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.

Thursday, May 31, 2012

  I mailed my resume on
turquoise paper, accompanied
by a light blue cover letter
with a poem fonted in green.
  A blending of required and unexpected,
to inspire another look,
be put aside with the
few and lucky, provide
a glimpse of me.
  Send myself on white paper
with black letters?
How are your employees
encouraged to think?
  If it is not creative,
I am not for you.
If your company is unevolving
it is not for me.
  However, if you like murals
and color, in the halls, offices,
the heart of your board room,
bathrooms and stairwells,
on the back door....
  if music extends from
walls, windows, doors, employees,
into the community and beyond -
without a dancer yet on the stage.
I am for you.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

No poetry today.
Employment
takes precedent.
I feel missing -
as if I don't know
where part of my heart
has gone.
Perhaps... it is waiting
for me to catch up
already at my new job!

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Buzzing and sawing, not the usual song bird
orchestra, woke me this morning.  Gathering
back thick curtains, I opened the window wider.
  In flowed bright blue sky with a squally wind.
Back yard trees buffeted uncontrollably
like boats in a storm.   In roared, too, a raucous,
unwelcome, constant chain-saw sound.

Someone was cutting down the green-auraed
half-fallen tree! Throwing on my old brown
sweater, pulling up my jeans, I called to
Little Running Horse, "Onyx hurry, come here!"
  We ran outside, bounded down the street,
were one with the corner like race car drivers.
There they were, feeding beautiful branches
one at a time in to a giant metal toothed maw.
  Cut up trunk pieces lay all over the grass
like felled chess pieces. They were cutting
down the entire tree, even the towering
still-standing half from last night lay grounded.
  Onyx and I starred at the working
men of the assembly, disassembling line,
watching beauty disappear.
Only a stump remained.
  A grave marker.

Orion's band played melancholy taps
at the memorial service yesterday for soldiers fallen.
  Peter's uncle enlisted at 22. He died in World War Two.
Shock waves rent through his family,
waves still Peter occasionally feels.
His life as a brilliant-future concert pianist felled-
at the Battle of the Bulge.
  I imagined other soldiers who died
to save the earth from Nazis - lives with futures,
families.  Gone.
Flags, flowers, white grave markers, waves,
memories remain.
  And... honor.

In my mind, I sang taps too for this tree, downed,
broken, dying before its time.
Are trees worthy of love, devotion and...  honor?
Google Frank Knight in Yarmouth, Maine and Herbie.
  You will see.

I walked back to the house
thinking nothing.
Trying to clear every thought with space
  for the creator to come in, always to come in,
explain everything to me.
Onyx never needs to do that...
Wagging her tail, she held her nose high,
sniffing the air.
  She is like Winnie the Pooh, carefree outside,
happy to be going home for breakfast.

Monday, May 28, 2012

     She blew him a kiss.
      He caught it, smiled,
     and moving his hand
      to his lips, let go.
     He blew her a kiss.
      She fumbled
              her catch,
     ran after the tumbling,
ricocheting kiss. -  here
   to                                   there
        and                   fro -
     Finally tired, she sat quietly
      on the floor to rest.
     The kiss bounced into her lap.
      She picked it up, smiled,
     and moving her hand
      to her heart, let go.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

I did not hear the lightening
 break, splitting the tree in half.
  Yet there, half of him lies,
white leafed, a fluid embroidery
 cloud covering the road, hued
  by the street lamp light.
Branches and leaves
 that yesterday touched sky,
  every kind of wind and light -
haven to birds, squirrels and minikin
 creatures, now occupied the darkened
  street. The standing towering half
    must wonder why this is so.
My hand tenuously brushed over leaves,
 before several stories high,
  now a moving, unmoving wave,
still beautiful auraed in green.
 Still beautiful and unusual on
  the cement, like sky on ground.

Saturday, May 26, 2012

Friday, May 25, 2012

I showed you my hugging trees
hoping you don't think I am crazy.
You brought me kale chips, maple syrup
and a book called, "The Practice," not knowing
that practice is one of my favorite words.
A day disappears tick tocking along.
We turn days into weeks,
time into space and moments into
cherished memories.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

The piano tuner, Mary, called this morning
asking, "Can we cancel our 9 o'clock
appointment?"  Rain - the kind that keeps
Onyx hiding in the bath tub all night,
and me, with my window open
                 in winding, singing dreams,
singing - weeding my garden in rain
with friends, singing - writing songs,
tapping toes in my sleep.  I wake often to
rhythmic toes.

