Welcome to Four Lines! I have a goal I would like to write at least four lines of poetry or a haiku every day for the rest of my life. I'm excited about this challenge! Also, along with my daily poem, I will be reading at least four lines of another author's poetry. I'll try to include that here also. So I'm thinking - how difficult can it be to read and then write one poem a day? We will see! - Claudia

All poems on this blog, unless noted, are written by Claudia Callaghan.
© 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016 Claudia Callaghan
Used only with permission. Please feel free to join Four Lines and request permission.

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Today I opened
my window curtains
to snow, magnolia white,
lovely and unstoppable
as a waterfall.
Snow on every roof,
every branch,
every driveway,
every car and street,
every mailbox, sidewalk, yard,
every path, meadow, river, lake,
falling flakes,
falling light rain,
and fallen, grounded,
weighted, wet, perfect,
snow-ball, snow-man,
snow-igloo snow.

Soon, I was in the midst
of three hours of shoveling,
the heaviest snow
I have ever known,
like lifting weights
again, again, over and over.
Scraping the cement walk,
the driveway, I pushed snow,
onto the shovel and - oofta -
hoisted, placing,
and sometimes throwing the snow,
onto a building, mountaining bank.
Boulders waited for me
at the end of the drive.
Like in "Bambi"
snow plopped
from tree branches
onto my head!

For some crazy, wondrous reason
I love shoveling snow,
love snow and rain,
sister snow,
twin brother rain,
marvels of the earth.

Walking tomorrow
in the white sun
I'll know snow is
more precious than
diamonds to farmers
and nonfarmers alike,
protecting plants,
melting into the earth
as water.
People do not die
because of snow.
We are alive
because of it.
And I love water
even more than snow.



Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Edictum/Commandment from the Creator of All
2012

all husbands on planet earth
who insist or allow their wives
walk behind them

must now walk behind their wives

all husbands on planet earth
who believe their wives
are their property

shall now become the property of their wives

This edict is in effect individually
as and until each husband determines:
wife and husband are equal
equal to stand side by side
equal to walk side by side
equal to decide side by side
equal in every way.
Each shall honor the other and compromise, when needed, as equals.

Furthermore,  no one on planet earth
shall henceforth be married
unless they agree and believe
in their heart and actions
that equality is true, just and loving -

a spouse to a spouse
a family member to a family member
a love to a love
a friend to a friend
a neighbor to a neighbor
a land to a land
the divided to the divided

                            divisions are sensory in time and space
                            and need not be divided ever



For those with opening thoughts -
edicts, laws, time, space are perceived for
their usefulness. Once realized and understood,
their purpose is fulfilled, no longer needed, 
their illusionary nature known.

Monday, February 27, 2012

Sunday, February 26, 2012

He unintentionally baited the hook so well
I bit down hard and he pulled me to shore
and rolled out a red carpet before me.
I stepped out from my comfortable sea.
A coward I am not, I'm here to know.
He said it sound's like the finest cello
the sound of his living 100-year-old
Steinway grand, reminding me of the red violin.
I desire to hear it, place my hands on the keys,
play his piano and then hear him play.
I'd write music and lyrics from May to May.

Saturday, February 25, 2012

Simplicity is a small crystal bell,
a pine candle burning in the hall,
a mother of pearl abalone shell
the still life alive centered on the wall.

Friday, February 24, 2012

         swinging sky high
wind in my hair    jumping off
         at fifty three

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Mom says poetry is born from magic
and the space of magic, where one
miraculously enters.

Sometimes, I feel I'm on the periphery
of this poetic place looking in.
Sometimes, I have one glowing foot inside.
Sometimes, half way in and half way out,
I feel half spirit, half human.
Sometimes, I find myself inside,
where there is no space, no time.
Words fly out like butterflies in summer.
Satellites set out to discover stars.
Here music, art, nature, science, imagination begins.
A peregrine falcon spies a tree bound squirrel,
a mountain ledge where to build a nest,
a partner circling in the sky, all in a moment.
Infinity happens all at once.
Fog and rivers sing. Worlds collide. Ships sink.
Ancestors speak. Trees talk. Mountains
fall to dust in minutes. Death hovers, Life
accrues. Fear despairs, Love rules.
We are given guidance
with free will to create.

