Christmas and New Year after the Winter Solstice - the End of Kali Yuga, the Start of the Age of Aquarius

                         

We have passed through the eye of the needle, and emerged on the other side, victorious. Congratulations to all Lovers, Lightworkers, and People of Good Will! On December 21, 2020,  the planets Jupiter and Saturn entered into a conjunction that made their light appear as a bright Star of Bethlehem, last seen 800 years ago, and supposedly seen at  Christmas... 

This Winter Solstice also marks a monumental cosmic event: the old era of chaos and destruction ended. We entered into the glorious waters of the Age of Aquarius. We are on our trajectory to a Thousand Years of Peace. Or so, I read, and decided to believe. Why not? Much better vision of the future than the alternative... 

I celebrated this momentous transition with a new poem:

The Star of Christmas, The Way of Light

Jupiter and Saturn became one. Bright

orange gold merged with deep blue purple

into a diamond white Bethlehem star.

A solstice miracle.

We saw it through the telescope

in the neighbors’ driveway.

The cross on the hilltop is flooded with light.

A Christian beacon, a sea lantern on the shores

of receding darkness. The end of Kali Yuga,

the twisted age of chaos and destruction.

We look at it from the safety of our bed - 

limbs intertwined, after interstellar flights

through galaxies of affection.

The portal opens. The way back

irrevocably closes. From the Zero Point

of no return, we step into the Age of Aquarius.

my Winter Solstice poem comes to life. 

Togetherness, acceptance carry us

on ultraviolet waves into 

the ultramarine infinity 

of one true love.

Our ascent is punctuated by bursts

of belly laughter, flavored 

with the sweetness of winter tangerines, 

dissolving into the pure intensity 

of childlike joy - rediscovered 

at the threshold of the Golden Age, 

embroidered on the fabric

of the Thousand Years of Peace. 

(C) December  21, 2020  by Maja Trochimczyk

Well, technically speaking we are still deep within the Kali Yuga that lasts for 432,000 years, has begun 5,121 years ago and will end in the year 428,899. But we can end it sooner in our own lives if we want to bring peace, prosperity, happiness, kindness, gratitude, love and light into this world, ourselves and all around us... 

According to  the ancient prophecies of Srimad Bhagavata Purana, the last avatar of Lord Vishnu will descend as Kalki to destroy the effects of Kali and Satya Yuga will begin. There are four eras starting from the Golden Age, Satya Yuga, followed by Treta, Dvapara, and Kali Yugas. As we have seen so far, during the Kali Yuga, "religion, truthfulness, cleanliness, tolerance, mercy, duration of life, physical strength and memory will all diminish day by day" and "wealth alone will be considered the sign of a man’s good birth, proper behavior and fine qualities. And law and justice will be applied only on the basis of one’s power." In contrast, in Satya Yuga, the age of goodness, all virtues will triumph and people will live long, in peace and happiness. https://vedicfeed.com/the-symptoms-of-kaliyuga-ancient-hindu-predictions/

As for the Age of the Aquarius, it follows the Age of Pisces, or Christian Fish, and some say will start in 2024, while others claim it already started in 1957, or in 2000. In the hippie musical "Hair" there is a song celebrating its arrival. It all has to do with the "precession of the equinoxes" an astronomical phenomenon caused by the curious rotation of the Earth with its axis at an angle; while going through the 12 signs of the Zodiac during 25,868 years, it stays in each sign for 2,155.67 years. If the Age of the Pisces started in the year 1 of our times, we still have 135.67 years to go... In other words, nobody knows anything...

In any case, Christmas followed the Winter Solstice and a Christmas poem should also make an appearance. This one is a repeat from 2015, when I still spent my Christmas alone, with small kids with their Dad in Canada... I figured out how to not feel lonely, but rather grateful for all the amazing gifts of peace and well-being in my garden. 

            

 A Music Box Christmas

I wind the spring on the music box.

Silvery specks swirl in the snow globe.

The twinkling of “We wish you a Merry Christmas” fills the air

Santa on the rooftop falls into the chimney.

