Windfall

photo by Jeremy Trumble

There is a certain kind of rejuvenation that takes place in the soul when all you can hear is the wind blowing hard.  It blusters itself in and out making low gravely buzzing sounds that groan and moan and penetrate your senses, your boundaries.  It can touch places inside of you where no one goes, not even yourself  but you know it's in when you feel something.


The corn stalk sentries stand in rows collecting leaves and debris in their tassels until the wind shakes out their long tangled hair.


This wind, this power leaves me bending, bowing, and yielding.  Residue is wiped off and I am left clean with the aftermath of rearranged thinking and transformation.


I obey the power of natural phenomena.  I have no choice but to love it.  The winds knock me down, the ocean sucks me under, hard rain blinds me, extreme cold freezes me, and lightening threatens me.  I can't argue, negotiate, or manipulate this kind of power.   I could crawl in a cave and avoid it all but then I would be dead.


I hope to live this life waiting for the wind to take me down as I stand in its way.  


We all transform whether we are willing participants or not, with or without love.  We will change as we experience.  Living, like the wind, shifts and move us and then spits us out for inspection. 


I love the wind; I love what I am not in the wind.  I am not a profession, a title, a wife, a daughter, a mother, a friend etc.  I am the bare bone of me, getting stripped down and forgetting what I think I know.  I feel the exhilaration of peace and quiet as my world blows away.


Shadorma Poem version:
Corn tassels
Silken reminders
Tangled now
Wind language
Stripping body trunk smoothly
Rejuvenated



Haiku Poem version:
Corn tassels whip hard
In response to the wind blow
A new day




Copyright 2012 Rozanna Landavazo

Return

When we return to our poetry

we can feel again

music filters into us

rhythms forgotten

vibrate in our hearts

mist drizzles out of our eyes

our skin; we become damp

we can smell our scent again

we touch others

we allow others to touch us

we listen

Is that you God, Goddess, Buddha, Great Spirit

that whispers

that guides

that breathes in and through us

that leads me to you

you to me

for a moment

before we change

into a mystery

at the end of our poem.....?

Rozanna Landavazo copyright November 2011

Adrift

flickr.com/photos

Shadorma is a poetic form from Spain. It is a 6-line syllabic poem of 3/5/3/3/7/5 syllable lines respectively. I have been working with this form lately and came up with this.

In a dream

floating on my back

in a pond

lily pads
blanket my body snuggly

drifting to nowhere

Rozanna Landavazo copyright 7/2011



Groovin'

Barbara Meuers: Mississippi River Chronicles Blog

Brown bosomy gurls

in they yellow frilly skirts

jus' groovin'

Rozanna Landavazo copyright 8/2011

Bruce's Petals

Bruce and Dana

Bruce and Dana were gunned down across the street from us April 11, just a little after midnight.  As Ernie and I were going to bed, I heard his mother screaming in the street so we quickly ran out the door. We took Grandpa and the rest of the family into our home that night because everyone had to be interviewed by the police.  They had no where to go except into the street, into the coldest night of their lives.
The family gave Ernie and I a huge bouquet of white roses and thank you notes signed "we love you." That night was the first time we had met some of them but the rudimentary feelings of love and kindness were flowing from my husband and I that night and my sister said "you were their angels doing God's work" which is so humbling. And still I grieve and cry.



Bruce's Petals

Too soon cut from the stock
A once fresh bouquet
of white roses
surrounded by baby's breath
now
standing still in a vase
reverently
wilting, 
browning,
falling

And the rain drops
the next morning
fell like the tears
of your family
that night
only more slowly
glistening, clinging
to branches, the
droplets sparkled in
the sheerness of the air
the sun glared
painfully into this
heavy feeling that
could not rise
to greet this show of
beauty

For he executed you
and your lady
He emptied 15
rounds into 
both of you
starkly
bluntly
brutally

Your family
flowed into our home
a river of agony
as the rain
misted them
dampening them further

we don't leave
our neighbors
in the rain

A yellow ribbon
went around
the house, the vehicles

a home an hour ago

the police
the detectives
the chaplain
we spent the
night together
we shared
your shock
your horror
your excruciating disbelief
for you were all
bludgeoned with no hope

"Bruce was murdered
Bruce was killed
Someone killed my son"

His mother, his sister, his father
his uncles, aunts, cousins, his grandpa,
his in-laws paced in and out
suffocated by pain
needing air

The killer turned himself in
that night, her ex-husband
of 5 years after following her
to Grandpa and Bruce's home
talked to
them about cheating then
shot them dead

The killer's children numbly suffer
The killed mother's children suffer
All who loved them suffer
All who liked them suffer
All who cared, served, knew, worked with,
laughed with, played with
suffer

Bruce's petals are drying
in a bowl
in the sun
along with
our petals
that fell down
that night........



Copyright Rozanna Landavazo 2011

Origins

rulramirez.com/objetos

Poetry comes out of me
Not like from:
Not like to:
Not like a gift tag
but like sweat
from heat
that surges in
arteries, veins
gushing to
the heart
pumped to
the brain
bursting from storage into
a sprinkling of
runes on paper
coerced to
orderly print from
neatly tucked emotions
autographed by
ethnic flavors
perfected, proofed
conditioned like wild hair
clipped literary tendrils
recorded, preserved
exposed, criticized
loved, hated, misunderstood
respected, ignored, forgotten,
from me

to you......


Rozanna Landavazo copyright 2011

No Lunch

the sun.co.uk

Predator sees nest

Screaming seagull sentry dives

Protected this time



Rozanna Landavazo copyright 2011