​Even in this strange and uncertain time, we can find reasons to celebrate. Two big reasons come to mind this month.

​April is National Poetry Month, and if ever there was a time to read poetry, it’s now, when many of us have extra reading time and are looking to fill our minds with something other than dire news reports.

​​This month also brings the 50th anniversary of the first Earth Day next Wednesday, April 22. Though the mass celebrations that had been planned will no longer be possible, we can still commemorate the day.

Combining these two celebrations, National Poetry Month and Earth Day, I asked local (and not-so-local) poets to contribute Earth Day poems to today’s blog. I’m happy to share those with you now, along with the collage I created for the occasion.

As I worked on the collage, I went back and forth in my mind about whether to portray the vision of a healthy Earth that many of us had on the first Earth Day in 1970 or the reality of Earth in 2020. In the end, I opted for the more hopeful vision, because I want to believe there's still hope. 

​Once the piece was done, however, I noticed it's darker than most of my other collages (many of which are now posted on the COLLAGES page on my website). Perhaps in the end, my Earth Day collage reflects both hope and concern, themes you'll find in the poems below.

And now, poetry.

The way the sun drips through the trees
feels like the tart sting of oranges
sliced through on a cold winter morning
the shadows sway on uneven stilts 
purposeful but perhaps a bit drunk
hawks flying through the thin mist
 
we did not come here to talk
but to recall bloodlines and bruises
to watch the ache of God's wounded finger
find its solace in the sky
we came to watch the forest settle
shivering around an old circle of coals
 
To pull new yarn out of old wool
to re-dye the worn, faded blue
to an unspoken, holy red
to choose new stones to throw
into the solitude of the lake
to settle into the night
and watch the fireflies shiver and shake

​I struggle to recall the words of those long-ago incantations,
but I can still feel the sun, and the sand spray of those of us
 
who ran down to the continent’s edge to shout wild oaths
and promises, twisted and torn from the wind itself.
 
Hoping for what exactly? I don’t recall. A certain slant of light,
or a feeling of home on the sun and sea-blasted turf?
 
It all looks so weathered now in a way that has grown familiar;
the landscape possesses the face that it has earned.
 
Not searching for monuments, though open to any eventuality,
I remember us, suddenly, as pleased and shy as deer in fields of spring,
 
not as tail-less, lumbering animals, growling and sniffing
for the bones we had buried and lost.
 
Ferns sprout large and primordial where none had grown
in the shaded region above the tides.
 
The sea has crept in closer; it has taken on an ancient aspect.
 
Through broken teeth I whisper a few broken words
and listen for those long-ago incantations.
 
Our footprints left a faint impression of our lives,
but the wind has carried the songs away to the sea.

 
* First published in Blueline: June 2011, Volume 32
Collected in Wanderings at Deadline (Aldrich Press, 2012)

Ninendaan gaawiin waa-babaamendanzimowaad
I think they will not mind that
 
wiikaa bi-dagoshinaan.
I arrive late.
 
Gijiigijigaaneshiiyag gii-giimoodaanagidoowag noopiming
The chickadees were mumbling in the bushes
 
besho naadazina’iganing.
by the box where I get mail.
 
Andawendaanaawaa Manaadendamaazowin
They needed an Honor Song
 
mii wenji-nagamotawagwaa
so I sang to them
 
nisidawenmangwaa miinawaa
because we understand them again
 
ezhi-manaadenimangwaa ingiw wiidokawiyangidwaa
the way we respect those who keep us company
 
gabe biboon
all winter.
 
Gaawiin da-giizhokoniyesiiwag misawa
They do not need to dress warm and yet
 
giizhokawiyangidwaa gidode’iminaaning.
they warm our hearts.

I am Soulofhawk come to sing my song – may your ears and heart be opened.

I stumble in this foreign tongue and try to make the talk
I speak of when this land was young, and of my brother hawk
My spirit voice is hard to hear, I have so long been gone
But I will whisper in your ear, and having spoke, move on

This finger pushed into the sea of sand and swamp and pine
Has been a welcome home to me – I sing this land of mine . .. . 
Of night song sung in joyous trill by every kind of fowl . . . 
Of chickadee and whippoorwill . . . of warning from the owl . . . 

