A LATE SUMMER DAY

Children play a game
of their own making
involving chalk, leaves and rocks,

while adults gathered
‘round picnic baskets
laugh at their creative antics,

a red-tailed hawk circles above,
letting the wind guide its path,

its wings reflect in the glistening pond,

in a nearby field
a solitary sunflower,
following the arc of the sun,
tilts slowly from east to west

soaking up nourishment
from its rays of luminous light
while bringing delight to all
who witness the spectacle of its
wondrous, late summer presence,

a precious gift before its seeds
turn into food for hungry birds.

and the circle of life continues.

Photo of Sunflower by Marti Durkee Garvey – noted photographer based in Nashville, IN

BETWEEN SEA AND SKY

If I move forward,
there’s a chance it won’t work out,

there’s a risk I won’t succeed
or find another reason to try;
another dream to apply myself to,

somewhere between sea and sky am I,

waiting for a push,
waiting for a pull,

what am I waiting for,

some overseer of dreams to say now,
to say this is how,
to say I bless you with a sacred vow,

unless I test the fates
on my own,
I’ll never embrace
the promise that awaits
in the magical space
between sea and sky.

Photo taken by friend and neighbor, Estelle Boyaka, on a recent trip to France
Nicolas Lavarenne’s Bronze Sculpture – Grand Défi – Antibes, France

SALOME MEANS PEACE

The boys scattered as I drove up the dirt path from the main road. I had spotted a hand painted sign with an arrow under the word baskets and made a quick turn.

The boys, intent on their summer fun, were in varying degrees of dishevelment. Their straw hats were broken and askew, their shirts untucked and knees dirty. One pointed to a shed when I asked about the baskets.

A woman in a long blue, cotton dress and white bonnet emerged from the back door of the house. She beckoned me on. We stepped inside a shed and she opened the curtains to let in some light. As my eyes adjusted, I saw shelf after shelf of perfectly woven baskets. There were multiple sizes and shapes with various banded colors. I’ve always loved baskets, so was immediately plagued with indecision.

She sat down at her small table and said, “Take your time.”

Conversation came easily. I learned she and her husband make the baskets together, each bringing a particular skill. She had a stroke nine years ago and he picked up a couple of the more intricate steps. She’s doing great now, fully recovered and grateful.

They raised seven daughters and three sons on their plot of land. She remembers a time when they sold 100 quarts of strawberries in an afternoon from their roadside stand.

Their children are all married and scattered, some to Amish communities in New York. One son lives in the main house, runs the farm and raises his family on the same hill and plot of land where he grew up. She and her husband have a small home next door.

Toward the end of my visit, while I was digging in my purse for enough cash, I learned they have 88 grandchildren. She looked too young. Her unlined face, her bright eyes and her unhurried presence gave her a certain peaceful, youthful countenance.

I looked her in the eyes and asked her name. “Salome,” she said.

“I’m Rita,” I replied.

I was barely a mile away when I wanted to turn back, to absorb more, listen more, take my time more.

In fact, the next day I did return but could never find the right turn off the main road. It wouldn’t have felt the same anyway and more questions would have become too intrusive. I think I wanted her to tell me how it’s all going to turn out, but I knew in my heart that the time we had was just enough time to take.

WHERE IS THE WONDER WE SEEK
While we sleep,
the spider spins
a meticulous
architectural wonder,

a design so intricate
it captures emotion,
holds imagination,

the eyes of a passerby
spy the web
one misty morn,

its silken beauty entrances,
like a ballerina doing pirouettes
or an artist dabbing oil on canvas.

Our lives aren’t always so clear,
aren’t always so wondrous,

we spin into webs of confusion,
becoming bound in painful knots,

may we find a way
to loosen the painful
knots binding our loving hearts,

allowing wonder to spin
a new web of balanced connections
in our lives.

Photo taken by Susan DeGraaf taken at Sunny 95 Park.
The spider web was strung inside one of the soccer goal nets.
Look closely and you might find the spider in the top left of the photo.
Susan is a teacher and park neighbor who takes beautiful photography.