Are you ready for the holidays?  With Scottish whisky cake

Polish makowiec, American apple pie? Will you cook

Tamales on Christmas Eve, your family gathered

Around steaming pots, laughter mixed with hearty flavors?

Will you roast turkey with fixings on Christmas Day?

Will you nibble slices of chocolate oranges, after unwrapping gifts,

Will you taste walnuts and sesame snaps from your stockings?

I wind the spring on the music box.

Silvery specks swirl in the snow globe.

Memories of home swirl before me.

I make cranberry sauce with pears and apples

The way my Mom taught me. Do I still know

How to chop figs and dates into finely ground poppy seeds

Boiled in milk, re-fried with honey? The favorite flavors of childhood,

Float away with Ogiński’s polonaise, Farewell to the Homeland.

Under blazing sun of California, I still taste the exotic desserts

Of Poland’s eastern borderlands, where cultures mixed

And worlds mingled – Poles, Lithuanians, Tartars, Jews –

Cornflower blue skies, shimmering gold of rye fields.

I wind the spring on the music box.

Silvery specks swirl in the snow globe.

I make a promise to myself I will not break.

This Christmas, I’ll read a novel, wrapped in a plush red blanket

And a Santa hat. I will walk alone in the park, come back

To the empty house and watch The Lord of the Rings,

The epic battles of the elements, good versus evil,

Good versus evil  - twirling and waltzing - the silvery specks

Dance in the snow globe. I sing along “We wish you

A Merry Christmas”  thinking of the Christmas play

My daughter an Angel waving a green pine bough

Singing, in a sweet chorus of children’s voices:

“We swish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!”

© 2015 by Maja Trochimczyk

Finally, the most important news is the most timeless. Whether in this age or the next, whether at Christmas alone or with family, we are a rain of diamond light on this planet. Let's shine! 

A Diamond Miracle

I live on a planet

where it rains diamonds

on red-gold leaves of myrtle tree

under the azure – sky so alive that it breathes

and vibrates in the distance.

 

Look up! See the cosmic sigh?

 

I live on a planet

where it rains diamonds.

Water droplets shine in sunlight

scattered on pine needles and broad leaves

of the bird of paradise, stretching, stretching,

growing until orange blossoms alight amidst the foliage

like a flock of birds, copper flames in jade.

 

On my planet, western bluebirds,

Finches, and doves drink from the fountain.

They fly away when the scrub jay comes to take a bath,

dip his head into the crystal pool and shake diamond droplets

down his back.

 

On my planet, hummingbirds hum

suspended in the air by red hibiscus flowers.

Mockingbirds mock the tune of my alarm clock

at four a.m. and sing the songs of red wing blackbirds

that pass through on the way to Mexico or Canada

resting in the garden, then moving on.

 

My planet, where it rains diamonds,

breathes and vibrates with wave after wave

of energy that spins into life forms, growing, decaying,

returning – the endless ocean of live diamonds

that multiply and sparkle in the sun.

 

Would you like to be a diamond with me?

 

(C) November 2020 by Maja Trochimczyk

Happy New Year of Peace, Prosperity and Diamond Light! 

Be Kind, Be Gentle, Just Be - Share Water with All, Light with All

August 15 is the Feast of Matki Boskiej Zielnej in Poland - Mother of God of the Herbs, celebrating  Mary as the Queen of all the Harvest Festivals in Polish villages.  In the calendar of the Catholic Church this is the Solemnity of the Assumption of Mary,  when she was taken up to Heaven, body and soul, after falling asleep.  Polish villagers always find a way to rewrite these solemnities and feasts so that they fit with their ancient, agrarian, Slavic calendar of celebrations tied to the rhythms of the fertile Earth and the cycle of seasons. 

This is one equivalent of the American Thanksgiving that comes earlier in Poland  than in Canada (October), or the U.S. (end of November).  In Poland, winter comes in November and stays through March. Roses do not bloom year-round.  Leaves fall and the ground is covered with snow or mud. There are other differences, for instance, in Poland, there are no raccoons. I moved into their country in California, and now I have to share my house with very smart tenants.

Drinking Water from the Tap  

A raccoon has moved into my garage.

He ate a box of candles I kept for emergencies

On the counter, licked clean a plastic plate

With a melted one, stuck away in a corner. I see 

Muddy footprints on the top of the washing machine.