Of plenty fish and wild oats . . . of berries blue and red
That danced their way down happy throats to bellies always fed . . .
Of rivers coursing through green world of gleaming golden lake . . .
Of alligator, hog and squirrel . . . of moccasin the snake . . .
​
The screaming panther ruled the pine, the eagle ruled the sky –
Oh, will you hear these words of mine? Will you even try?
I have no words on talking leaves for you to read, my friend
For all this simple man believed was written on the wind.

​While we bow our heads to the ground
and our hearts seek meaning among the stars,
wild creatures assert their presence
in the here and now
and the just here and gone.
 
Unknowable in the way one speaks
of the alien and other-worldly,
the title to their kingdom is forged
in their absolute
manifestation of the flesh.
 
If this seems ironic and abstract,
then so be it.
 
For irony and abstraction
are our great gifts--
not to the world, but to ourselves--
invented for our survival.
 
And we, of course, are the real aliens;
Each a world unto one’s own,
orbiting a sun of its own devising.

 
* First published in Sixfold, July 1, 2013, Summer 2013
Collected in Jeremiad Johnson (In Case of Emergency Press, 2019)

Listen!
          Do you hear her – Our Great Mother?
                      In this moment, in time - a reprieve -
                      when all human activity
                      has slowed to bare bones minimum,
                      She inhales an expanse of cleaner air.
                      Exhales a wasteland of toxins.
 
          Do you hear her – Our Great Mother?
                      She weeps for us, her children – All
                      Residents, two-legged and four,
                      winged, finned and serpentine. We
                      share the same earth, sea and air.
                      We, the two-legged ones, hold
                      the choices in concert with Our Mother.
                      Even as forces seem out of control, and
                      the playing field remains unequal.
 
          Do you feel her – Our Great Mother?
                      She shudders as the sludge venoms
                      from Frack wells, the vast desolation
                      from wildfires, and endless wars’ ravages
                      do a rival dance with the C-virus.
 
          I wonder about this massive
                      Blue Marble in our universe. The
                      one we call home. Our Mother. 
                      There’s nowhere else to go.  We cannot
                      just walk off or fly away.
 
          I wonder, if I were an astronaut, or
                      could hitch a satellite ride, how - in this
                      Pandemic blink of time –would
                      Our Mother, our home - look?
                      Would her greens be greener, her blues
                      be bluer,  her storms less turbulent,
                      her mass free from veils of smog?
 
          Like a cataclysm, would I see
                      a rotating orb, vibrating
                      glimmers of brighter, kinder energy?
                      Perhaps violet or white? Would
                      I know – would we all know- we’ve
                      begun to exercise our choices for love?
 

Control and fear became our story
Addiction lies between the lines
And love was lost to pride and glory
This ego virus made us blind
 
Your mother's dying by your hands
But you won't listen
Her blood is all over your hands
Will you listen
 
The soul was lost beyond the shadows
The fog will choke us into dust
Collective conscience chose the gallows
The time of man will turn the dust
 
Your mother's dying by your hands
You won't listen
Her blood is all over your hands
Will you listen 

​I hear it in the river.
I see it in the buds of the maple.
I hear it in the sounds of the red wing black bird.
 
Inquisitive cat so happy to be playing outside
Warm breeze on the back of my neck
 
I see it in the new bright yellow feathers of the gold finch.
I hear it in a distant barking dog.
 
Ever grateful to be walking this Earth mother experiencing my spring soul

​Once the land was green
And the buffalo could roam
The rivers clear and clean
Washed by our simple homes
And all turned in the wheel
And the sacred song was sung
To teach us what was real
And the earth stayed young
Once a man would take
No more than he could use
Set bones back in the lake
When a meal of fish was through
And all turned in the wheel
And the sacred song was sung
To teach us what was real
And the earth stayed young
     
Once the earth was young
And men saw with their hearts
That everything was one
And man was but a part
And all turned in the wheel
And the sacred song was sung
To teach us what was real
And the earth stayed young
Now the earth is old
The buffalo are gone
The rivers have been sold
And man stands all alone
Let all turn in the wheel
And sing the sacred song
To teach us what is real
So the earth stays young

​You can't eat the money
That you've all been praying on
That God has only destroyed you
And you can't drink the oil 
You've been pulling out of the ground
Your momma's shaken and torn . . . fool
 
Do you know what you are
And what you're here for
When it all comes crashing down
What have we learned
 
Distractions have kept you
From what's really going on
Keeping you away from your mother
Her life source you could tap into
Can heal that broken bond
Yes, you can get there inside you
 
Do you know what you are
And what you're here for
When it comes crashing all down
What have we learned

​There is a sudden authority to nightfall
in the flight of a heron, and to the surrounding
darkness where countless feed.
 
