Greening

 

Suddenly I awaken, early April,
and a diaphanous green veil
has draped over the weeping cherries,
the first to bloom with delicate, drooping grace.
Like a green bride, like Salome dancing,
the tiny new leaflets shyly appear.
Soon the new greening will climb stately
up the sides of Lakey Mountain.
On the dogwood trees, creamy flowers,
not yet full grown,
but already gracefully held by each small stem.
With joy, the catbird
repeats, repeats her thoughts,
new, always fresh and new.
The slightest breeze sets the leaves dancing.
The bumblebee awakens, floats into my vision.
O Goddess of regeneration,
Rebirth is Your watchword!
Welcome, welcome!
I breathe deeply of Your fresh greenness. 

 

Annelinde Metzner

April 6, 2022 

 

 

 

Fiddlehead Ferns

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wake Robin

 

Red Trillium

Blood-red trillium,
      with your sumptuous variegated leaf patterns,
      arising in big colonies early, so early in spring
      amid dry leaves and old twigs,
Triple Goddess, you sprout from the dry earth
      innocently, as if it were every day
      ancient knowledge comes forth into our sight.
You lie barely visible at our feet,
      one of the old ones, short and well-adapted
      to the forest floor, a gnome
      with a new red cap.
But no pretty pink here, nor lacy white.
      You are of the blood of the Earth Mother herself,
      and even Her rich warm blood has beauty,
      and she will not hide this, our Mother.
      She bleeds, and Her blood is beautiful.
Wake Robin, wake us to know
      where e’er we walk, She feels and knows.
      We kiss the Earth, but She bruises, too,
      in bloodroot, in trillium, in fracking, in clearcut, in war.
Wake, Robin, don’t be a fool!
      Here is Life’s own rich display, ineffable,
      the upward thrust, the very orgasm of Spring.
She is here today, for you, for us,
      crowding upward for us here,
      but once only.

Annelinde Metzner
Flat Creek North Carolina
March 23, 2012





 

Yellow trillium

  

Botanical Gardens in Asheville, NC

  

Red Oleander

 

Red Oleander

A salamander pale green as the new leaves of May

opens its orange lung-sac, brilliant, to the sun.

Three times at every pause!

In the breeze, red Oleander bends on her long stem, celebrating.

I am drawn down a quiet lane by the scent of jasmine

beguiling my heart, a path toward joy.

The dear Earth wafts up into me,

warm as fresh-baked bread,

filling my womb with Her love.

With my feet in the sand,

I pull Her love up into me,  to power my days.

Mother holds me tenderly, the mourning dove

in her palmetto-basket nest, giving, giving,

we Her babies, Her vast dream,

we Her future and Her now.

The black fin of a dolphin arises from the sea, ancient as days,

loving Her into the fathomless tomorrow.

Annelinde Metzner

Folly Beach

May 2010

Spring in Appalachia

She Heard Me

 

 

          
I sang all my songs to Mama Yemaya,
     our Mother the Sea,
     on that bracing and welcoming day at the beach.
How the great water glistened,
     each droplet responding, reflecting,
     rejoicing under our Father the Sun.
Pelicans dove straight down from on high.
Wee children hopped and squealed in the tide pools.
I sang and sang.
I think She heard me!
Our vast and unknowable Mother,
     Womb of All Life.
I think She heard me.

 

Annelinde Metzner

February 13, 2022

 

 

 

 

 

Sycamore Fig

 

Sycamore Fig fruiting

I know you by your absence, my adoration,
     your familiarity.
Great tree, Ficus Sycomorus, twenty meters tall,
     twice that in width,
     reaching out your wide expanse to protect us,
     our Ancient Mother.
Asherah! Asherah! I remember you as Goddess,
     nurturing us, fostering all beings,
     and in that life, in that dream,
     You were our altar.
Heart-shaped leaves, a canvas for artists through the ages.
Your abundant fruits!  Flowering year-long,
     they ripen green to yellow to richest red,
     proof of your divinity.
Each fruit-fall, a ton, ripens at Your leisure,
     at all times of the year, as it pleases You.
When You, Asherah, were Goddess at our altar,
     were those thousands of rich red fruits
     all the proof we needed?
At our altars, two thousand years ago and so much more,
     You fed us all, monkeys and humans, elephants and bats.
In Egypt, they painted You everywhere,
     as we suckled at Your holy breasts.
"Destroy their altar, break their images,
     and cut down their Asherim!"
     cried Moses, the teachings of the advancing hoards
     echoing down through the ages.
The good red fruit, Your menstrual blood,
     Your woman-power, Your all-giving grace,
     Your place of honor by the altar
     is now lost to us all.
Oh our Mother! Asherah! Sycamore Fig!
I am there again, singing,
     with my sistrum and my drum,
     dancing with all my people
     to the beat of the tambourine.
Roots wide-spread underground, 
     Your massive canopy overhead,
     I feel You reverberating,
     happy under our feet as we dance.
Oh Asherah, Sycamore Fig! African Queen,
     Queen of Trees, beloved of Egypt,
     adored in the Holy Land,
     in those holiest days before Yahweh and his swordsmen
     set out to destroy You....
You fed us all.
I feel Your wide-splayed roots
     and your luscious wide canopy
     growing holy and happy once more,
     fruits as red as my blood,
     in the ageless and undying altar of my heart.