He walked across to get a drink of water at the sink,

Leaving the faucet slightly open, water dripping.

I have to teach him how to close it fully, 

Not waste the precious white gold in the desert.

My next door neighbor heard the noise, came over

To look one night, banging on the garbage bins

In my driveway. I don’t want my resident raccoon

To be shot with the black, dead-looking gun – a pistol 

from my neighbor’s shelf, kept – just in case – by the door. 

My raccoon has moved back into my garage. It was his 

Country before I came from Canada in the 90-ties,

Before the house was built in 1948, before an artificial

Lake flooded the plane of the ancient riverbed in 1910,

Before an orange grove was planted here in 1880-ties.

Two world wars, a cold war, and a war on terror later,

A raccoon, my raccoon has moved back into my garage.

I have to teach it how to fully close the tap for the faucet

To stop dripping, wasting the precious white gold of water

In the desert – water in my home – water in his – water –

It is interesting to watch the various visitors to the garden. Some settle in for a while, like the family of five skunks, mom and four babies, who lived in a den in the far corner of my neighbor's yards but sometimes came to walk around in mine. The dog gave them a wide berth, and we stayed away, too, so there was no reason for them to spray around and we could not even smell them through the whole time. Only see the broad black and white tail waving in the grass. I once thought I saw a black cat stalking birds under the lemon tree, and then I noticed that the tail was too wide, too bushy and with that tell-tale white stripe in the middle. I went inside the house to wait for my visitor to leave. She checked out the patio, looked around, and went back home. After the babies grew up, the skunks disappeared. You can even co-exist with skunks, if you are patient and kind.

I saw other, rarer visitors at times: a black king snake that practically jumped across the pathway from one part of the garden to another. That one startled me and so did a strange, snaky lizard with different type of  horizontal stripes, kind of reddish, more than a foot long. A squirrel eating my pomegranates. I'm so glad, I have so many this year, not regretting I have to share. . .  

Many birds are coming through, stopping to rest on the way, have a bath in the birdbath, sneak some taste of rose petals, and off they go... two orioles, a couple of scrub jays, four red-winged blackbirds, a woodpecker, and a flock of small birds, chattering in almost ultrasonic-range, higher than the hummingbirds. I do not know their names, yet enjoy watching their flights from tree to tree, always as a flock. Where We Go One, We Go All... they seem to say.    

On Being a Bird

A flock of birds alighted in my garden.

Smaller than sparrows, they chase each other 

from tree to tree, branch to branch – chattering 

incessantly in their ultraviolet voices. My ears fill 

with a sonic kaleidoscope, almost above the audible range.

They will rest and fly away, satiated 

with shreds of rose petals, bits of a ripening peach 

shared with red house finches that visited at noon.

They grow quiet at the cawing of a crow or meowing 

of a stray cat that passes through on its errands 

and leaves my visitors to their own devices. 

Would I be happy as a bird? 

I see wings in flight. Lightness. Music

I forget hidden dangers lurking in the sky,

among dense, overgrown branches. I forget rains 

and the plight of modern subdivisions without 

trees – built by those who love only one hue 

of green and it is not of plants.

Not of my Planetary Church of Plants and Birds, 

I founded eight years ago in my garden, alone with 

the Sun and Air and Earth and Water – I took the oath 

of a caretaker: no toxins, no traps, just green, verdant 

green, greening. This is our home to share, 

our vibrant garden of daily nourishment and joy.

My roses grow in front of bouganvillea and you can see the mountains across the river-bed in the back. A perfect place. So beautiful and full of life.  I like meditating in my garden, accompanied by birdsong of various kinds. The hummingbirds now have three different feeders, but it has not prevented the "general" of their troops from giving orders and letting or not letting others share the sugary water I give them every week. They chatter loudly and bomb-dive each other, zooming right above my head. Maybe that's why I get interesting ideas in my meditations, you could call them visions, or lucid dreams. These seem very real, yet are gone when I open my eyes. I transcribe them into ballads - three of these ballads I posted earlier; they are quite popular with readers for some reason. 

