The water is vast and glistening and unfathomably deep; the wind is high and strong and cleansing; the earth below my feet is alive and vital and teeming with Grace; and the stars are my blinking, twinkling unfinished dream. This moment is the sum total of my life.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
When the storm clouds roll in, whip the sea into a frenzy I will know
it from my perch up on the mountain. The hummingbird is tossed
by currents smaller than the wingspan of solitude, slower
than the heartbeat of Earth’s molten core, impermanent
as the brushstroke of wasted time. My words will hiss on the wind:
Don’t lose yourself to the absence of nectar or the jealous buzz
and hum of bumble bees. Cradle your chance, peck out the eyes
of the day star as he rises, move away into the blanket of your night.
And dream.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
I would surrender my laughter and lay bare my heart on the stone for you, if only you would let me glimpse the Light beyond the sun, and give me one glorious moment just to swim in the Love that dwells within the nucleus of All things.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
Our hearts are such tender vessels, aware
of what feeds, withers and morphs it into a swelling sea
to marvel at, to puzzle over, to praise. When the blue
sky is magnificently bruised by Autumn winds hastened
by the chill breath of distant December we cannot help
but toss a glance over our shoulder to the fleet foot
of Spring, the tap root of Summer
and back again to leaves that spin as they descend-
plum and concord , persimmon and pear, rhubarb
dandelion, lambs quarters and magnolia vine.
The giant oak litters the ground, confetti tossed
by the tip of a shoe and the pleasure that two feet
on the Earth can bring.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
If we’re not talking about it with each other then what hope does the world have? Rape is not acceptable, under any circumstances, any where in the world. I’m sick of everyone avoiding the issue because it’s “upsetting”. What’s upsetting is that it is becoming socially acceptable around the world to rape women and children, then blame the victims for it. Please, talk about it with the people you know. Fathers, if you’re not teaching your sons to respect women then don’t be surprised when your daughters fall victim to the violence. Men need to step up. Period.
There is no road map for this terrain, no compass that could offer up a clue. You attempt
it with your leather bound books, the oral traditions that became the foundation of our
demise. And if The Book had never been written we would have held hands
and helped each other through the dark. Rising together out of the water, baptized
by the Sun, anointed by the Moon, eternally blessed by the wind
produced by stars. Tall grass to cradle, dust from the Earth reveals
to us the tracks of a tear and the crease lines of a smile. Finding
our way in the tinkle of bells and the brashness of the gong, the meal of grain
ground and turned to paste, baked in clay beneath the coals. The communion
of a shared fire, the echo of love down through ages. Pathfinding
through the reedy banks
boulders strewn like marbles tossed by giants, the honey colored wheat
in the fields and the reeling spectacle that is the Sky. Clouds rush and point
the way around and around, the journey etches the indelible blueprint
in one unbroken line upon the hungry skin of your soul.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
Gentle breath, an infant’s breath, soft and rhythmic, no yearning
because all one’s needs are met. The cradle, like the arms
of Mother; the cottony soft blanket as tender
against the skin as Father’s breath. Hope. Promise.
It didn’t turn out that way. Mother wanted
a Princess, Father wanted a Queen. Brothers wanted to be seen. Teachers
wanted a puppet. Neighbors wanted a ghost. Friends, there were
no friends. Me? I wanted to feel at home where I was
and since I could not I wandered. And the night air
through the dusty metal screen, and the cars on the highway
and the shadows in the woods, and the dusty path between
the briars became Home. And because of those things
I learned
how to be on my own.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
Harp strings and fog horns, bass grooves, flute
flight sun dropping light, tree leaves casting
shadow, life so full you want to cry.
Nothing more than love, than whispers, than trees turning colors
as a last bow to life-giving Light
before Winter settles in, pale grey and quiet. The slumber
of the Soul. Eyes closed and Beautiful. To know Life, to really
know life
is to weep with Joy and shed countess tears
of Longing.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019
A Mermaid Mining Words from the Wet Mountains
The blog of a french storyteller, a polish photography lover and a world adventurer, Christina Czubak.
Reports from my somewhat unusual life
An American student researcher explores the beauty of Sub-saharan African terrain
Watercolour and mixed media art
Author
Global issues, travel, photography & fashion. Drifting across the globe; the world is my oyster, my oyster through a lens.
Family, Politics and Poetry
Oloriel's Truth
"We did not weave the web of life, we are merely strands in it. Whatever we do to the web we do to ourselves.” ― Chief Seattle. Awestruck Wanderer is written and edited by Eduardo Carli de Moraes, journalist, philosopher and musician. Write to me: awestruckwanderer@gmail.com. Cheers, fellow earthlings!
"We're all out there, somewhere, waiting to happen."
Where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry.
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theminstrelscitadel 
Remade
“Remade” June 12, 1984
Take a look at me with the bats in my backyard and the spider
webs on my wings, I am waiting. Behind these dark eyes
I am more than just surging, my spirit is gathering, I am
remade. Night cradles me as a newborn, lungs unused
to breath, eyes still shrouded against
the world that can only for a moment insinuate
the fantastic journey that is to come.
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019