This Peace

22 September 2007, 11:12 AM

We slept
beneath a canopy of trees which,
according to a piece of paper,
belong to us. You and I both know
we cannot own a living thing. We only
hold it for a while and, if we
hold well, receive a gift in return
which cannot be quantified.

So we hold our Haven and each other;
lay beneath the double-vaulted ceiling
of leaf and sky; read stories and write
poetry as hours wander by and pause
to watch us linger in the space we know
we can never really own, but hope
we hold well, and receive in return,
this peace.

Turn of Night

6 September 2004
An older piece, one of my favorites that never made it to the blog.

Sit alone, embracing sounds of night:
cicada buzz and cold moonlight.
Ruminate on moment's bliss,
weep once more for innocence;
tender, rocking lullaby,
waving eves of yore good-bye.

Shy of Should

6 June 2007, 1:34 PM
Found this in my poetry file the other day- realized I never posted it, perhaps because at the time, it felt too heavy and sad. Although I guess that doesn't usually stop me. Regardless, here it is.

I found a wishing flower today. Saddened
to see so many of its dreams irretrievably lost,
I picked it anyway, for you. There is no such thing
as a hope trampled beyond redemption.

So I breathed softly on the parachutes
of which there ought to have been exactly 188,
knowing there was something shy of should-
something not quite matching up to needful-
because I promised I would hope for you,

until all of what was lost, or at least enough,
shall find its way to you upon the wind,
fall in sheets of warming, summer rain to wet
the crackled earth; revive the wishing flowers again.

Espalier

10 August 2007, 8:53 AM

One sees them, and even
bereft of the horticultural descriptor,
one knows at once it’s just not natural.
Branches do not grow in straight
lines across brick or board.
Those limbs must be coerced with string
or other less merciful implements- wire,
nails, stakes and such, and less obedient
growth must be severed.

If for one moment that vine
or bush
or tree was allowed to grow freely,
unhindered by chafing shackles,
it would become wild and beautiful;
pull away from the unforgiving
brick or the dead, unbending wood.

But the form would remain.
Branches shaped and hardened
into unnatural lines;
uncompromising positions must remain.
They serve as a reminder of lessons
learned in less merciful times.

The Grass

13 July 2007, 3:20 PM
Jardin du Luxembourg
Paris

Get off the grass???

I came thousands of miles
and eight metro stops to sit on the grass;
feel it beneath me as you read aloud
from Bradbury.

Up until now, the French had seemed
more sane by far than my people.
But Americans know what grass is for,
and while they might use it
for American football,
at least at home I would be free to sit with you
upon the green, instead of a hard, metal chair;
and listen to the wind in the trees.

Rainy Paradise

12 July 2007, 2 PM
Duke of York Pub, across from Victoria Station
London

A dark cloud hangs over
Victoria Station,
but I’ve told you a number of times,
the weather is inconsequential:

I am with you.

Victoria Station will always be
paradise, even when it’s raining.

Distinctly British

12 July 2007, 12:10 PM
Ashford Int’l Train Station
London

There’s nothing particular about
the flowers. I’ve seen yarrow
countless times in the fields
and on the roadsides back home.

The mist is simply, unremarkably
the same water that hangs on the fields
of Kentucky; falls unceasingly
in the spring- it falls as it pleases here.

The trees are familiar, boasting only
slight varietal differences, so slight
as to share names with those friendly,
shading branches in my own yard.

Placement is key, scarcity or plenitude
and care given to wild things- something in
the life of things that makes them
distinctly British- or otherwise.

Armageddon Meets Cloud Nine

27 November 2006, 9:56 AM

Cerulean and silvered white
against a faithful azure sky
lean down to trace my lips
with sunset’s pastel orange hue.

The deeper shades of fiery red,
Cerise and coral in my head
encroach upon a perfect autumn breeze,
a sky as deep as it is wide,
and eyes without a hint of guile.

Armageddon draws nigh-
the muted shades of early evening
deepen to impending doom,

and I wait for it.

