Here, in the Morning: a new day, a new life . . .
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Here, in the Morning: a new day, a new life . . .
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Overview
In the course of her personal and professional life, author Honora Gloria Simon embarked on a search for greater knowledge of spirituality with a parallel interest in what has been revealed within particle accelerators on the microscopic level. These interests provide a wider understanding of the interdependent connection between all things.
That theme forms the basis for Simon’s reflections in Here, in the Morning. These verses seek to condense many complex ideas about life, quantum thought, our place in nature, and various relationships. Within their explorations, her poems offer thought-provoking questions and concerns about awareness and the realm of nature. They consider a wide range of topics, such as peace, war, love, time, and meditation. Presenting abstract ideas with clarity and disarming appeal, Dr. Simon has a fresh, unique approach with refreshing, sometimes amusing metaphors.
On Spirituality
“How can we know? Where can we find it?
It is as close to us as breathing, yet it is
further than the furthermost star.
Its goodness passes before us in the realm
of nature, in the varied experience of our lives.”
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781491791578 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | iUniverse, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 07/08/2016 |
| Pages: | 64 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.15(d) |
Read an Excerpt
Here, In the Morning
a new day, a new life ...
By Honora Gloria Simon
iUniverse
Copyright © 2016 Honora Gloria Simon, Ph.D.All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-9157-8
CHAPTER 1
A Lifetime in a Day
Dawn's bursting energy,
like baptismal water,
announces rebirth.
Sunshine pours doses
of vitality,
streams down intensity
at noon.
Afternoons gently wrap,
around dusk
as nightfall beckons.
Sky-held hues pause
before they disappear.
Darkness overtakes
as we travel in shadow.
The Bell Rings
Wake up!
Smell the coffee brewing;
see the toast browning;
hear the eggs breaking —
rice and beans baking.
The alarm rings;
awaken to this world.
Stand up! Step forward!
Wake up, wake up, wake up.
As bees work,
together
in their hive,
the honey pours.
Hurry — happiness happens here!
A Distant View
A tree is known by its fruit —
a deer by its tracks,
a person by their past.
Looking back ...
I see Father works
long hours.
Looking back ...
I hold each
newborn twin.
Looking back ...
I eat meals around
the family table.
Looking back ...
I shed tears at
Mother's grave.
Looking back ...
time melts like ice cream
on hot summer days.
Long Journey
Fog,
ghosts dance;
vapors cluster.
Shadows become form;
form slides into shadow,
barely visible.
Senses stretch beyond barriers.
Can other dimensions be fathomed
light intensifies, blurs;
destiny dives deeper.
How many sheep will I count before I awaken?
Fog,
vapors cluster
into the distant dawn.
Currents Flow
At the shoreline,
waves nip at toes,
gently inch forward against
ankles, and then trickle away —
vanish into the next
white-foamed approach.
Feelings flow, as those changing
currents trickle to once-familiar
coves — or leave, never to return.
With my desire for consistency,
I struggle to capture effervescence
as it slips through my fingers.
Can I apply glue to liquid
and expect it to hold?
Some build a rock formation,
their codes found in caves
where joy hides unnoticed.
Others like to follow
these ripples and eddies,
wherever they flow,
like birds that float
on undulating waves.
Solitude
I take comfort in night.
Darkness enshrouds
as a black burka,
hidden
from penetrating eyes.
Stillness
illuminates
buried images;
plunges
into the fountain
of creativity,
opens
the tap of
revelation.
An Aspen Grove
They stand
together, tall, erect,
stark at night, slim and white.
Delicate leaves rustle, whisper
to nocturnal nomads.
The dense darkness awoke.
Trembling with the slightest breeze,
their gentle presence opens
my awareness to their
subtle energy.
I roam among these stalwart friends,
their plaintive call caged
behind walls of worry.
Their murmurs grow louder,
sighing, singing,
enmeshed in a web where
everything matters.
Where Is It?
They claim it doesn't exist,
disappeared,
never was,
abandoned.
Mistaken, they persist.
Ashes reduce to dust:
no meaning, no purpose.
Only pleasure is a must.
Others look here or there,
seeking proof,
verification,
manifestation.