But so much that is unattainable, so much
that lies beyond the sovereign dark, rises up
out of the pale blue season of twilight
 
like fireflies summoning among the trees
as the moon loses her translucent and ghostly pallor
in the evening’s first clear and troubling dreams.
 
***
 
Toward daylight, the deer rise up
from among the flattened grasses
and low-lying hummocks,
 
emerging in the cool of morning
from indiscernible swales
and cedar swamps,
 
wary and shy, but alive with owning
at least a part of this
pale blue season of wildflowers.

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, social distancing has forced many authors to cancel or postpone readings and book signings they’d scheduled for spring. A dozen of my fellow authors and I got our first taste of this when the West Michigan Women’s Expo, at which we were all selling books (or trying to), was shut down only three hours into what was supposed to be a three-day event.
 
That’s when I came up with the idea to host a couple of virtual Author Expos on HeartWood. I posted the first one two weeks ago. The second installment opens today.
 
Here, you can visit the virtual tables of seven authors and check out their varied offerings. If you find a book you love—and how can you not, with this many authors and books?—please consider using some of your unexpected free time to write and post a review on Goodreads, Amazon, or both. The author will thank you and so will readers who learn about the book from your review.

​http://normalewisbooks.com/
 
Forget San Francisco, Norma left pieces of her heart in Alaska. No cruises or packaged tours for her, she prefers experiencing the state independently via ferry, mail plane, rental car, train, motor-home, bush plane, and an occasional bus. In 2014 she was Jason Mackey’s IditaRider. Many of her Alaska adventures have ended up as magazine articles, though now she is focusing on books.
 
To be fair, she loves Michigan too, as her books on Michigan history attest. In Norma’s view, history isn’t dates and wars and documents, it’s people and how they reacted to the events that unfolded around them. In researching her books, she’s drawn not to dry facts, but to the quirky.
 
Norma’s nonfiction titles include Wild Women of Michigan: A History of Spunk and Tenacity; Lost Restaurants of Grand Rapids; Legendary Locals of Grand Rapids; Grand Rapids: Furniture City; 100 Things to Do in Grand Rapids Before You Die; Muskegon; Grand River; Dutch Heritage in Kent and Ottawa Counties; Wyoming; and Connecting the Coasts: The Race to Build the Transcontinental Railroad, and Show Me The World Eskimo-Indian Olympics: Casey Ferguson.
 
In addition, she is the author of Kasey’s River Song: Spinning Dreams in Gold Rush Alaska; and Dear Santa, I Know It Looks Bad but It Wasn’t My Fault.
 

​https://contentqueens.net/
 
Author, adventure traveler, volleyballer, biker, hiker, and yogi—Laura is not one to sit still. She’s always on the go, looking for the next big idea. Co-owner of a marketing communications company, FineLine Creative, she advocates life-work-play balance and encourages others to immerse themselves in different places and cultures, as she has through her travel adventures.
 
In her spare time, Laura writes a monthly travel blog. Her recently-released book Travel Light is a memoir that explores the lighter side of travel with doses of humor, adventure, and personal transformation. Through her stories, she takes readers along on journeys to Italy, Ireland, Spain, France, Alaska, Arizona and her home state of Michigan.

https://www.sherryaburton.com/
 
Born and raised in Kentucky, Sherry and her Navy husband lived in nine states before settling in Michigan. She got her start in writing by pledging to write a happy ending for a friend who was going through tough times. The story surprised Sherry by taking over and practically writing itself, and launched her into a new life as an author.
 