The warring sky engulfs Cloud Nine,
meets deepening color as this evening
permeates my own,

and I find I am still alive; at home
as these too long whitened clouds
turn all the colors of the sky

of me

and my heart ambles along its beat,
the only certain part of me,
even as the Truth unfolds
and I am not alone.

A Grander Moldau

July 7, 2005

Still looking back at old favorites. I love Smetana's "Moldau." And I love the Reservoir.

The bank clock proclaimed ninety-two degrees.
The air was so stifling as I left my apartment,
I did not doubt its integrity for a moment.

I’m here now at the reservoir;
the breeze upon my skin is cool,
so cool that I begin to question my perception.

Behind gray and glowing clouds,
I hear Your power thunder;
source is veiled, but not sound.

I wonder at reverberations
transforming earth into a timpani;
rain falls like a piccolo,
a recital of Smetana’s Moldau, only grander;
this music he could only imitate,
which no one yet has, nor ever shall
manage to duplicate.

I wonder what strange language
rain speaks to leaves in my beloved Sycamore?

I wish I could sing like that.
If only I could speak pure truth
the way these thousands of droplets
slap against the pavilion’s roof, the grass,
the thirsty ground, the once-still waters,
alive and rippling, reflecting naught except grace
sent to slake creation’s thirst.

I thirst, yet not for rain,
though something in this torrential
stillness of the mind,
where I find myself content to listen to the
praise of the sky and single-minded wisdom of rain,
brings me to deeper stillness yet.

Even as I wrap this shawl around my shoulders,
the wind bites through, reminds me of mortality,
and also of eternity.

Mystery becomes You…

And somehow,
this finitude reveals, conceals,
instructs and astounds;
leaves me speechless in divinity.

Finding North Wind

It occured to me tonight to take a look back at where I was in my writing a year ago. I'm glad I did.

I was originally introduced to the writings of George MacDonald, and specifically to _At the Back of the North Wind_, by an online poetry buddy by the handle of Mahlonovich. Many thanks and much affection still go to him for bringing me face to face with my dear North Wind.

Many thanks also to George MacDonald for the gift of North Wind. She has come to mean something other to me than MacDonald may have originally intended. But that's the beauty of great literature, and an illustration of George MacDonald's singular ability to create a character whose impact is so striking, one cannot help but love her and own her meaning long after finishing the book.

FINDING NORTH WIND
17 November 2005, 8:59 PM
Edited 19 November 2006, 6:51 PM

I sat beside North Wind,
and she told me of the lands of magic
beyond the periphery of her sight.

She is full of paradox,
my dear North Wind,
for my vision is made clearer
by all she cannot see.

She comes to me as I sit
within this seeming-stagnant pool,
Yet in her presence all becomes
a living, breathing being;
bankless river ever flowing,
tripping over mossy rock and down
the sharp incline of mountain
toward emerald grass of valleys below.

I've never heard her chuckle
nor stifle a giggle,
for her laugh is thunder,
toppling the mountain whence she came.

Nor have I ever seen her
just a little cross: Beneath her rage
the very earth is set trembling.
She sets ablaze the firmament
with naught but her indignant gaze.

I've never seen a single tear
drop from her eye,
for when she weeps
the rushing river which is she
becomes a mighty torrent
overwhelming me.

I've never heard her whistle
but she ended in a song
which was as deep as it was long,
nor any smaller nor less strong
for having found its birth
within the breast of one
so small at once,
and yet again so very large!
To quantify such majesty
is far too great a task,
beyond my reach.

And quite pointless besides.

For once I had her pegged,
she simply would be off again,
tripping over hill and stone,
laughing,
weeping,
alone or in the company of princes.

It matters not to her.

She simply is,
and will not long abide
my notions of what is needful.

North Wind and some imagery taken from and inspired by George MacDonald's "At the Back of the North Wind."

Northerly Wind

16 October 2006, 10:59 PM

There’s an awful lot of dialogue, waiting
for my hair to grow, waiting
for falling snow in September.

It’s October now- the snow is closer
than it was. But I’ve been waiting
for a month or longer- since the Spring,
if I’m honest. I’ve been waiting
since the flurries ceased to fall last year-
waiting with many a sigh and silver tear.

