting with and illuminating the moon of their hearts.
MOON HAMMOCK by Nicole Phillips
The travel hammock from REI
finally came out of the closet
to meet
two grand, round & rough
redwood trunks
in Big Sur
Will they hold us?
All of me and Mike?
A silky green cocoon sack &
pillars of ancient ones
elders rising and rooted
Oh yes,
they will & do
up to 400lbs
I connect the webbing
girth hitch the loops
around their sturdy girths
They scoop, sway, scoop
our bodies together at dusk
a rare moment
our pelvises pressed together
tail to tail
sit bones to sit bones
legs intertwined
like we've crawled inside a crescent moon
We listen
great horned owls hoot
we sway and seal a summer day
sunlight dims to dark
moon ignites our spark.
Nicole Phillips is a dance artist & poet in the Bay area. She has attended Meredith’s workshops both as a teen and adult. Her poems are published in Meredith’s books: Write a Poem, Save Your Life & Writing by Heart. Nicole has performed solo works in SF and Berkeley for 18 years.
BASKET OF DAYS by Renée Witon
Give me your basket of want and sorrow,
of hiding and shame,
of no hope to borrow.
The basket we wove to contain our days of counting the strands
until nightfall brought us unconscious peace.
And I will gift you a basket of mine.
Of days of clarity and charity,
with filaments of purity and innocence.
Weaving this adventure together, as the one shining love that we are.
Of the true seeing the wonders this world lays before us in every thread.
Renée Witon is a musician and educator living on Jalquin/Yrgin territory, also known as Oakland, California.
SLEEPING WITH THE DOGS by Sandy Greenberg
My puppers, my pumpkin heads– Tea and Dil.
They of the long licks and deep sniffs.
and me with my hungry reaches.
Tea moving inwards, Dil chasing outwards.
They are such a mystery, I can’t wrap words around them–
But together, the air is fuller,
stuffed with our tumbling secrets.
Sandy Greenberg currently lives in California with two Standard Poodles. She has been writing and thinking about poetry since she was very, very young.
DEAR FEAR by Shae Head
Dear Fear,
My companion, my love,
You have worked so fucking hard and held on so tightly for decades now.
I love you so much. I know that there were times when I desperately needed you. You kept me safe in some very unsafe, soul-threatening moments. I’m so grateful for that.
But, honey, the grip is too tight, the grooves too deep, the neurons too calcified around voices that are gut-deep and that would blow open caverns leading to this present moment, if I let them.
Fear, my dear, meet Beau. He is half a ton of muscle and hooves, grassy breath and dirty white mane. He is my teacher in a language that I didn’t know was possible. He is outer guide to the inner heart-sickness that was only ever a longing for my Self.
Words don’t work with Beau. He refutes their shallowness and limitations. We speak, body to body. He is master; I am novice in the holy labyrinth of our shared mammalian cells.
Fear, my friend, I want you to know that I stand in the pasture with Beau and his herd. I hold space for you and the rest of my inner galaxy.
We are safe.
We are whole.
We are one with the wild vibrations that rise from our place on this earth.
Shea Head is a deep, dark-blue-tinged soul currently embodied as a recovering K-12 teacher. She started writing around age four. Her first literary hero was the badass Frances in Bread and Jam for Frances by Russell and Lillian Hoban. Shea's favorite poet-hero is Lucille Clifton.
SOMETHING WILD by Stacy Parish
An empty basket
as empty as my lonely heart
in Miss Tasker’s 3rd grade class
1976
those dopey school photos
with the fence post and the American Flag
Rather than having a cool lunch box
with kittens or Scooby Doo
mine had cartoon scenes
from the American Revolution
Betsy Ross sewing the American flag
Ben Franklin with his key and his kite
But in class there was John
blonde, shy, curly haired John
He introduced me to the word “fertilization”
in the dictionary
though I never understood why
or the definition for that matter
He gifted me small pelts of fur
he said they were mink
Smaller than a playing card
with ragged edges
They somehow made me feel special
less alone
I was never allowed to have a pet
and I longed to touch
something soft
to stroke the fur
of something
wild.
Stacy Parish is an award-winning storyteller, WPR contributor, and host of the “Full Spirals” podcast. With decades in broadcasting, education, and the arts, she brings her voice and creativity to work that inspires connection, healing, and empowerment.