Maybe people have a hunger for angelic presence, for encountering creatures of light, maybe they dream of changing hearts from rocks into flesh, after seeing so much mayhem, murder, torture, and treason in all these Hollywood films people have money to fund, money to spend to make.  I cannot watch any of that. It is too horrid, too cruel. I do not want these scenes to touch my mind. Last time I went to a movie theater I had to close my eyes and plug my ears for most of this vile performance. 

Here, you can read my ballads for free. It surely would be interesting to make them more visual...as animation, or films. They are quite instructional, you can do it to your nightmares, too... convert fear into love, lead into gold. 

A Ballad from the Field of Glory

Last night I was mobbed by monsters,

Surrounded from all sides in the dark.

Crowds seethed to the distant horizon –

Steel fangs, claws, charcoal eyes.

I said: 

“Be patient.

Please, wait in line.

I’ll get to you, I promise.”

And so it began.

I laid my hands on their foreheads.

I laid my hands on their hearts.

I breathed light into their nostrils.

I kissed their third eyes.

One by one, they began dancing.

One by one, they started to laugh.

“We were curious,” they said, “you’re fearless,

We came to see what this was all about.”

I smiled at my new disciples –

Tall lizards, crocodiles, baboons,

Sharp-toothed midnight foxes

And a horde of dark, shaggy wolves.

Men with strange wooden faces,

Empty eyes of pure absence, so vile,

A vulture with a bald neck, and two sharks –

I worked on them ceaselessly all night.

I called my companions to help me,

To share their true breath of life.

First, Spinek, spider-crab of clear diamond,

Once curled at the root of my spine.

He makes cartwheels of joy, high above me,

With Naguska, gold snake of jewel eyes.

Sent to hurt me, fill me with poison,

She now uses her fangs to inject light.

Misiek, huge honey bear is close by.

Milky Koala holds onto his back.

They stretch, shake off sleep from fur coats.

Go to work, breathing, sharing the light.

 

Nine-tailed Foksik comes late, as always.

Smooth platinum fur sparkles with stars.

Free to do as she pleases, she binds them

Firmly, to Divine Love, Divine Light.

Now, I stand in the midst of my army.

Waves of laughter pass through the ranks.

Their happiness flows to the horizon.

Bright aura of joy fills the night. 

I’m the Queen of Angels, of Cherubs.

I’m Sovereign, above Host of Hosts.

We are gentle, loving. In kindness,

Living water springs from all hearts.

Invincible, we shine with pure glory.

United, we waltz and we dance.

“What of monsters?” You ask. Let me  tell you,

“Angelic, we are all born of Light.”

On August Cosmic Rays and Ocean Waves

Swimming in the ocean, in Pacific Ocean, crisp and refreshing like champagne, inspires reflections of a cosmic kind, of the One Energy, One Source that we all come from and return to multiple times, over eons of the Universe's ebb and flow.  No wonder these poems are so full of liquid light.

On Cosmic Breath

Flowing, moving, liquid energy coalesces into 

shapes, into lives, into beings of light, of earth

of solids and water. We are all One flowing, moving 

liquid energy of ether, spirit, light; spilling over 

limits, borders, obstacles, dark walls of separation.

Spilling into connection, convergence, unity. 

Cosmos breathes in waves of energy - endless, insistent, 

relentless, they inexorably swell and recede over aeons of time,

always moving, always here - flourishing, moving, liquid

energy of the Source - Light - Love - Life. 

Noah saw the arc of the rainbow spread above the land after the deluge as a promise, a covenant of the Divine with the Earth, a promise of safety, and peace. The rainbow colors rise from red, through orange, gold, green, blue to violet and ultraviolet. Blended together, the form the white visible light that can be split apart into separate rays by a prism. The chakras or energy centers of the human body also have these colors assigned, from red into violet, or white at the top, at the crown opening into the infinite. 

A Cosmic Rainbow

Blue - baby, cornflower, azure, sapphire, indigo

sky, sky, sky,sky of Divine Mind. Sky.

Infinite expanse, clear and translucent sky

calls to us, waits for us to plunge into

its hidden depths, to awaken.

