Sheila O’Malley: Prose



Awaken now,

The self who stares at the moon,

The self who delights in the forest.

Come back to me oh soul departed

Oh shrunken heart awake.

Your days are spent,

The hours dwindle

your wealth is spent on shadows.

Then, small and large unite

Poetry springs from the heart

Fear melts away.       

Nature is her muse.

She hears the unspoken voice within each thing.

And with her brush, she gives it tongue.

Blown by the Wind

Often times things cannot be appreciated except when they are gone or about to disappear.  It is only in their vulnerability, their fleetingness, that their value compels the attention, and what previously was taken for granted, becomes apparent.

A piece of land, an original farmstead, homesteaded by the family that broke it from its wildness is soon to become a housing development.  I was given permission to paint on the land.  I was initially attracted to its building sites-the house, the old barn, the sheds standing as monuments to a quieter time.  However, I found the buildings too sad to paint, like skeletal remains.  I began to paint the land instead, the beautiful rolling land of oaks and waters, land that knew not its fate.

It was fall when this passion was enkindled.  It was a fall that seemed never to be put to rest by winter.  My days of outdoor painting extended day after day.  The land held more beauty than I had time to capture, and this became my mission, the work of my days. 

The fall has a beauty like no other. It is a glorious time and also a sad time.  The warm afternoons seem like they will never end, but its colors are short lived, blown by the wind.

The Owl

I am the owl

Gladness in it’s call.


Wanting more.


A wealth of ideas

Having been covered by toil


like the shining of stars

In the dark of space,

And my meaningless existence

Gains hope with the sight

And the desire to translate the sublime.

A Child of God

A child of God awakes

In temples sublime

Across running brooks

Tumbling down from higher ground.

Her tears tumble from a holy spring


She need not carry her father’s guilt, her Mother’s shame.

A child of God stands small in groves of aspens tall.  Smooth white giants, touching the sky.

The First Snow in the Mountain

The first snow in the Mountain.

The air winter cold,

Hearts running with the brook,

Listen, see.

Remember the quest for enlightenment,

The memory revived


The beauty of the running brook is pure,

The beauty is pure,

Since when did the heart dance

And the sun spin?

Easter Lily

The lily,

Green in innocence

Opens unseen

Surprised in it’s unfolding

It’s mysterious unfolding.

Silently it opens.

Green transforms into golden white.

Her insides open

Trumpets sound.

The full stretch of glory

Rebirth, the horn of glory.


The body fears it’s loss

Time weeds soul’s abilities.

And tears from youth its use.

I fear the infirm hour

Where time oppresses

In stretched out moments.

I Want to be an Indian

I want to be an Indian

Moving in the rhythm of the drum beat

The tribe moving as one,

The many as one.

The piercing solitude of the flute still sounding.

I Want to Be an Indian

I want tp be an Indian

Riding on my horse

Circling in the circle

Hearing the Raven’s voice.

Page 1

The misery of ugliness undoes me