Expressionism

(For Ann on her birthday)

I savour the taste of words
the shape of them in my mouth,
the colour of them in my mind, and the varied textures of meaning in each choice.

I love the clarity of each syllable
the hues and shades of meaning;
the plush or brittle sensation of idiom and phrase as it moves from mind to tongue.

I pick and choose each word and phrase
by habit, by convention, by usage;
each cadence, each weight and meter for its significance of its description and overtone.

I paint with words and meaning
instead of pigment and brush;
the hues and shades of each phrase, each placement of sound and thought is by design.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak

© 30 May 2019

Quicken

Sap green leaves feather sepia branches
Willow green fronds reach out towards the sun
White apple blossoms form cottony haloes
Blushing magnolias landscape the vista
Lilacs and forsythias vividly flower’ng
Dogwoods and redbuds brighten the sky
Ev’rywhere trees and shrubs fill one’s vision; 
the air scented purple, coral, and pink
Newly minted green’ry… tender, and leafy
speckle the branches in recent repose

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 7 May 2015

Mother’s Day

No matter the difficulties one faces,
no matter the complications of one’s life;
it matters not to the spirits of the Earth.
Terra is ancient and feels her age;
She is fractured and sere, swollen and sodden,
She is abused, consumed, drained, and spent.
She has been infected, polluted, fouled, and corrupted by those she has nursed.
She, as is a mother’s wont, has exhausted herself in feeding and sheltering her charges.
She has provided food, water, fuel for warmth and cooking,
air to breathe, and clean breezes for cooling and sails.
She has allowed man to torture her, rip her open to take her minerals, destroy her hills and valleys.
She has accepted that her denizens care only to grasp more and more from her,
ignoring her screams, groans, spasms, eruptions, and gasps;
her outbursts only a concern for their own safety.
What do we owe our Mother?
Do we not owe her at least the respect she deserves for her aeons of nurture?

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 8 May 2016

Everything is Simple, but Nothing is Easy

You don’t have to believe in something bigger, more powerful, something divine to pray.
You only need to believe in yourself, your intentions, the creation of an inner plan;
desire for peace of mind, peace of the heart, unity within the body,  peace in the world.

Prayer is clarity, a meditation, a centring of self with focus and intent.
Our actions are our own, only we can transform our lives, 
only we can help to change and heal the world around and within.

If we pray for others to lose so that we alone can win we turn prayer into a curse.
When our desires for things and not love, calm, health, and gratitude take over our thoughts, 
then our focus is sullied, and our intent spoiled with selfishness and delusion.

To turn intention into prayer is to understand love, to hope for good, 
to truly desire to form unnamed need into words.
To bring forth understanding from chaotic thought  
breathe in joy and breathe out fear; surround yourself with Light and the heartbeat of the universe.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 4 May 2019

Just a Bowl of Rocky Road

Life is like ice cream

Sometimes it’s sweet,

Sometimes it’s rich,

Sometimes it’s messy,

Sometimes it’s soft;

Sometimes desirable, but often it’s bad for you.

Sometimes it brings on a smile.

Sometimes it makes your head ache.

Sometimes it’s tinged pink, and sometimes it’s green.

Sometimes it’s plain white vanilla;
sometimes it’s exotic, and sometimes it’s brown
and often has lumps in the middle.

We lick it, or bite it, or are dosed with a spoon.

Life reflects ice cream,
let’s savour ours soon.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak

© 31 March 1994

exSOLtation – Alleluia

Dawn creeps slowly in
unseen birds sing in rippling trills,
water splashes pitter puddle
upon a shallow stone.

Sky is black, then a pale horizon
emerging into tints of yellow, mauve, and blue;
a watercolour of sun and sea reflects in the sky.

Songbirds whistle chirp a fluting, soaring orchestra of sound;
an overture to day.

Flowers open to the light, petals damp with dew;
leaves sway to the rhythm of the breeze.

Nighttime peace yawns and prepares to sleep away the day.

Noon sun rises like a temple gong
harsh then dulcet;
reverberating waves of heat.

Fish bubble and plop, catching the light with their midday meal.

Playing children giggle, shriek, and run
chase and tag; bats crack on flying balls;
bicycle tyres turn and whoosh against opposing winds.

Sky cerulean bright against a fleet of fleece-white sailing clouds;
trees rustle, hiding thieving squirrels and warbling songbirds.

Drowsy-eyed against the light, Day basks in the sun.

Later, Day starts its journey towards the Night;
sky and sea both flat and darkened blue.

Swallow flit and dart, circle swoop;
hunting their buzzing dinner feast.

Sun swells, descending in a brassy, blazing fanfare
of orange, red, and gold.

Robins whistle the evening in;
russet breast aburst with joy and pride, in rousing finale.

Crescendoes, as day’s purple-streaked curtain, draws closed.

Day is done
moonlight blankets the land, stippling the trees in silver.

Reflected orbs in sea and stream polka dot the darkness.

Whippoorwills flute a descant to the owls.

Midnight shrouded trees shrug their leafy branches;
redistributing the nestled birds their heads under feathered wings.

The world is in silhouette,
colourless against a darker background of blue-black.
Only eyes are visible, nocturnal gold and green matching their eerie light against the moon and stars.

Day snuggles down in the blessed dark and sleeps away the night.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak

© 19 June 1992

GeminI’m not

I am of two minds
I want to live two lives;
productive and busy, using my wits and skills and at the same time leaning back, napping, reading, walking, and discussing.

I don’t want a list of unaccomplished chores hiding under the furniture or in the back of the cupboards.

I want things to look forward to doing without longing to be back home while doing it.

I want a life of no regrets, no fears, and no doubts. I want a life of wonder, of joyful noises, and beautiful experiences.

I want to accomplish and do great things while the other me stays home sittin’ and a’rockin’.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak
© 3 May 2019

Survivor’s Guilt

There is no beginning, there is no end; there is only now.

All of us survive something when others don’t.

Guilt can be negligible, or overwhelming.

The only cure is to make one’s actions a healing balm to Memory.

Ronda R. Scott-Marak

© 10 October 2011