Her historical fiction series, The Orphan Train Saga, follows the stories of children who were transported from Eastern cities to foster homes in the Midwest between 1855 and 1929. While the children in the stories are fictitious, each child’s story is told with the use of history from the era to add flavor and excitement to the tale.
 
Her other novels include Tears of Betrayal, Love in the Bluegrass, The King of My Heart, Surviving the Storm, Somewhere in My Dreams, Seems Like Yesterday, and Always Faithful.
 
Sherry also writes children’s books under the name Sherry A. Jones.

​http://tueborbooks.com/book/tuebor/
 
A former Michigan State Police officer, Robert was launched into police work as as the first full-time patrolman with the Bridgeport Township, Michigan police department, initially without the benefit of formal police academy training. After surviving those eighteen months of on-the-job training, he began his career with the Michigan State Police, where he was first assigned as a trooper near Detroit, conducting countless criminal investigations. From there he went on to a variety of assignments over his 25-year career, furthering his education with an associate’s degree in criminal justice, a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice from Madonna University, a Juris Doctorate degree from the Detroit College of Law (now MSU School of Law) and a Ph.D. in Public Affairs and Administration from Western Michigan University. He currently practices civil law and is working on a new book about his experiences as an attorney.
 
His first book, Tuebor – I Will Defend: An anatomy of a Michigan State Police Trooper, is the story of an honest, hard-working yet naïve young man who chose to leave the safety of civilian life for a career of a dedicated police officer. The book depicts the daily lives of officers and captures the human side of police work.

​https://www.quittandquinn.com/wendy-sura-thomson
 
Wendy’s memoir, Summon the Tiger, is a story of surviving and thriving in the face of extraordinary obstacles. Born with congenital skeletal abnormalities, she had a leg amputated as a toddler. Her father suffered from World War II induced PTSD, and her mother was emotionally unstable. Wendy coped by escaping to a world of books and music. But when her father sold everything to buy a freighter and travel around the world, Wendy signed on as navigator. She jumped ship in Miami and headed out on her own, as what was left of her family disintegrated. As she pursued her studies and met a coterie of colorful characters, she was forced to evaluate what was most important to her.
 
Wendy’s other books include The Third Order and a children’s book, Ted and Ned. In addition, she contributed to Postcards from the Future: A Triptych on Humanity’s End.
 
Besides writing, Wendy’s pleasures include sipping coffee outdoors first thing in the morning, rain or shine; listening to the waterfall and the birds; and watching—often with amusement—her two beloved Irish Setters explore.

https://principiamedia.com/authors/kimberly-mocini/
 
Kimberly grew up in Rockford, Michigan and went on to earn a degree in business administration from Aquinas College and to study art at Kendall School of Design. Early in her career, when the microwave oven was first introduced, Kimberly traveled throughout Michigan teaching hundreds the “how to” of microwave cooking. That led to her first foray into publishing, a cookbook called For Better Meals The Microwave Way.
 
Her more recent book, My Child Wasn’t Born Perfect, is a personal and inspiring story of the challenges she and her family faced while raising a child who had a learning disability that was classified under the autism umbrella.

http://www.nanpokerwinski.com/
 
Nan (that’s me!) is a former science writer for the Detroit Free Press and the University of Michigan, whose award-winning work (under the byline Nancy Ross-Flanigan) has appeared in numerous magazines, newspapers, and online publications. Her blog, Heartwood (http://www.nanpokerwinski.com/blog), focuses on creativity, connection, and contentment.
 
Her memoir Mango Rash: Coming of Age in the Land of Frangipani and Fanta, which won first place in the memoir/nonfiction category of the Pacific Northwest Writers Association literary awards, chronicles her search for adventure—and identity—in two alien realms: the tricky terrain of adolescence and the remote U.S. territory of American Samoa. Against a backdrop of lava-rimmed beaches, frangipani-laced air, and sensual music, she immerses herself in 1960s island culture with a colorful cast of Samoan and American expat kids. The lessons she learns in the process prove invaluable when she’s faced with crises as trivial as a mean girl’s put-down and as staggering as a fire, a hurricane, a drowning, and her own health crisis.
 
When she’s not writing, Nan takes photographs, makes collages, and wanders the woods around the West Michigan home she shares with her husband Ray Pokerwinski.