You know how jellies are. Those gummy boneless bodies without any eyes, not even a brain, carried along with the tide, who knows why or if they have a purpose. Think what it must be like. How might they know where they are when they barely distinguish light, or that it’s night or that … More Jellies
Lined up along the ledge, above the streets and gutters where they huddle together, tucking their beaks under blankets of dirty wings, until nodding and bobbing their heads, they take up the spin of the world turning round— and return to the spoils of the street, eyes rimmed red. * * * Street life — Poem and photo … More Street life
Overnight they fell, floating and curling their way through darkness while I slept and spirits dozed, as naked trees bent to the ground, the face of the earth covered its eyes and the crickets came inside. * * * Poem, Rusty Leaves, by Mary O’Connor, originally published in The Aurorean, Fall, 1998, and reprinted in Dreams of … More Rusty Leaves
Sometimes this feeling sets in— as if that whole field of flowers is gold and wine and perfect. Some feel that way when spring unfolds its leaves and petals and sunshine flows and we listen to the cadence of downy reds, drumming their way ’round an old tree trunk. Others think—as the peepers gather and … More The Nature of Peace
Always, even before the mountains were born, it was the sea that folded its dark soul around algae bloom and plankton and embryonic fishes, around ashen rain and shattered prisms of light, and offered up its titanic floor as the resting place of life. Consider that broken shell just washed ashore, its barnacle covered walls … More Requiem
Overnight, they fell, floating and curling their way through darkness, while I slept and spirits dozed, naked trees bent to the ground, the face of the earth covered its eyes, and the crickets came inside. * * * “Rusty Leaves,” from Dreams of a Wingless Child, by Mary O’Connor, Wheatmark Press, © 2007 Photo, Mary … More Rusty Leaves
He was named for rulers and kings, and drank the sweet nectar of the rose, but it was the way he floated and soared on those magnificent Renaissance wings— frescoes of orange and black—that never failed to give rise to the dreams of a wingless child. ******* “Flight of the Monarch” by Mary O’Connor from … More Flight of the Monarch
