Great Mother Love

Her songs are earth deep mantras calling names of constellations into being.

Her light soaked in, released the magic pine and herbs.

All those folded flowers lifted up their sacred prayers – water, light, dirt, love.

Her gifts – who could forget them?

Did you see her gentle curves?

The way her spine supports her children?

It’s impossible to live without her heaven/earth transcendence.

Aren’t we all turning, turning with the planet that she raised?


©Abigler 2015

photo credit: 172/365 I Want to See the World via photopin (license)

Good Writer



She makes me angry.

Who can cut an edge finer than that?

Every word; my visceral heaven,

I eat them raw, to the hilt.


Who puts poems on screens anyway?

A digital mist; pixelated lake.

She lays hers on thick, linen sheets,

I press them like wax under flame, and she’s


Possessed me.

She knows she burns;

The nightmares, the sacred.

I’ll come back, crawling and spent.


The strike of her pen,

The creak of my heart.

Every page drowns me,

Her ink dredged revenge.


© Angela Bigler 2013


photo credit: Roger Smith via photopin cc

A poem by my mother


Had I been adequately prepared for your visit,

I would have…

Plucked the weeds from my garden

And replaced them with budding beauties,

Invited you to sit on a soft carpet of moss,

Shaded by growing greenery,

Planned a picnic of your favorite delicacies from distant lands.


I could not arrange an appropriate setting,

Yet you made yourself at home among weeds and unpainted boards.

You refused refreshment and placed my needs ahead of your own.


Like our Lord, you came to serve.

Long after sunglow, I’ll savor your sensitivity.

~Nancy J. Ressler


photo credit: Grant MacDonald via photopin cc