Green - jade, moss, forest, emerald,

grass, leaves, stems, fruit of the Divine Heart

of Earth - fertile, abundant, teeming with life

Earth surrounding us with blessings

Earth calls to us, waits for us to taste

its heavenly nourishment, to care for 

the perennial growth , to awaken.

Gold - yellow, daisy, aster, finch, sand,

sunlight of time, of transition, of energy flowing

from shape to shape, life to life, forming, dissolving

building up, falling down, an eternal flow of energy

power, life - calls to us, waits for us to be

to become, to expand, to awaken.

Red - ruby, garnet, rose-petal, wine, blood

my blood, your blood flowing through the veins 

of divine Body, carrying oxygen and food

into all the cells, all the microscopic beings

that come together, to be me, to be mine

to serve the Gold, Green, Blue and Violet

Violet - royal purple, amaranth, amethyst, 

iris, rainbow, flame - dancing, twirling in spirals,

ascending upward, beyond, always up 

connecting, linking into a cosmic lattice

of timeless presence calls to us, waits for us

to weave its liquid strands, to pleat its living

braids, to ascend into brightness, into white

White - snow, crystal, diamond, white of light

the spark of light broken off the infinite pyramid

of Divine Will, sent out into the Red, Gold, Green

Blue and Violet - to explore, to experience

to live, to breathe, to cry, to laugh, to gather

the fruit and bring them back - untouched

and uncensored, fruit of life, my life in white.

Once the meditation is over, a sense of bewilderment remains, as the astral, etheric, emotional and mental bodies return to fuse with the physical, their anchor in the here and now.  It takes time to come down to Earth from Astral flight into higher realms, or from examination of what needs to be done, should be done, is the right thing to do.

After a Meditation

I am a humble mirror of the Sun

reflecting its glorious brightness

over the whole Valley, my heart

pierced by its vibrant rays.

Shining, shining, I overflow with life-giving energy

radiating, suffusing everything.  Wave after wave

ray by ray, light lifts the heavy veil of darkness

thick, stagnant, murky, chaotic, confused.

I am a bright ray of Sunlight

A window opened to infinity of truth hidden

just beneath the tactile surface of matter

just above scattered particles of night air.

Concentric circles of the soul spread out 

from where I stand on ancient rocks 

of the Earth in clear mountain stream.

I breathe steadily, deeply the pure Air 

warmed by the Sun's distant Fire.

I'm the Fruit of Cosmic Spirit, 

I'm the Star of Endless Light.

You can see its sunny residue 

in the contour of my smile.

How High the Moon? Sandcastles on the Beach

It is vacation time - to be outdoors, in the mountains, in the garden, on the beach... Here are some romantic beach poems about the simple pleasures of life. Flying a kite, jumping in the waves, sailing, building a sand castle are all activities we used to take for granted. Now so much harder when we are told to stay away from each other, and wear masks, masks, masks.  The "mask" is a symbol of lies and deception, it is a barrier between us and life. Let's forget the masks for a moment, and enjoy summer in California, summer on the beach... with half-moon and full sun at the same time. 

Let's start by listening to the divine Ella Fitzgerald singing "High high the moon..." with incredible gusto and an epic scat https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=djZCe7ou3kY

Or if you are more relaxed, maybe you want to listen to Lola Albright, with her old-style charm, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4jFd0XYYb0

Slowing down to the sleepy, breathy,  yet resonant voice of Mel Torme (1961), you can doze off on the beach accompanied by violin solos https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4jFd0XYYb0

A Day Trip to Venice

 The stunt kite traces the infinity sign

over and over above our heads in June-gloom sky

until it twirls into a spiral nose-dive and hits the sand

so hard it falls apart.

 

Again, it floats up – patiently, gently,

like wings of the dove, so steady high above us, we

float up with the kite into the lucid, pearly milkiness

of clouds, shifting shapes on this strange afternoon.

A lone sailboat disappears into the distance.

Pacific Ocean is cut in half by a sharply outlined pathway

of light leading towards the steely white sun – so hard, so relentless

it pierces through the mist, carried onshore by steady winds.

 

We watch the stunt kite dance its dangerous dance.