Annelinde Metzner
January 1, 2020

Asherah

Egyptian mural of Tree Goddess

Beautiful trunk of the Sycamore Fig

Birds enjoying the sacred fig tree

Solstice Water

 

Solstice Water   
                                                            
“Forever, forever,” her message,
clearwater spring on Winter’s first day.
Not much light on December twenty-first.
Just the cold, cold quiet of Earth herself,
the illusion of faraway distant Sun,
a long, slow creep back to warmth.
Like a cave, a burrow, is the Winter solstice.
The water almost a paradox,
the bright gurgle like warm brown toes in summer.
This water bears ice,
a layered armor for crawfish and trout,
a dare for the shoes of mittened children.
But the singing call of the spring is not summer’s giggle,
as though only ice makes clear her deeper meaning.
“Forever, forever,” gives she her power,
her presence, her patience, her sustenance, her steadfastness,
right next to cold death, like a mittened hand,
ready for us all.


Annelinde Metzner
December 24, 2001

La Reina de America

 

 

Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe, all photos by Sylvia Ponce

We honored our Great Mother,
Queen of the Americas,
filling the largest stadium in Charlotte with our joy.
There She was, emblazoned with gold and light,
Her joyous followers gathered in love.
The people danced, children and elders,
sturdy young men leaping and stamping,
bright colors flashing.  For Her!  For Her!
Quietly She gazed as group after group
paid homage to Her with their dances and their prayers.
The men sang, the musicians played.
Tears streamed down my face.
“This is my world,” my soul was whispering,
my roughed-up soul, who had seen such deceit,
my soul who had come face-to-face so recently
with disrespect, violence, viciousness and lies.
“This is my world,” She whispered to me,
pouring from my face in tears,
tears of recognition, relief, remembrance.
Empress of the Americas!
Flags of all colors, North, South and Central,
paraded the aisle with a flourish and a spin, for Her.
Children gazed in wonder, 
shiny black hair beribboned with color.
A man with Her image on his poncho, Juan Diego!
Ready for the North Carolina cold.
“Que Viva la Reina de America!” (Viva!)
“Que viva la Morenita Virgencita!” (Viva!)
Tears on my face, my soul leaping, 
the parade continued before Her,
teenagers with boxes full of roses,
young men leaping, feathers flying,
all for Her, and there She is smiling,
my soul weeping, all of us cheering,
a glad returning to this night for Her,
for all of us, for the beauty of the world,
for the healing,
La Reina de America.

Annelinde Metzner
Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe
December 12, 2016

Aztec dancers

School children perform for Her

Carrying Her in a procession

Just Friday

 

Just Friday                                                                  

(a spontaneous poem from the beach)


It’s forty-five degrees, and the water feels even colder,
But I splash in the foam like Aphrodite, 
even though I’m almost sixty.
And I’m NOT SHOPPING.
A kite is suspended in the sky,
so much wind that no one at all is holding the string,
and it stays suspended for hours,
and the kite is NOT SHOPPING.
A child builds palmetto fronds into an altar in the sand,
a  child NOT SHOPPING.
A boy out in the ocean paddles by on some board,
standing straight up in the ocean, 
looking for all the world like Jesus,
and certainly Jesus would not be shopping.
Two dogs whirl around each other,
joy sparking off of them like the flash of Venus in the night,
like the Pleiades in the dark moon night,
and today is just Friday, and no one is shopping.


Annelinde Metzner
Isles of Palms, South Carolina
November 25, 2011

The Darkness

 

Crescent moon

Coming together here, we warm each other’s hearts in the darkness.

The Sun, far away, yearns to embrace us in Her warmth once again.

But this is our time to journey into the depths of the darkness.

This is the time to surrender and listen deep to our souls.

This is the time to close our eyes, slow down and be lulled by the darkness.

Our blessed Mother Gaia dwells within the darkness.

Inhale the song of Her soul, Her soil, Her dark caves, Her rich dark humus.

Mother Earth welcomes you into the darkness.

Walk with confidence, all people, walk safely into the darkness.

Let us love the night, the moon, the stars, the planets, the Seven Sisters high above.

Revel in this other half of our lives, the darkness.