Silence the chitter-chatter
of the outside world.
Let our true selves speak.
Look inside. Here is
what you seek.
On Spirituality
(from a Hebrew prayer)
"How can we know? Where can we find it?
It is as close to us as breathing, yet it is
further than the furthermost star.
Its goodness passes before us in the realm
of nature, in the varied experience of our lives."
On Meditation
Waiting ... to enter inner space.
Waiting ... for the door to crack.
Waiting ...
Waiting ... to float into silence.
Waiting ...
Waiting ... for expectations to melt.
Waiting ...
Waiting ... for mind to still.
Waiting ...
Waiting ... between breaths.
Waiting ... waiting ... waiting ... waiting.
Everything unfolds into nothing;
nothing melds everything.
Waiting ... in the moment,
in the space between breaths,
in the unseen order.
Choice
Change —
do things differently,
big or small.
Old challenges,
anger builds a fortress.
A veil of nostalgia arrives,
will the different be better?
Sorry for leaving,
familiar fades away.
Doubts pull backward;
desires push forward.
Roll, trot, slide. The future
waits for me to arrive.
Will I be ready in time
to meet my desires?
I chose
my future,
my dreams.
Heart Felt
Love is a cord that binds forever,
drawn tightly, encompassing,
impossible to disentangle.
Love can begin as a mushroom,
quietly, in the dark,
springing forth whole.
Often, a violet, gently poking
a lovely head above leaves,
surrounded by harmonies of color.
Love approaches, beckons,
charms, disarms, engulfs,
a precious gift,
wearing many garments.
Clothed in rapture,
adorned with admiration
fashioned from mystery:
love shines golden light
from within.
Where Eagles Fly
Your asymmetrical smile, a cave opening,
poured out a name I never heard.
Sensing signals of acceptance,
I opened to the unfolding blossom.
How could I know how deeply
you would touch me?
Blending to rumba, salsa, meringue beats,
tapping a Morse code upon our hearts,
foretelling the next move.
Small-town porches, ancient spores,
the gas burner tipped over, cooking
on the coarse water-weathered table.
Together at river's edge, searching
for eagles, when the sudden snow
seasoned our picnic plates.
Our frozen gloves removed, we sat
in a beer-beaten bar, beside a damp,
smothering fire, not knowing how slippery
the snow-covered road home would be.
Who else would agree to such adventures?
Permeating each cell, molecule, synapse, neuron,
you are gone but not lost.
Broken Dream
You took my hand and said,
"I could hold this hand forever."
The warmth and strength I felt
reached down to my toes.
We were both delirious
with love.
Those early, delicious days,
we were in harmony,
with no sense of
a gathering storm.
Later the silence grew
with air that stalled sound.
Frustrated, I bridged the gap
cajoling as resentment hid
beneath our awareness
until it burst open
like a water-filled balloon,
splashing all over the magnifying glass;
We looked through the open spaces
but could not see anything clearly.
Wondering how it could go so wrong,
our love slipped away as quietly
as rose petals drop to the ground.
War Crimes
I sit in a crowded rush-hour bus
as it stalls. Steps gyrate to accept
a wheelchair.
A well-built, torso-only stub
of a man appears, sending chills
up the aisle. Passengers scramble;
seats flip up. He anchors in his
special space. No one sees him.
I find myself sitting beside him
as he waves a mangled left hand,
hopelessly frozen. Feelings spill
as he begins a painful tale.
In a penetrating voice, he scolds,
"No one talks to me when I shop.
It's the same with neighbors."
I feel his pain, the silent
rejection. I nod in agreement.
I become invisible along with him.
I ask myself, how does he move
from that chair, a bed, a toilet?
I leave the bus, my heart still there.
Would he have been better off
with a poppy growing from his ear?
The next week he is parked
beside the Symphony Center door,
no cup in hand, propped up, sitting
in the sun, square jaw firmly set.
Ways of War
It was enough to put rifles in soldiers' hands,
protect them in muddy, rain-soaked trenches.
Foot soldiers needed to be fleet-footed
as they lobbed grenades to "the other side."
Pilots got shot down like tadpoles waving
tails of smoke.