The traffic report estimated the
piano tuner late by two hours.
All people in cars on Highway 694,
and, even, side streets snailed along, later
and later for work.
                  I was practicing sensing
the glorious heightened moment:
rain sprinkling like a soft wind chime,
morning doves and red winged blackbird
calls, far rolling thunder, cooling breezes
welcome in my house.  An occasional car
splashed on the road.  I noticed my adolescent
tulip-tree daughter, growing tall and brilliant green.
She is Orion's age, although quieter.
                  Both are beautiful.
Earlier this morning Orion ran out, in a rain
of wild flying horses, to catch the school bus
calling back, "I love you, Mom!"

I told Mary not to worry.
We easily step in the hurry, worry line.
A third of my life I've stood-still there.
                  No more.
                  I wished I could hand
her a cup of hot tea and a blueberry smoothie
through the telephone.  (May be that will be possible
one day!)  We set another appointment for
tomorrow at 9 o'clock.  I hope traffic
will be legato and allegro then.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

this rebel would refuse
      to live on
      bended knee
accept the penalty
of living with trees
peacefully - be a recluse
a fluttering leaf to this world
of power-addicted men
if not for her song and pen
and a young Orion
she in love spawned
with joy she cares
in duty bares
if not for the constant gentle breeze
and so she willingly
      bends her knees
      for now


Tuesday, May 22, 2012

   Sometimes invisible.
You to me.
   Beyond words.
Words are sounds,
   like birds singing in morning.

  I adore, but do not always
understand words. And...
  You, across the world,
and here?  What in physics
  is that probability?
You're in the space,
  the myriad of places,
nations and notions,
  in Tarrae's ashes upon the mantle,
in Tarrae, invisible too.

  Breathing slow, I clearly see
details in front of me...
  like carefully painting my finger nails,
far away... when I need a telescope,
  past...  like Debussy's Claire de Lune -
I'm learning in my living room -
  future...  melting ice.

  A sap, a sapling, in love
with my piano,
  I always return to
hugging trees,
  swimming across lakes
like glasses of iced tea,
  trying to relate with
only kindness
  because of my sense,
my love, of and from,
  You...

  who speak
all languages ever spoken,
  who speak without speaking.
You, who are...
  nothing and everything.
Somehow,
  in You, I find me.
In me, I find,
  You...

Monday, May 21, 2012

Dancing with Poetry

Dance with me
into the starry night
until you, perfect,
and I, in delight,
fall asleep dreaming
of our steps,
grace in the dark,
with lightness kept.
I study your face,
with music in mind,
kiss your words
each at a time.
I love you forever.
When I'm old
one evening
I twirl around,
lay down and die.
Then, my partner,
my love,
we will fly.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

                                                     Hartist Shoshana

At the convention, I was one of many once-upon-a-time diagnosed people - temporarily touched, unaware of our power and beauty, now in the middle and on the other side, learning to know and knowing.  No one can overcome, be the Self we were born to be, alone.

I listened to lectures, but "sage-wing" Shoshana, asked our names and lead us one by one, into her "whurled" of love stirred by hart with interruptions of suicide.  How impolite, how arrogant of suicide, unwelcomed, to storm into her life, louder when alone, trying to sink her boat with all her art work, inciting her to drown.   Suicide is clueless, of course.  Shoshana, synergized, is shining, synchronized, uncontained and growing because of her art "in service to the Lored," the "Lored" that knows no separation.

We looked into her window, her volunteerism, her ferociousness and fear to "speech-out," interact, be "pArt" of a community of friends.

I saw Shoshana's spiritual journey into her powerful "cellf," filled with her glorious humor, suicide sending only rare reminder emails she leaves unopened, "speeching," exhibiting drawings, volunteering, never lonely again and a voice whispered to me.  Recognize Shoshana.


The words in quotations are Shoshana's own spellings.  She is not only an inspiring artist and speaker, she is a poet, a creator of words.