The beauty of the dark earth, the darkness of skin, the dark curves of mountain roads,

The Seven Sister Mountains in their powerful darkness, presiding over Black Mountain,

Our dark blood, our Earth, our deepest selves, the darkness.

Annelinde Metzner
November 16, 2010

Purchase Knob double rainbows caught on webcam!

The Dance of Letting Go

 

 

 

In November, each tall tree
     casts forth Her leaves, one by one,
     tenderly, gracefully,
     each leaf improvising
     Her own sacred dance of falling-away.
The tall trees, rooted,
     wait all summer with delight
     for this moment, movement!
The elegant delivery of the tree's gift,
     new humus for the forest floor.
Oh, all this is beautiful!  Her dance,
     Her stately arms releasing,
     each leaf pirouetting in her own way,
     side to side, up and down,
     solo dancing with the breezes
     or all at once, a chorus with the wind.
Now She's a flower girl,
     casting petals throughout the forest,
     in a perfect ceremony of movement and change.
And deep below, so slow, so slow,
     Her roots draw down the great nutriment
     She shares with all the Earth,
     as She offers Her beauteous dance
     of letting go.

Annelinde Metzner

November 7, 2021

 

     

 

 

 

 

Retreat at Wildacres

 

 

My piano and work table at Wildacres Retreat

The cabin is silent, no footsteps but mine.
At the desk, my choices,
this poem or that, the world's bounty before me.
I choose some for now, and some for later.
At the piano, yesterday's work, glowing,
my father's pencils,
a friend's best erasers.
I live and breathe here in the center of the world.
I do what I was born to do.
Nothing can harm me.
Last night the owl awoke me, right by my window,
and stood the hairs up on my arms.
Ten times she hooted, "Who are you?"
But now I know. 

Annelinde Metzner

August 26, 2021

My cabin from outside

My bed with morning light

Peace Pole in Little Switzerland

Fire Pit and view of Mount Mitchell (Black Dome)

Stay

 

Don’t run
Don’t do this and that
Don’t get your camera
Turn off the phone.
Stay.
Feel a little uncomfortable, antsy, but stay.
It’s quiet now, but soon
the world begins to reveal itself to you.
The oriole is leaping, up and down, up and down,
over dried seed pods.
The hummingbird finds each and every flower
of the brilliant jewelweed.
The warning call of the raptor,
and the pale-winged osprey
flies clear across the open field, north to south.
Stay.  Grow as slowly as a hawthorne.
Ripen one thing a day.
Be Still.  
Stay.

Annelinde Metzner
Catskill Farm
August 3, 2011

St. John's Wort

Goldenrod

Holy City

 

Grandmother Mountain, my Holy City

                                                           

“This is the Holy City,” said Jouad, "Horse," our guide,

in Moulay Idriss, sparkling ancient citadel

climbing the Atlas Mountains of Morocco.

“The Holy City,” 
and She is, my Grandmother of North Carolina,

vast, ancient, singing.

Oldest mountain,

what populations whir in your ethers,

unseen to ordinary eyes?

‘’All here is holy,” said Jouad.

All here is holy!

All is of Her, each rhododendron bloom,

each fire pink,

Holy! the lichen and the moss in the rock.

Holy! the cohosh with its spiked bloom.

Holy! the whippoorwill, the thrush,

the no-see-ums buzzing up my nose.

All who live here are of Her holy being.

All are one with Her.

No need for lies or self-deceit,

no need for bargains or slight-of-hand tricks.

You, fortunate one, have stumbled into

the Holy City.

You don’t need to wear a hat,

sew cushions, or even kneel.

Here with the worms, the creaking old oaks,

the star magnolias and the blueberries

being themselves,

you are Holy too, like it or not.

Whatever time it may be on your I Pod,

you’re in Her time now, as old as it gets.

Welcome to the Holy City.

In Her powerful winds, everything changes,

limbs fall from trees, inessentials vanish,

you may lose a limb too,

or parts of your ego you don’t need.

This is the Holy City.

This is your birthplace, you and the bending oak,

you and the ladybug and the black snake.

Around Her jagged outcroppings,  
a thousand births wail through time.

Some ascend, some descend 
the winding paths of the Holy City.

She breathes on, undaunted,

gathering infrasound from all the directions.

This is the Holy City, and we Her inhabitants,

why yes, the Holy Planet it is,

all of us holy, the clear of vision,

the jaded, the obsessed,

the wounded and the whole.

All of us live in the Holy City.

Rest your bare soles on her rich Earth,

wind your toes into her sweet-smelling grass.

Prostrate your bare Soul on Her holy ground,

many times, inchworm.

She is the Mother of us all.

Annelinde Metzner

Grandmother Mountain, North Carolina
June 20, 2011

Moulay Idriss, holy city of the Atlas Mountains of Morocco

Rhododendron budding

Grandmother in Autumn