We have advanced —
heat-seeking missiles, night
goggles, and multiwheeled
fortresses can roll over
fields or sand.
Our planes are drones.
Computers track their path,
push the bomb bay doors open.
We can wipe out a countryside,
pulverize a whole city in thirty
seconds, if challenged.
Now we are vulnerable to roadside
bombs leaving human puzzle pieces
scattered across the open marketplace.
Alpha apes need only show their teeth,
wildly wave their arms, to become
leaders of the tribe.
When I was eight, I dug for worms,
collected them in a jar, took them
out one by one, cut them in half,
watched them wiggle from both ends.
Still, an adrenaline rush,
the primitive part our brains
cleverly invoke, grabs hold,
takes the driver's seat.
Impermanence
We are like
concrete that cracks,
cream that curdles,
leaves that yellow,
flowers that wilt.
Shadows dim,
clouds disappear,
dust disperses,
dreams vanish.
We tumble as weeds,
bend as willows,
gather close round the fire
to sing and keep warm.
Pray for Peace
Blood-soaked sand,
rivers of red,
flying fragments,
twisted tendrils,
hurled high,
landing on fragile flesh.
Mindless destruction
sown in secrecy.
Can anyone seek shelter?
How is it possible
to use religion
to promote madness?
Relinquish righteousness,
surrender superiority,
temper tolerance,
uphold unity,
vanquish violence,
without war!
Ode to Wind
Oh, wind
that rushes to a restless home,
mother to the sail that seeks to be held,
beckoning from afar, hastening
to some undefined tomb.
Are you the bearer of
an unknown mystery?
Unseen, leaving trails,
roaring in your anger,
cajoling with your touch.
If I could take you in my
arms, would you lead me
to the answers I seek?
Whisper in my ear
the knowledge
that you bear.
Caressing, careening,
rushing, rambling.
How many times
have we danced?
One night,
when crickets were asleep,
I felt your touch upon
my cheek, clinging to me
with silent passion.
Never knowing how you appear,
a gentle breeze dancing on my shoulders,
a gale pushing me down streets,
a playmate rustling my hair,
you are my unseen companion,
confronting,
comforting,
courting,
always near ...
The Tempest
Ominous clouds massed overhead, waiting
for the moment to unleash their cargo.
They hung together, dark, dense, a cloud cover
full of promise, foretelling a prophetic event.
Thunder shook encircling mountains
like chords rumble in a Beethoven symphony.
Drums echoed back with a bang
loud enough to silence all dissenters.
Then an avalanche poured as I prepared to
keep an important promise, making it
almost impossible to open my car door.
Not just a storm; it was an attack,
as the rain pounded on my windshield,
fogged to resemble a bathroom mirror
after a shower.
Unexpectedly, the car fan did not turn on
as I inched forward, wiping a narrow slit
to see the road.
I snaked along the deserted narrow streets of this
remote town as torrents of water were unleashed
from roofs above.
Approaching the town center, the streets had
changed
into rushing rapids, repelling unwary footsteps.
I felt energized, fully engaged, by this challenge.
The drowning la tormenta dumped on this town
ended
with a light show that came crashing down,
outstripping any fireworks ever witnessed.
The magnitude of white light turned my house into
momentary blindness as I stood by the window,
transfixed in awe.
With biblical force, I might think I was being
heralded by a higher power.
The next evening, the dark clouds massed overhead,
now a gentle pitter-patter danced on the terrace.
An Arc of Color
My mind morphs
into patterns.
Fragrance engulfs;
perfumed air swirls.
What magic lies
within fragile petals?
Brilliant color wash
an entire room,
greet guests,
convey passion,
awaken love.
Hearts Desire lilies,
Orange Lady marigolds,
Blushing Beauty tulips,
Scarlett O'Hara roses,
request forgiveness,
console sorrow,
bring cheer to failing health.
Beguiling aromas speak
with a kaleidoscope of color.
Among Others
Abundance evades me.
When chased, it runs faster.
I look for where it hides.
I hold a cup
with outstretched arm,
waiting for it to be filled.
When I open my eyes,
I see a sea of unfilled cups.