Mom says poetry is born from magic
and the space of magic, where one 
miraculously enters.  I think she is right.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

running down                          airborne
                 the street after my                    umbrella
                                             

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

I drive my son to his medical appointment,
through white streets, under a roof of white-gray.
Last night a silent sheet billowed down,
covering first signs of Monet appearing.
The maple is now a cotton tree,
tiny rusty-red and gold lined buds
clumped in white.  "Look Orion,"
I say. "It's a white day."
"That won't last long, Mom,"
says my four-teen-old pragmatist.

My teenager's low blood pressure will rise
with spring, I know.  Still, we both
remember his sudden fall to the floor.
This time, we'll agree to medication,
something rare in my house, something
I hate to take or give to my children.

In the examining room, Dr Able,
(yes, that is her real name!) smiles
at Orion.  Friends through humor,
she finds Orion amusing.
He wears shorts in 10 degree weather,
races wheel chairs through
the halls (during his last appointment)
saying, "I always wanted to do this,"
and is taller than she is.
Dr Able is African American
with twinkling eyes.
Orion asked me to switch doctors
the day we met her, when his other
doctor was out of town.  Absolutely.
I know a good doctor when I see one, too.

With the hypotension medication ordered,
we leave.  I drive through this veiled
white sheet unraveling in the warm air
on our way to the pharmacy.
Prince sings on the radio, "Little red corvette..."
Orion plays a game on my ipad - trying
to better his highest score. "Mom, I did it!"
My red hundai elantra slushes through the streets.
I am taking it all into my brain, as best I can,
every piece... every moment...
every laugh... every word...
like a mom and, hopefully too,
like a poet.


Monday, February 20, 2012

Which beads to choose?
I have a million beads.
These ancient stones,
I tell my children,
are finer than antiques.

Which beads to choose
to place, to grace, to lace
upon this silver wire? -
the spool a present
for my birthday last year.

Which beads to choose,
which flowers to vase?
It is an act of balance,
ying and yang,
simple and complex.

It is a sublime puzzle
to pick stones that purr
when placed together.
Everything has energy,
you know.

One must love
and practice to blend,
mix, add, delete, decide...

to write a dynamic line
that speaks on its own,
demanding memorization,

to shape and reshape
clay on the potter's wheel,
until the form says fire,

and also, to choose which beads to use.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Today as we walk across softening,
alabaster Langton Lake, thick ice
thaws, melting on this winter's edge.
Signs appear too in steps off the lake,
like the changing of the guard and
their heavy, warm apparel.
Rich moss, the color of green peppers,
covers a spot of grounded branches,
buds of varying tones pastel the trees,
gray shrubs turn to red or purple
and willows weep a wispy,
dazzling sun-bright gold.
Everyone we met stops, smiling
to say, hi and how are you?
commenting on the beautiful day
and what a beautiful dog Onyx is.
I feel in harmony too
this growing vibrant change,
beginning inside my body.
It feels almost as if,
wild and wondrous,
I'm giving birth
to myself.

Friday, February 17, 2012

closed house
opening every window
Spring!
The earth will survive gloriously
for a long, long while.
It is people who are in question.
Why not play with words -
reaching, falling, learning,
turning, discarding, keeping,
calling, rhyming, searching,
barding, teaching, timing,
sighing, dying, crying -
to write about dire happenings
young poet?

The timely you ignore
while musing, attending trees,
dancing, caring to color
what is in your circle,
a circle so small, smaller
than an atom in it all.
While hate is near?
And you!  You would say
there is no hate.

If one writes of forests,
forests will grow stronger.
Paint kindness and beauty,
they extend farther and farther
each time they are sensed.
This poet will rarely write
of dire happenings.
The earth will gloriously live
forever, as will we,
in one form or another.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

She flows, she rises, she moves with oceans.
She circles, she follows, she moves with the earth.
She shines, she learns, she moves with stars
and blends into White.

She dances, she listens, she steps into yoga,
beginning to choreograph heaven's songs.
Three so far... She has given her bliss.
Enya's... Watermark
Cat Steven's... Into White
Eddie Vedder's... Can't Keep
and many will follow for
she follows, she sings, she moves conducted by
a loving inner voice.

She dances, she moves, she closes her eyes,
becoming a prayer where
every step, every turn, every stretch
is thank you to the Creator of all.
Can as you hear your compass,
this gentle guidance?
We are all the same.
If what you hear is from fear,
you are directing yourself.