There’s not much happiness
in waiting. I find sadness, solitude,
sometimes silliness, though not much
joy. I’m just tired, and eager for the wind
to change. So strange that I should
long again for home the way it was-
the way it killed me from the inside out,
unrelentingly and without apology.

The nights are harder than the days
sometimes. I think I’ll never see the end
of my own wants, my own thoughts beaten
bloody by the too long Northerly Wind.

I had come to see in her a friend.
I’d say she’ll find vindication in the end,
revealed for what she is: mighty
river bellowing against tender reeds,
teaching them to stand up strong and tall
against her gracious, brutal current.

I wonder, should she ever cease to flow,
if the rushes then will know how to stand
with nothing left to brace themselves against.

KY 169

4 October 2006, 7:15 AM

Kentucky is beautiful to me,
especially when I find myself
her only witness, or one among few,
as the foaling barns and mowing sheds
are lit with a warmth that only comes
from an up-before-dawn vigilance
to the privilege of caring for the earth
and her children.

Misty not-quite-morning rests
lazily, enshrouding rusty remains
of tractors long since left to pasture,
silhouetted against a morning slow to rise-
he hovers lightly, loathe to leave
his originate earth, this blue-green cradle,
soon to be his resting place again.

Exceeding Splendor

19 August 2006, 12:16 PM

Harrodsburg Road is a long, dim drive
most mornings. Monotony sets in
long before I think to pay attention to the trees,
the horses, or even the expanse above them- dark
or bright, gay or filled with tears- a favorite subject,
and ubiquitous on days when misty-morning haze
knits landscape to muddy-gray of not quite cloudy,
not quite cloudless sky.

On one such day, the sun appeared-
amidst a sullied plain of muddled colorlessness
which I mistook as overcast- a neon disk of fire
dulled by the morning haze, impressive,
though not quite lovely; undeniable, though not
quite convicting, not quite high enough in its ascent
to beautify the heavy fog upon rolling hills;
valleys of blue-green.

The higher she rose, all the more golden seemed
the land before, behind, above; the more inspired
seemed the wisps of cloud, descended that morning,
as if they meant to kiss the Earth before ascending;
vanishing again.

As earth and wind and sky waxed in loveliness,
less and less could eye behold the beauty of the sun,
so brightly did she shine. Only for the radiance
released; bestowed upon the land did she shine out
all the more magnificent; find her glory in drawing eyes
toward something other than self, and so exceeded
all else in splendor.

This Time

14 July 2006, 12:16 AM

azure breeze dances
leads me through trances
of light
of color and serenity
now I can see, see more than

darkness
on the face of the waters
beckons me toward the deep
I know not what keeps me
from the edge, what keeps me
from sinking so deep I cannot

escape never crosses my mind
these days- I'd rather float free
upon the depths; discover
where they'll take me
this time

Mattie's Magnolias

Awaiting Mattie's arrival.
10 July 2006, 7:54 PM

I.
To the right of the porch,
a young magnolia- the southern variety-
no pink saucer bullshit.

Don't get me wrong, the saucers are beautiful.
But the great southern magnolia has no equal.
So many graceful branches merging
to a trunk of such girth
it must have evolved from multiple seedlings.

Leaves of young, matte green, healthy
and open to the sun. I wonder how I ever
preferred the watered-down saucer bullshit
to this lovely bit of southern hospitality,
like an afternoon spent on a porch-swing
twenty years ago with my grandparents
and a tall glass of iced tea on a hellish,
South Texas Sunday afternoon.

II.
To the left and slightly back- I cannot see
its fullness- only a few aged branches
peaking out around the porch. An older specimen
I cannot call stately.

I remember how I came to prefer bullshit-prissy
saucer magnolias to a less refined variety.

Leaves are curled and waxy; darker, muted
green in places, yellow in others
with all the markings of a ripe, brown banana.
Foliage less dense, unarguably less attractive.