Can I buy a kiss from Lucy?
Maybe Charlie will share
a solution.
Is enough ever enough?
Winter Streets
Like peacocks
crimson chapeaus
light walkways
on tired winter streets —
brighten cloudy days,
to fade not into
the concrete facade.
One day wearing a red hat,
I breathed adventure
in the cold crisp air.
Looking through frozen eyes,
the anonymous city awoke.
Passersby nodded.
Old men winked.
Widows smiled.
My step quickened. What a tonic —
no longer a faceless speck
in the crowd!
In the Kitchen
Warm air seeps from the oven door.
I lie before it, on the heated linoleum.
Pa sits by the table,
his cigar smoke mingling with the mist.
Pat scribbles with brightly colored crayons.
Rene keeps her makeup in a shoe box.
Mother stands at the sink chopping.
Rene is angry 'cause I tried her lipstick.
Pat shows her half-formed picture.
Pa's head rolls to sleep with the brisket-laden air.
Mother gives me a hug.
Outside is a deep, icy snow.
I look down at bear-shaped footprints
from our third-floor window.
I am home.
Everyone is in the kitchen.
Cultural Smorgasbord
I chose my Doc Martens bought on the Strand
during a theater stopover. Sturdy,
they flavored the broth.
Next, I chose pearl ear-dangles found
in Florence, and a long pearl necklace
made in Korea
that went into the pot.
The poncho,
a Turkish friend gave me,
a spaceman,
unearthed in the Peruvian sands,
ancient vessels,
copies sold in Nazca as originals
are added to the array.
A statuette
of a Xian warrior
an antique ink pad,
from Confucius's hometown
reside in this culinary feast.
Tiny miniatures bring variety
to the buffet:
a Cyclades head discovered in a Madrid museum,
a carnelian turtle acquired in a Seoul antique shop,
a whimsical dog from an artist outside Guadalajara
savory succulents season this multiflavored brew.
In Ankara a replica of twins from 3500 BC
dropped into my bag, with the oldest female
form from the Knossos museum in Crete.
Sleeping on tatami mats in Korea, belly dancing
in a Turkish cafe, wearing bridal gowns in Japan,
disarming desserts not expected.
I drank from bowls of hospitality,
inspiration, knowledge.
Fabricating a global feast of delicacies,
in all these exotic creations,
curiosity turns satisfaction
into gravy.
Chicago Summer Dance
The evening air is stale, stagnant, smothering.
Orchestra Tipica Imperial from Buenos Aires
onstage, in Grant Park Music Garden:
couples swirl, turn, pass counterclockwise.
The leader, beneath a black fedora, leans
into the mic: "This is our last performance ...
I'm so happy to see so many great dancers
here in Chicago."
Big shoulders support this great city:
the symphony, the arts, the museums,
the waterfront, the water towers.
Bulls, Bears, Cubs hold fans hostage;
when lions in front of the Art Institute
don their championship helmets,
traffic stops to pay homage.
Stockyard stereotype discarded;
hayseed, cornstalks swept aside;
no longer Second City —
now number one prime.
Tango takes jazz, swing, salsa as partner.
House of Blues opens its doors.
Here is Paris over the pond.
The Bandoneón
The accordion's cousin, stage center,
near the curved piano, pours out
milk and cream, coaxing me back
to mother's arms.
Both keyboards spar, their fingers
intertwined, and then wrestle to
exhaustion's edge. The violin scales
its highest note while contrabass's
insistent beat drones.
Long notes speak tomes, sending
me down a trail of yearning,
exhuming emotions lost long on
survival slopes.
My heart, lulls to slumber,
awakens to a frenzied tempo.
Aged burgundy hitches a ride
with a unicorn, flying across oceans,
from Buenos Aires to Madrid, Istanbul,
and Tokyo.
This bandoneón squeezes sounds,
squashes round ones in half,
half more, and half again
until the notes squeal and groan
as the music slides to finish
with the last chord.
Life Is Tango
I
When the bandoneón groans
and the piano belches
spasmodic interludes, the
mute dancers pace themselves
in never-ending
circles.
They yield
to the sporadic beat
alternating in complexity.