She flows, she rises, she moves with oceans.
She circles, she follows, she moves with the earth.
She shines, she learns, she moves with stars
and blends into White.

This is when she knows her spirit,
and is given precious gifts
of why she is here,
what good she is here to do.
She is not unlike you.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Valentines Day forgotten in poetry
on the correct day - I was musing.
I'm in love with trees and have no
partner to share festivities of love.

I say I love you to my family, friends,
and our Creator.  Thank You eternally!
I say also hesitantly,  I say....I love you -
I say... I love you to me.  Me!
We are all mes.  Extraordinary.
We are not all yous, because you
are not me.

Happy Valentines Day belated.
I'm blessed with all these mes.
My family, friends, the Creator, the world!
I say, I love you to Me!


Tuesday, February 14, 2012

It's early February, yet here is spring,
yes - in the air! the chorus of birds,
and also, the maple, whose home
is outside my dining room window.

No one is more adorned than this tree,
jeweled with tiny, compactly layered buds,
berry red, edged with yellow-gold,
and clustered like currants about the branches.

Here is a science lesson in motion,
for this maple, moving by wind and growth,
is about to explode into unfurling gorgeous green.

Monday, February 13, 2012

     Not frivolity,  oh no,
  sweet is more than sweet.
It's like scones with raspberry jam,
      a kiss on the cheek,
 a call from a friend saying,
    I miss you! Let's meet!
   Every day can be sweet.

...like smelling lilacs in spring,
    a hug from your dad,
  a compliment received in
       an email or tweet.
   Every day can be sweet.

...like riding your bike at dawn,
          holding a baby,  
  giving someone directions
     to find the right street.
   Every day can be sweet.

...like fresh strawberry shortcake,
      or when your partner
says he adores you in
     his acceptance speech.
 Oh, every day can be sweet!

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Every time I see a birch,
there is poet Robert Frost
swinging - whoa! - to the
ground, bending beauty.

Today, in cold sunlit air,
I stand awed before one birch
with three tall trunks, starry
white, pure like angels.

I touch the peeling dry bark,
notice lines that circle round
where the trunk, spring-like smooth,
is soft as Moon Beam's ears.

Then I think of Robert Frost,
awakened and next to me
by endless gravity
of this one birch tree.


Saturday, February 11, 2012

Friday, February 10, 2012

My beautiful Moon Beam ran
outside tonight under my feet
as I was carrying Buddy in.
It was 5 degrees.  One hour passed.
One hour I searched, calling,
"Moon! Moon Beam!" under
a full bright moon, my face
bitten by the wind, sighting 
her dart like arrows across 
the lawns, impossible to catch.

She's purring now, curled up
on my lap, still cool, contented 
from her winter night reverie.
I, on the other hand, sit numb,
numb and relieved.  I lost it
for several moments, crying
seeing myself finding frozen
Moon Beam on the morning snow.
Now that all is right in this
twin home of millions of homes,
I think Moon has the right idea.
I'm going to curl up under 
my down blankets, cozy
and warm and go to sleep.




Thursday, February 9, 2012

Every morning it happens
when you open your eyes.
You are like a tulip reaching
up through the snow,
or a fledgling breaking
through it's egg or later
standing at the nest's edge
looking out into the vast,
thrilling unknown.
What will happen today?
You're listening, part of
a new melody. The first note
is your first waking step.
This happens every morning
when you open your eyes,
whether you know it or not.


Wednesday, February 8, 2012

He dubbed me, not a knight,
but to be in my next life, a whale.
My ten year old son, Zoli's
drift wood sword tapped
my one shoulder then the other
as we stood on boulders at the ocean.
"Mom, you shall be a great creature,"
he nobly announced, "an Orca."
I wish my family and friends
could be a pod of whales for one life
and then human again in the next.
Or even that people could also live
lives as seals, elephants, sparrows.
Perhaps that would be the end
of greed and a return to Eden.


Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Rain and snow,
all day indecision,
right or left, soup or salad,
on the edge of which way to go.
Does our planet think
should I rain, should I snow?
Is anyone taken into account?
People driving to and fro,
a bike rider wheeling through rain
and slush, or a squirrel scurrying
under a pyramid Spruce.
We are and we are not
birds in her nest.
Lucky are we to breathe and see
and look up at an open sky,
to have an amazing, diverse,
awe-inspiring, magnificent,
colorful, vibrant place to live.
Another moment of indecision,
as no one word comes near
to portraying the wonder,
fierce beauty, and generosity
of our living planet.
I pray, let's all pray,
we don't destroy her.
If she does think or evolves to think,
I hope she thinks with compassion
and passes compassion and evolving on
to us.  Rain and snow,
all day indecision,
right or left, soup or salad,
on the edge of which way to go.