Saturday, May 19, 2012

Friday, May 18, 2012

I'm in love again,
with every color, every taste,
every texture of my salad lunch -
a work of art, like a modern,
crunchy, edible, delectable painting!
Since I love this artfilled salad
of kale, red leaf lettuce, arugula,
radishes, asparagus, carrots,
strawberries, blue cheese,
and toasted walnuts, 
spring bursting on the plate,
flavors fresh into my mouth,
chewed, moving
into my stomach,
in my blood,
nourishing, becoming me....
a breathing work of art!
Hmmm... when eating salad with love,
chewing, moving
into my stomach,
in my blood,
nourishing, becoming me...
enhancing kindness qualities!
Hypothesis taking flight.
If everyone eats with love what is
beautiful, delicious, and nutritious,
war would be obsolete,
humanity saved,
and the earth and her inhabitants would live..
die... and live again...
in harmony.
I'm in love again.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

My sister, Marlena, died.
Fate finally pulling ranks on will.
To her last days she fought
in dissension, believing she would live,
live to see her daughters, mothers,
her grandchildren growing taller than she.
We and our husbands planned
to laugh, learn, love and die old
listening to the ocean.

Omi died refusing to eat or drink,
willing to walk into the forest,
surrendering in leaves and snow,
burying untold stories.
I had not heard them all.
She was not thwarted in her plan,
to see my children growing,
to learn, love and die old,
listening to the mountains.

My step dad died instantly,
booking other trips to take
around the world with my mom.
There were always people to befriend,
wonders to see.  He was a wonder to me,
always in the midst of things,
canoeing, hiking, writing, pruning roses,
learning, loving and dying old,
listening to the birds.

I miss and hear them
listening to the sky.


Wednesday, May 16, 2012

              Sonnet 31

Are words like stone or cement
or water evaporating in the sun,
not heard after heard - undone,
an imaginary poetic figment?
Are they like mere bubbles
a muses momentary fable,
a distant unaffecting rumble, 
with no reason for a double 
take. What did she write?
Did I hear his words right?
Or, are words like life, life with hope? 
You, being a man of mirth
and matter, a friend I trust,
Your opinion? Are they life, or dust?


Tuesday, May 15, 2012

I dreamt last night
he walked into my poetry.
I couldn't, didn't want to, keep him out.
There he felt my breathing.
I listened to his heart beating.
We quietly observed each other
every minute detail, every bold action.
Then we danced across the stage,
in each other's living rooms,
into each other's gardens.

Monday, May 14, 2012

There's a job I want
on my street,
on my non profit beat,
in the hearted movement of my being.
In my walk, my talk,
in my candle burning,
with Pointe shoes,
varied hues,
piano playing blues.
I'm going to be auditioning.
I need this job!
Oh God, I need this job!
Please pray for me.
Bless me from near
to across the universe,
that I get this artist's job
on my street,
on my non-profit beat,
in the hearted movement of my being.

Sunday, May 13, 2012

                The Garden

Her nails black as the blackest man
with coolness of the coolest earth,
she digs into the healthy ground
sees death, conception, life, birth.

She works with a flock of blackbirds
imagining sunflower corn.
Spring wells with hope of plenty
from humans to the worms.

At the fence stands an aging stallion
eyeing the seeded furrows.
She plants extra carrot seeds
and wonders if he knows.

Hands move in rhythm with sleeping sisters
she delves and sows and covers seeds
and weaves the cloth of discipline
of nurturing and need.

In her belly blooms another.
The wind said a baby boy.
She thinks of him while watering
and weeding the planted soil.

When darkness turns to dark velvet
she runs daily to her garden.
Soon after comes a suited man
to kiss her a good morning.

Saturday, May 12, 2012

        Two Sonnets, 29 & 30
Looking Down and Then Across

I listened to my neighbor
describing the "strange couple"
across the street.  They only come out
to get the mail, pale as goblins.
Of course, he's not that way.
He likes football, backyard barbecues,
Moody Blues, The Grateful Dead,
kids, cats, croquet, MacDonald's fries,
and both President Bushes.
Another neighbor, down the street,
sometimes revs his motorcycle at night
and squeals, peels and wakes him up.
He would never do that.  Yet he lights
firecrackers on Good Friday.

Looking down and then across,
I told one friend about another in
oblivion, six cats relieving themselves -
a pee epidemic in her house, six cats
relieving themselves and she's in oblivion!
But she's kind and I'm sad and it hurts
my nose to visit.  Then there's the woman
at The Course in Miracles class
whose nose is stuck upon the ceiling
affecting her hearing and the man winking
at me behind his wife's back in the grocery
line and here I sit posting and telling this to
you, like my neighbor who lights
firecrackers on Good Friday.

