Friday, June 24, 2005


June 24, 2005
7:55 PM

Alone at the reservoir.

Light is slowing, shadows growing.
Write I now with sadness,
knowing time draws nigh to say good-bye...
Day draws close to eve’s twilight...

Adieu... Adieu.

Wisp & Ray

June 24, 2005
7:51 PM

Alone at the reservoir.

Hazy Sky is playing with Sun,
casting shadows where there ought be none....

A nothing-wisp of cloud
breaks and separates the rays,
making me aware of light
in strange and subtle ways.

Why this wisp and not another,
I cannot say.
So many in the sky have not caught
even a single ray...

Perhaps because this piece of misty wind
lies within my view...
I fancy that the comfort it imparts
was sent by You.

Beside the Reservoir II

June 24, 2005
7:46 PM

Alone at the reservoir.
Missing Mattie.

I believe
I just might be capable
of sitting here,
right here,
until next year,
writing without pause
except for sleep and sustenance.

The air is warm,
the breeze is cool,
the water in the reservoir
sings soft around twin fountains.

All I lack
is the sister of my soul.

Even so,
I am whole here
beside the reservoir.

The Magic of Leaves

June 24, 2005
7:30 PM

Alone at the reservoir.

There’s that light
playing in the leaves again.

I suppose it has nothing better to do
than laze about the greens,
making what was dull, translucent,
full of radiance.

Leaves are magical...

But only when the light
hits them just so,
or the wind blows through and opens
possibilities of voice and music.

The magic of leaves
lies in their response to light,
their obedience to the wind...

And most of all,
in the perception of one
who finds eternity
in every little thing.


June 24, 2005
6:30 PM

Alone at the reservoir.

On a day like this,
I’d rather not be inside pushing a pen
or manning a computer.

I’d even prefer not to be
in the company of friends
if that company necessitated
meeting indoors.

I’m far too captivated watching
the sparrows skim the surface
of the reservoir. The water’s play
is far too beautiful a song
to leave it behind
for another sort of din.

This place is not
the most beautiful I know,
but no one else shares with me
the beauty of this moment.

And so it becomes sacred,
and I, its only witness.

This span of time is unrepeatable:
The water will never ascend
to fall back down again
in quite the same way it does now;
the whippoorwill may never
sing this song just so again.

And somehow I,
a pauper amidst majesty,
am blessed to see,
to feel,
to hear this moment
in this place...

I am so alive,

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Oak Leaves

June 12, 2005

To Joy Thekla.

Most people will never
look up into a tree
the way we are doing
right now.

Most people will never
appreciate or even see
(from underneath)
the way light plays on the leaves,
within the leaves,
casting about their surface
an iridescent sheen
which can only truly be seen
with the mind’s eye.

There’s music in those leaves.

And you hear it-

the symphony
which most people
simply shout over.

It’s not unlike
the sound of cicadas
in South Texas summer.

You have to time your conversation
with and against the rise and fall
of their incessant hum.

But in-between
your questions and replies,
if you listen closely,
you’ll hear the wisdom of the ages
in that confounded racket...

Hold your comments
and your sighs...


Maille (My-Lee)

June 12, 2005

for Maille

A storm is coming.

But Maille doesn't care.
She lies beside me,
her feet in the air,
cooing at the sky,
clutching at my fingers...

We're lying peacefully
beneath the branches
of an oak,
listening as the wind
serenades us,
rustling the leaves.

A storm is coming.

But Maille doesn't care.
More accurately said,
she's completely unaware.

All she knows
is how wonderful the wind feels
to her toes.

All she sees
is the shifting of the leaves,
the blending of their
light and shadow,
lying here with me
beneath the tree.

I know a storm is coming...

Yet I catch a glimpse of blue
just beyond the emerald hues,
and I know the rain will wait
another hour or two...

While I lie here
with precious Maille, amazed
at how wonderful the wind feels
to my toes.

Saturday, June 11, 2005


June 9, 2005

I hung a Tire in a Sycamore,
a Thorn Bird on her branches;
bent the brittle sky
into a riddle...

Truth died grudgingly;
nay, she only slept,
dreamt fitfully,
for I desired dignity...

You interfered with the planets,
cloud-crossed Moon...
beyond seeing and seeming,
you touched life, entered strife,
called to the Moon-Watcher
swinging on the Tire
beneath the dappled Tree.

Where was she to run,
and why?
For all she ever sought
was to chat with the Moon;
and finally,
the Moon answered back.

She has what she came for;
she's tucked the treasure up her sleeve...

But others there are
who are not ready to leave.

The Tree is quaking,
the Tire, swinging violently;
the Thorn Bird cries
it's beautiful song;
the Dragon...
she has waited long.

The Watcher now
is bound to sit and tell
their story to the Moon,
though she had hoped
to speak of other things...
more beautiful and pleasant things...

Like the silver quill she found
while swinging beneath a Sycamore
by the Moon's silver sheen.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

Broken Glass

June 2, 2005

I hid
in many shattered
bits of broken glass...

The image was too much to see.
I took a hammer to the pane
and saved myself;
parceled out these parts of me;
the only means by which my mind
could bear the whole.

I’m lost
in many shattered
bits of broken glass...

A shard for love,
a shard for pain,
a shard for every fear...

This plethora of remnants
leaves me lame.

I must restore
these many shattered
bits of broken glass...

Never whole, the way it was...
Yet brokenness could prove
redemption's tool...

The cracks may serve
to keep me ever mindful
of the paths I walked
to find the place of rest.

And perhaps there’s
something to be said
for staying present
in the struggle for my sanity;
for staying here
as you help me
hurt and heal and find
these many shattered
bits of broken glass.

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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