Monday, February 6, 2012

Buddy's here, the small, old dog
with a terminal heart condition.
I don't believe in terminal.
I'm watching Buddy for a somewhat friend
who's in Puerto Rico in the sun.

I've been thinking about healing,
how miracles happen, terminal
prognosis turning around, retreating,
erasing like chalk from a board,
disappearing as if it never was here.

While Buddy's visiting I've decided
to try to cure him or help him to live
beyond six months, into the summer
he loves.  So... I've been sending
Buddy green, bright, spring green....

green, the color vibration of healing.
Buddy's my green little healing machine,
my cute chiwawa-beagle green bean.
He's old, but strong, green and lean.
I'm surrounding him with an aura

of healing, growing verdantment,
imagining this energy flowing
like water around him, believing
him happy, healthy, whole.
Belief is how miracles happen.
So.. I am going to believe in healing
Buddy.







Sunday, February 5, 2012

Only... only 10 pounds to loose
no focusing on past bleak news,
I am changing my mind to brighter hues.
On my way, I'm leaving my guises.
"Out" are elephantine portion sizes,
"In" is giving up chocolate cake.
Yes, and Merlot marinated mushroom steak.
No sodas, chips, cream in my coffee,
candy crunch walnuts with chocolate and toffee,
delectable burgers, french fries, brie,
strawberry ice cream, cherries jubilee,
blackberry, current and blueberry pie,
salmon with bearnaise sauce, my, oh my!
When foodies talk food, the limits the sky!

Only... only 10 pounds to loose
having to pay for yesterday's dues.
I'm singing a paradoxical blues.
In a new direction there's someone to see.
Who?  A healthier, happier, beautiful me!
If I win a poetry contest or two,
I'm flying to Paris to visit the Louvre
see Vincent's painting for inspiration
sit at outdoor cafes in celebration
drink red wine and watch people walk by.
In the US, we over work. I think that's why
we're busy, stressed and gaining weight
rushing to eat what's on our plate.
No more thinking of past bleak news
I have only 10, only 10 lbs. to loose.

Saturday, February 4, 2012

The body slows automatically.
I try to rejuvenate emphatically,
standing up, I dance around,
careful not to make a sound,
my son asleep downstairs.

Sitting down it's back again,
like a firm unwelcomed friend.
Deciding to get water with ice,
I plan to chill my insides nice,
fulfill this favorite task I bear.

Late, too late, dreamings announced
along with the sand man into the dim.
- no depth, thought, no colors due
in moments I'll sleep, poetry half through -
cocooned in blankets, without a care.

Friday, February 3, 2012

"I will not be complete without you."
he said. I'm unable to move or breathe,
mesmerized. I'm hearing these words
again as the music and credits evenly end.
Walking Little Running Horse*, I look up,
and ask aloud, "Stars, is there such a man for me?"
They sparkle optimistically.  Back home,
I take off my boots, coat, mittens, scarf,
get ready for bed and brush my teeth.
How wondrous, incredible I can see
a passionate, interesting man in my future.
With no desire to read, I turn out the light.
I fall asleep gently to hear again dreaming,
"I will not be complete without you."


*For those of you who don't read "Four Lines" regularly, Little Running Horse is the nickname of our 90lb husky, lab, great dane (says the vet) mix, who runs fast as a Japanese train!  The only person who can run as fast is my 14-year-old son, Orion. Orion named our dog Onyx Infinity and I nicknamed her Little Running Horse.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

writing poetry,
joy in
seeing,
and seeing beyond,
the tangible

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Hope
is everywhere -
just look.

Hope is
immeasurable.

I know
pain.
I know
faith.

Sometimes
hope is
easy and
sometimes
a journey to find.

It doesn't matter.
Keep looking.
Never give up
and you will know
hope.

In hope
exists slivers,
and
galaxies
of serenity.

Consciousness
is also
immeasurable.

Consciousness
is everywhere -
just look...


Note:  I also experience in hope and being conscious as love and happiness.