Past and present morph
as time hangs between
and the language of tango
unfolds.
II
She taps her toe on the floor.
A bull, head down,
is ready to charge.
Her leg wraps around his.
He thrusts his foot forward
and takes her with him,
swirling, twirling, intertwined.
The music lunges, quickens
its tempo, stops, and punches
forward again.
She hesitates, steps slowly
over his foot, turns
around him as he pivots,
pacing with the tempo,
forward, backward, around,
across,
always together
in firm embrace, as the
undulant music vacillates
between tension and resolution.
III
Captive by the hypnotic
rhythm, the elusive meter,
moment to moment
we move as one.
As strangers, we embrace,
offering fleeting permission
to part with the intangible
essence when two souls unite.
The unexpected connection
brings me compulsively,
in a migratory manner,
unthinking, imprinted
to the pulsating beat.
Never satiated, unyielding
hunger seeks to recapture
those mystical moments.
IV
Body sleek, sway back, molded thigh
slung forward, confident strides,
these fillies, like a red Corvette,
make their own rides.
Suddenly leg shoots out
up to the shoulder, hand
placed midback on partner,
mirroring his grip, no longer
draped, hanging
on to his neck.
Legs swing in, out, circle around.
Submission/permission gone,
now together, lead and follow
alternates, as the woman
initiates the kiss.
We Danced Before
Her oval face,
penetrating eyes,
wistful tulip smile
belie the daring
residing in her feet.
Before settling into her
partner's open arms,
she pauses, nose to nose,
to calibrate her breath
with his.
Only then does she close
her embrace, prepared to
begin their journey.
He holds the silence a few
moments more to absorb
the union before the dance
begins.
They dance as old souls
remember past unions,
she from Japan, he from Turkey,
not important where, only how.
Later, I pass her standing near
the strawberries, silently
staring across the room,
as if retracing her movements
within spaces of unspoken
communication.
Vibrations
Colors communicate,
so says Kandinsky, hearing music.
Paul Klee, with guided hands, agrees.
We know orange
drapes Himalayan monks,
a popular drink, brightens the sky,
alerts us to danger.
Blue heals,
carries mystery into night,
turns blood royal, seals honors.
Violet is shy,
a sister to lavender,
can shrink, a flower's name.
Red dares bulls,
stops traffic, steamy,
adorns magical shoes.
Pink tranquilizes,
while hot pink tantalizes,
lending its charm to feathers.
Green balances,
says go to traffic, great for golfers,
names money, colors grass.
White blinds,
illuminates, a bride's favorite,
speaks from the pulpit,
uncovers sequestered secrets.
Black, an urban statement,
sophisticated, somber,
clerical, dignified.
Brown,
an earthy sheltering vibration,
adobe huts reverberating tribal chants.
Yellow adorns
a British submarine, a Rolls Royce,
unobtrusive stairs, lies on bread.
Encircles precious gems,
brings flowers to bloom,
clarifies muddled minds.
What makes yellow special is
its inherent optimism,
bright, cheery, full of hope.
Let's take a daily double dose.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Here, In the Morning by Honora Gloria Simon. Copyright © 2016 Honora Gloria Simon, Ph.D.. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Introduction, viii,Acknowledgments, x,
A Lifetime in a Day, 1,
The Bell Rings, 2,
A Distant View, 3,
Long Journey, 4,
Currents Flow, 5,
Solitude, 6,
An Aspen Grove, 7,
Where Is It?, 8,
On Spirituality, 9,
On Meditation, 10,
Choice, 12,
Heart Felt, 13,
Where Eagles Fly, 14,
Broken Dreams, 16,
War Crimes, 18,
Ways of War, 20,
Impermanence, 22,
Pray for Peace, 23,
Ode to Wind, 24,
The Tempest, 26,
An Arc of Color, 28,
Among Others, 29,
Winter Streets, 30,
In the Kitchen, 31,
Cultural Smorgasbord, 32,
Chicago Summer Dance, 34,
The Bandoneon, 36,
Life Is Tango, 38,
We Danced Before, 42,
Vibrations, 44,
In San Miguel, 47,
Fresh Growth, 48,