Friday, May 11, 2012

               Sonnet 28

Eckhart Tolle says, still the mind,
stop the perpetual moving train.
Chugging along is the ego's find
to keep us citizens of the ego's rein.
Loyal subjects of Laa Laa Land,
in ignorance of our shallow plight,
we reclaim our minds into our hands
when turning devotion to our breath.
Sara asked me the other day, "How
in the world can that still my mind?"
Breathing turns our attention to now,
where our energy with Oneness aligns.
In her question, too, is a clue unfurled.
We are part and not part of the world.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

                    Sonnet 27

A million leaves began my musing
beside the wind-felt weeping willow,
my hair disheveled and amusing,
her branches beautifully billowed.
Would she like a few green braids?
Onyx likes being sprayed with perfume.
Marlena, prefers her collar handmade,
purrs wearing my bracelet around the room.
Audacious philosophers long believed
animals possess no soul or cognition.
Their opinion about sensing trees?
Nonsense! - unknowing of their condition.
I think trees, like people, are capable of
sensations, intuition, communion and love.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

                        Sonnet 26

"Soften your face, like a beautiful white lily,"
my gentle yoga teacher says, "You are a beautiful
white lily.  Align your shoulders with your hips,
with your feet and your head with your spine,
straight and tall as a maple.  You are a maple,
hale, rooted, growing.  Feel energy in your feet,
hands, body and the love from your cells.  Move,
secure, free, like a black stallion in a summer meadow.
You are that stallion.  Now, stand on one foot, ancient,
balanced. You are a thriving flamingo among flamingos."
I smile at being a thriving flamingo among flamingos.
She continues, "Let's lay upon the ground.  Be still.
Breathe slow.  Let go of everything, blending into space.
Here is only love and creativity.  You are consciousness.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

               Sonnet 25

My face is wet with May's rain,
from your umbrella I stepped out,
in seconds you are close again
to "save me."  I have no doubt
you are a humorous gentlemen, 
chivalry not ended in such a friend.
Nudging me towards my vision,
you know I love and must attend,
is bringing me to a garden of trees
with beds of tulips teared in rain.
Traversing paths of green filagree,
in thunder turning towards the lane,
I hear a clear melodic refrain,
You can always return again.



Monday, May 7, 2012

         Sonnet  24

I apologize, new friends, to you
for not shining steadily through,
my promise days over due
like a late library book,
everywhere carefully looked
for, yet, like a fish unhooked.
I hope there is no accruing fine
as days passed without lines,
without writing in horizontal time.
Lost.  Is not time an illusion
and time's bending a miracle fusion?
My promise unkept a delusion?
Is my apology not needed
then? Undone is done heeded.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

           Sonnet 23

This sweet morning, Little Running
Horse and I escape in a down wealth,
of raven, luminous, thunder clouds,
surrounded by healing, cool water
like dolphins in a pod of two.
This afternoon I'm off to an
interview hearing a bird chorus
under blue, humid skies wondering
where days and moments will go.
Love what you do.  Forget the ideas -
no money exists in writing poetry,
music, stopping to create ones self.
Blend in, baby, blend in, blend in -
remember to be a dolphin at 54.


Thank you, my sister Sheri, for 
your two word change suggestion,
that I thought was brilliant here.
You and Mom are my best critics!

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

              Sonnet 22

At my piano, my fingers stumble,
on notes of songs I've ignored.
I hear, in the deep, a distant rumble,
measures of melody, words I wore.
For moments I sit remembering,
waiting, a lover on a destined lane.
For hours I sit practicing, listening,
around the corner the clearer refrain.
Because of faith, in moments or hours,
a song I wrote long ago reappears
like in spring with buds and flowers
or a stretching, emerging bear.
Giving credit to beyond what I know
memory may be part of my piano.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

         Sonnet 21

Never mix wine and poetry?
Sir Michael where have you been?
Wine is poetry, poetry is wine
like roses, chocolate, a violin
serenade, love in the shade,
made! Sandwiches and burritos
guacamole, salsa and dortitos
is love in the sun, happily won.
Add dark beer or iced tea, oh my!
In cheese and bread Lady Annabelle
sees the foundation of poetry lines
from the beginning of time,
where the Holy Spirit is Chef,
Love in the Milky Way Cafe.