A TURTLE’S VIEW

His nose twitches with delight
as he ambles about in the early dawn,

every blade of grass
tickles his nose, tickles his toes,

he sips savory drops
of morning dew,

crosses rough stones
that chafe his calloused feet,

trundles over early
dandelion shoots,

relishes the scent of lilacs
perfuming the air,

samples skittles and chips
from a recent picnic,

he senses the vibration of nearby trucks,
the bustle of children going to school,

the rush and stir
of human life in full throttle
hurtling through busy lives,

he’s happiest feeling the rumble
of earth’s heartbeat,

the tempo of life
beneath his feet.

Poem and Photo by Rita Bourland
Turtle sculpted by Norton LaTourelle
nortonsgallery.com

Everything was eclipsed
by the eclipse,

nothing seemed more pressing
than donning glasses
to stare toward the sun
as it slowly disappeared
behind the moon,

certain it would reappear,
we were held rapt by the motion
and the notion that such a thing
could occur,

neither scientists nor astronomers,
just casual observers
of the extravagant cinematic beauty
unreeling in real time,

superlatives didn’t suffice,
language failed
to capture our feelings,

an earthquake of shifting emotions,
a time stamp of bittersweet longing,

a desire to know more, love more, be more,
beneath and within this universe
where magic like this exists,

where even on the darkest days
there’s a childlike trust
that light will reappear.

PHOTO BY BOBBY GODDIN/INDIANAPOLIS STAR

The photo is of an airplane passing near the total solar eclipse on Monday April 8, 2024.
It was taken during the Hoosier Cosmic Celebration at Memorial Stadium in Bloomington, Indiana.

Bobby Goddin is a photographer based in Bloomington, Indiana who covers Indiana University athletics and high school sports. This photo was picked up by multiple national news outlets.
Follow him on Instagram @bobbygoddinphoto

I DREAM

I dream that peace falls
like silent snow,

drifting into darkened corners,
dangerous corridors,

where hope struggles with ragged breath,

I dream of a fox resting in quiet slumber,

I dream of people crying
in sorrow,
in suffering,
in fear,

in places I’ve never visited
nor likely ever will,

I dream that peace falls,

I dream of a fox resting.

I dream of people,

I dream.

Photograph by Annalies Corbin ©2024
Website: annaliescorbin.photography
Instagram: @annaliescorbinphotography
Photo taken at Yellowstone National Park

RUSTY

Every piece matters,

a nut,
a bolt,
a rusted clamp
from a vacant lot,

an odd array
of this and that,

nothing special
when seen in parts,

yet touches the heart when whole.

RUSTY FACTS
“Rusty” is a 20-foot metal sculpture by artist Kris Nethercutt that stands outside the entrance of The Factory at Franklin (circa-1929 buildings that once served as the Dortch Stove Works, Magic Chef and later the Jamison Bedding Company and is now a historic shopping, dining and entertainment complex). The Factory is in Franklin, Tennessee.
Rusty weighs 4,600 pounds and took six years to complete. All the parts were found in the former factories or in car junk yards.

SHE WAS THE RAREST OF US

Her footsteps disappeared from the path,

the last ones, barely perceptible,
had fully existed just moments before,

where did she go,

the dancing girl with the golden hair,

who poured magic into spaces
full of voids and chasms,

who wrote poems of hope,
dreamt big expansive dreams,

gave precious gifts
to those often forgotten,

shared her brave voice
to seek a cure,

she was the rarest of us,

we humans searching for life’s meaning,
getting lost in the fog,

turning corners only to become confused
again and again,

tripping on rocks, slipping on ice,
losing our way,

our dismay that she has gone
will remain, yet,

the dancing girl with the golden hair

showed us the way,

leaving us in the fog of heartbreak
while still shining a light on the path,

so we may walk forward in her footsteps,
bearing hope in her name.

Written in memory of Alea Ramsey, May 26, 2005- January 28, 2024

Alea began Bearing Hope in 2020 with the mission of bringing joy, hope and support to kids fighting cancer in Ohio and to raise awareness for Childhood Cancer.

Photo by Susan DeGraaf