Ominous steel waves turn into lead. Darkness falls

around us until we cannot see, only feel the tug of the

outstretched lines that keep the kite balanced in the air.

 

This is the trick of living well, this balance,

staying afloat on marine air currents

lifting us above – higher and higher

into pristine clarity – to postpone

the inevitable crash, avoid

the death spiral at all costs,

any cost – live here and now

in the sweet bye and bye –

forever –

Carving Sand

 

On the shore of the Pacific

a man carves out a sandcastle

with the straight, sharp edge of

a credit card. Crenellated ramparts,

tall arched gates, Gothic windows and

elaborate turrets – the castle comes into being

just for a moment – until the high tide washes it away

and the dream vanishes among the waves.

 

So do we – build our own sand-castles,

on credit, with cards we struggle to pay off

after darkness passes and the fog of despair

lifts up. Was it worth it? To keep the house for kids

and have no time to be there for them, with them?

Working, always working… Was it worth it? To mortgage

your whole future for a dream of finding refuge in a rose garden,

filled with the sweetness of birdsong and orange blossoms?

 

Bright sunlight pours onto the beach,

outlines the carved contours of the sandcastle,

standing proudly alone, just for a moment,

for this moment, for us.  

The ocean is friendly.  How do you know? It waves!  An old joke from a children's book tells the truth: the ocean is our friend. Its rhythms, waves crashing with 5 and 7 seconds between them stimulate the calming rhythms in the brain and peaceful, serene emotions. The waves are hypnotic and you could spend hours looking at the breakers, listening to their noise. The ocean's clean air, full of ozone and iodine, heals our lungs. The salty water heals the skin and muscles - just do not drink it! 

 

Here are some videos from the beach, with the serene lulling motion of the waves.

Sunlight and Saiboat Regatta in Hermosa Beach:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fYOFxNfWl9c&t=2s

Pacific Ocean Calmly Waves

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dWExcVWGsDs

Streams and Birds, or the Simple Joys of the Summer

I discovered that I can wade in "my" stream. I share it with the whole community, of course. Someone built low rocky dams across the flow, and the water, still abundant after the spring rains, creates small pools, knee-deep at best, with sand, or gravel, or rocks on the bottom. The green algae and moss are gone, either torn away by rushing stream earlier on, or cleared away by those anonymous magicians that made this summer gifts for all of us.

There is a family with kids splashing and playing with a colorful plastic ball, the Mom or Big Sister floating by on a neon-green inflatable chair. Cheerful music is barely a distant whisper as I walk by the next mini-pool: deeper, with more soft sand. Here, a pudgy boy is learning to swim.  I wade downstream along a narrow "trickle" in my old shoes, protecting my skin from cuts - I learned this from an ancient Tibetan folk-tale about a wise princess, who thought that shoes could be thrown out, but wounded feet were hard to mend. After some narrow straits and thicker bushes, I come across the third rocky dam, barely one to two feet tall, yet it blocks enough water for a pleasant respite from summer heat. I see small fish darting this way and that around my feet, and sunlight ripples reflect on the sand.  Mountain sunflowers, or "black-eyed Susans" grow on the side.

Perfection of a moment. These wild pools will disappear when the stream will dry out. It was dry for so long, I stopped going there, did not want to see ugly rocks festooned with dry, yellow moss. Now the wash is alive with visitors - five horse-riders went by, three dog walkers, their charges greeting me by the stream. The "owners" of this place are here, too - I saw a rabbit with white spot of a tail hopping away from the trail, the bees are so abundant this year, the whole wash, covered with California buckwheat, round white flowerheads, is abuzz with the noise of their wings.

I love bees since my childhood. My grandma had an ancient, huge linden tree to shade her yard growing right in the middle, dividing it in half, between the part where the orchard and garden ended, and that where the barn and farm machines were. My uncle made a small wooden bench to sit under that tree. It was all humming, so loud, full of bees. The linden honey is very light in color, like clover, with a different scent. The buckwheat honey is darker, aromatic, like Baltic amber. So happy to hear so many bees in California too.