NETTLES SOUP by Suzu Neuweld
Walking deep in the forest
Dappled sunshine flashing dots of energy
The scent of pines
The caw of crows
The exuberance of hawks
The crunching of dry leaves and the scent of musty earth.
Evergreen everywhere!
Did you know that when green is reflected in the iris
calmness comes over you; harmonious, restorative calm.
Hazel eyes are greener in the forest
They sparkle like child’s laughter.
The body remembers its fairy feet and dances with delight.
Dance into the stinging nettles and the prickly leaves and stems will bring life
to ankles, calves, legs and hips awakening the spine.
Sister Nettles says “take me home and make me into soup
to nourish, to heal, to keep shining green.
Put me in the big orange pot with shallots, leeks, potatoes and cream.”
Ah! A big pot of green.
Wellness on a spoon.
Suzu Neuweld is a poet and storyteller living in Marin County, California. An earth mama with two adult children with plant names and a shy dog who is a flower. She is inspired by the natural world and humans who live authentically from the heart.
BRAIDED SWEETGRASS by Trinity Minty
She handed me a coiled-up rope of braided sweetgrass.
I didn’t know. I hadn’t heard.
The book sits on my shelf, never cracked.
“What’s it for?” I asked.
“It helps carry your prayers to your ancestors.” She responded.
I’m allowed to have prayers?
I have ancestors?
I wasn’t dropped here by accident?
Without connection.
I took it home.
I felt the strands in my fingers.
I held it up and breathed it in.
Uncoiling it, I placed it in a cast iron bowl.
Pulling the string from the narrow end, I offered it a flame.
It began to blacken and smoke. I breathed in the sweet smell.
Closing my eyes, “I’m allowed to have a prayer.”
My ancestors crack their eyes, widen their mouths,
listening, waiting for my prayer.
They’re poised and ready.
Patient.
My voice cracks and stumbles around looking for the words,
like a spindly legged horse standing for the first time.
I’ll be!
I pray for clarity and connection.
In a resounding song, my ancestors invite me into their arms.
My body and heart are flooded with connection to everyone and everything.
I am not separate from the air I breathe.
I soften.
Shit man, this is amazing.
I soften.
I offer the end of the sweetgrass another flame.
I watch the smoke swirl and dance into the ethers.
I weep.
I GET to have a prayer for my life.
My ancestors have always been with me.
I soften.
Trinity Minty is a lover, mother, healer. Movement educator, craniosacral therapist.
River dweller, tripper. Writer.
REBECCA & MIRACLES by Verana Bailowitz
Tomorrow Rebecca would have turned 47 years-old.
She would have gathered her beloveds
at Limantour, built a mighty fire,
and prayed to the waves for miracles.
Even before she was sick,
she was always praying for miracles.
Three months ago,
I sat at her bedside with her dearest ones
and watched her heartbeat
steadily run out of its time
I wept into her neck,
tears rolling down her bald head
and even her angels knew
how fiercely I loved her,
how one day I showed up
at her door and offered myself
to the end of her life.
I am remembering
how she took her final breaths
between songs and silence
how even after her final exhale,
her pulse kept going, her heart
lingering longer with this earth
that she loved so much,
and with the people who gathered
to bid farewell to the wild, wonder-filled witch
that was Rebecca.
For one hour longer, her pulse remained,
her heart beating its final whispers of wisdom
like a drum from the beyond.
It says to me now:
Love, my beloved, love now.
Love for you. Love for me.
Give yourself fully to all that you adore
and let your beautiful heart
fully pierce through anything
that pretends to be regret.
Walk sister, walk now.
Walk for you. Walk for me.
Scurry up a mossy mountain,
stand firmly at the top, breathe pure air
and know you are home.
Sing, my love, sing now.
Sing for you. Sing for me.
Bless space with your spirit.
Claim the Divine with your infinite voices,
your incantations of truth,
your unique heart song.
Live, friend, live now.
Live for you. Live for me.
Scream your soul on an empty beach
sandy wind whipping through your hair
until you’re empty
and filled with God.
Verana Bailowitz is a full spectrum doula, childbirth educator, and archetypal astrologer. She is the owner of Embody Your Birth in the SF Bay Area, CA. She is a dancer, poet, and songwriter who is devoted to walking this Earth with integrity, imagination, and liberation.
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