Sheila O’Malley: Prose
Sheila O’Malley: Prose
Muse
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.
Unexpected
Wanting more.
Shining
A wealth of ideas
Having been covered by toil
Emerges
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
Unleashed
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
Awakened
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.
Fear
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.
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The misery of ugliness undoes me