Halts the mind, mid-critique:

How easily one abandons
a thing no longer beautiful as it once was,
though still alive,
which in proper time gave joy of a kind;
in proper time would bring joy of another
if one could be found to receive the gift,

not unlike my grandmother
a decade ago, standing outside on the driveway
in a cotton dress waving, watching us disappear
around the corner. She stood there without fail
beside my blue coverall-clad granddad in the South
Texas heat. They never once considered
going inside before their granddaughter
was out of sight.

She is no less lovelynow,
sitting in her rocking chair, alone
except for the cats, hair discolored,
wits less poignant, a little worse for wear
after decades spent in that damned heat.

I steal another glance at the aged magnolia
as I wonder when last I saw my grandmother,
bearing no less love in her growing frailty,
standing in the sun, waving goodbye to me.

Back in Time for Vespers

On the Sheltowee Trail II
8 July 2006, 10:13 PM

We wanted to be back in time for Vespers,
so we set off early, though not as early
as we’d planned. We packed into vans
and headed to the Gorge.

It was a strange but beautiful slice of Paradise.
A little Nora for while, then all consented
to a blast from the past, immersing ourselves
in the King of Pop as my son danced to a song
he’d never heard… He’s still singing
about how really, really bad he is.

A supposed-quarter-closer-to-a-full-mile hike
to the swimming hole, a morning well spent
jumping off two-story boulders to an icy-cold
river below; swinging on a rope whose integrity
was as questionable as the potability of the water
into which we flung ourselves; of which all received
a fair mouth-full or two.

Smooth, flat rocks were good for the getting.
Several found their ways across the water hole
to a new resting place beside the boulder.
Perhaps they will not see the light again,
but no more glorious end may be found
for a well-worn skipping-stone, skimming dizzily
across murky waters so fast the one who hurled
could not quite count the skips from shore
to Sheltowee boulder.

We wanted to be back in time for Vespers,
so in the early afternoon we set out to hike
a five mile hike, kids-in-tow, on the Sheltowee.

Queen of the Rock-Skippers

On the Sheltowee Trail
8 July 2006, 1:35 PM

There's sand in my shoes.
That may be why they're called sandals.
Little children run this way and that,
splashing on the shores of the river.

The breeze is cool. The water, icy.
The boulder's just high enough to inspire
both terror and delight.

I think God made rocks for days like this.
He may even have made the one in my hand
to set the others in awe of me;
crown me Queen of the Rock-Skippers;
help us understand how holy it is
to laugh and play together often,
under a pale strip of blue sky
and sun's warmth, made gentler now and again
by a darkling cloud.

The trail is calling.
Noon has fallen.
Evening draws nigh,
and we want to be back in time for Vespers,
so we leave behind this corner of Paradise
to find another
as we set off on the Sheltowee Trail.

Possibilities

26 June 2006, 2:51 PM

Every breath expands
possibilities, like great gray ships
sailing the azure firmament.
Any moment, they'll release
a flood to bring life
singing from root, bough and twig.

Life as it is
now
will never be again.

That tree will shed at least one leaf;
tomorrow will be something
other than it is today.

Perhaps three or four will sprout;
replace the fallen,
but he will never be;
his like I'll never see
again.

This Side of Reflection

27 May 2006, 9:52 PM
Alone at the reservoir

Black as pitch against a fading sky,
the treeline reflects
upon the surface of the Reservoir.

A latticework of ripples
makes its way across the waters,
blurring all in its path,
muddling clear-cut lines
so that only their vaguest forms remain.

Even light is skewed;
made something other than it is
as the waters dance and play
against the dark,
beneath the wind,
above unseen currents,
encompassing the flick of fin;
movement of ken.

It occurs to me that this is how we see:
dimly; a reflection upon moving waters.

Few things are certain...
but reflection suggests form,
form entails purpose,
purpose begs volition,
volition is bound to One who wills;

who can still the waters,
clarify vision
this side of reflection.

For You

19 May 2006, 1:37 PM

The sky is blue for you today
deep, piercing, azure blue
the shade that makes me think of you
and I do quite often today
as you are where I cannot guess
but I know you're not so very far away

There is a prayer on my lips for you
as constant as the color of the sky
for it is blue even when I cannot see
beyond the clouds
beyond the darkness
to your eyes