They are mostly wild mason bees near my garden. I know because I find their handicraft on my roses. It seems of all petals found in my garden, some types of roses have the softest, most pliable leaves that can be made into cocoons for bee babies. I saw quite a few cutting a semi-circular shape out of the leaf, from edge to edge, leaving a strangely maimed leaf behind. I used to be angry seeing that damage, but we should all get along. The bees pollinate my fruit trees, and have made sure to give me lots of  grapefruit last year and plenty of pomegranate for next fall. I can only say, thank you, and let them take what they need.

Peaceful coexistence is the key. I am happy to share my garden with birds too. The finches make nests under the roof's eaves, on the porch and the patio. This year, their efforts were rewarded with babies. Two years ago, crows found the full next and went into frenzy - at least four were attacking at once, fighting, while the finch-parents in a panic were fighting back. But that was then, and now I'm happy with being such a good host to these tenants, that pay me with their song.

Here's a brand-new poem, celebrating their presence with gratitude and delight.

The Song of the Summer

The house finches are back! The four little ones disappeared
on Friday. Their crowded nest under the porch roof
was full of wide-open yellow beaks crying out for breakfast.
Now, blades of grass are scattered on my front steps.
The nest is empty. They learned how to fly.

I was happy yet sad, a bittersweet moment.
My home was their home. Here they grew up undisturbed
in the safety behind switches for Christmas lights,
on top of a white wooden beam. Gone to their new adventures
like my children to Boston, Tucson, San Diego.

Look, my finches are back! They returned to the only
home they knew to practice flight from rooftop to rooftop,
porch to garage, to the end of the driveway, the Japanese pine
that all birds love to perch on, its branches stretching
like fingers to the sky – an open palm of a tree.

Listen, my finches are back! They study their song
at six in the morning. It is simple, repetitive, one phrase
spiraling down through fluted eddies of pure music,
measuring the hours of summer. The song never changes,
I used to think it boring – just a step up from
the monotone chirping of sparrows, and yet –

My finches are back and are learning to sing.
Note by note, motif by motif, they try out brief snatches
of their Dad’s tune and fail, and fail, and fail again.
I did not know it was so hard. The three notes on the top
ti-ti-ti – these are easy – then, the babies stop, all confused.

“Let me show you, how it’s done!”  The patient parent sings
again and again. Young birds repeat the fluid patterns
in shy, quiet voices, growing louder, more confident, true –
until descending swirls tumble at top speed, like droplets
in a mountain stream, rushing on, sparkling in sunlight.

The finches are back.

(c) 2020 by Maja Trochimczyk

A Mystery Solved
.
"Look, a goldfinch is eating a yellow rose. Oh, wait,
it is an Oriole." Quite fittingly named. The rose is Orogold.
Oro, d'or, aurum - the most precious treasure.
It is all about brightness - flashy feathers in warm,
sunny hues contrast with black wings, head, tail.

Golden blossoms flourish among vibrant, green leaves.
The Oriole wife, in camouflage, opts for a much more
mundane meal, picking ants and rolly-pollies off the lawn.
Striped with gray, she is used to living in his shade.

Look, another Oriole nibbles on a silver-red, two-tone
rose of love, by the pomegranate. What a scene!
Vivid colors outlined against white walls of the shed
at the end of a pathway lined with river rocks.

Pity, I cannot take a picture. I drowned my cell phone
in a mountain stream on Sunday. An accident waiting
to happen for 13 years, since I fell down a flight of stairs
and did not break my arms in five places as doctors
thought, X-raying me to smithereens.  Instead, I lost grip
in my fingers. I drop things when I do not pay attention.

"Take a picture with your eyes, Mom." My daughter
used to say. Enamored with a brand-new camera, I'd stop
at every blooming rose, slowing down the progress
of a family walk. My kids are gone now. I wade in streams
alone. I have all the time in the world to explore the geometry
of petals, from every angle documenting for posterity
the ephemeral gold and scarlet rainbow.

I've always wondered why my fully-opened roses
has such shredded edges, why they lost perfection so quickly.
I see it today. I take a picture with my eyes - as I sip the steaming
amber tea from a gold-white porcelain tea-cup and admire
an Oriole eating the Orogold rose for a fancy, fragrant breakfast.

(C) 2020 by Maja Trochimczyk