Monday, November 27, 2006

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.

Sunday, November 26, 2006


12 March 2006, 4:57 PM

Another older poem, though not very.

There is one who cannot touch
except to pound the fist
who cannot speak unless to scream aloud
who cannot drink but to inebriate
who cannot eat apart from gorging
beyond his sate

Such a one will never understand
the lengths to which she goes
to beckon forth the parts of her
requiring a whisper
a feather touch
the brush of a lash upon the cheek
the tenderness of breath against bare skin
or gentle summer breezes
wafting silk against an azure sky
scarcely moving a lock of hair out of place
to fall across my face
and hide the parts which cannot bear
the grating of the wind


26 November 2006, 1:15 AM

There's a purpose in limitations.

Without them, how does one ascertain
integrity and concern for other
which runs deeper than the moment?

And to whom am I speaking?
Someone without,
or within?

Saturday, November 25, 2006

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.

Friday, November 24, 2006


June 23, 2005
for Ada

Have been reading through old stuff, remembering where I've been, how I've healed, how I am still so very broken. I am particularly fond of this poem. It describes a moment in time of learning to trust someone outside of self- a prerequisite, it seems, for learning to trust self.

I cut and pass my deck of daisies
across the table to the dealer.

One up, one down.
The Queen of Spades is showing.

"Hit me."

You stare at me,
as if I just said the sky is purple.

"HIT me."

English must not be your forte,
or perhaps Blackjack is not your game.

"Goddamnit, HIT ME!"

I have the urge to jump across the table
and wrench your hands from your pockets;
force you to deal the cards I've handed you,
like everyone else has done.

If you're going to sit at the Blackjack table,
don't twiddle your thumbs...

Hit me or leave.

You do not vacate your chair.
You simply eye the card in front of me,
the one neither you nor I have seen,
and it occurs to me
that I have gambled my life
with half the knowledge it takes
to win.

You place a single finger atop the deck
and slide the long awaited card toward me,
then you slowly turn it over to reveal
the King of Hearts...

And my heart cracks,
cries, screams, kicks and pleads,
begs me to retract my words.

But too late.

A tear escapes my eye
as reluctantly it finds
the card which I've neglected.

My trembling hand extends,
touches lightly on the lovely white daisy
gracing the back of the card.

I close my eyes, grasp the card,
slowly turn it over;

breathe relief-
indeed, the first breath of a lifetime...

An ace.

Tuesday, November 21, 2006


21 November 2006, 9:05 PM

I have a knack for making life
ever so much more complicated than it need be,
fretting, moaning and frightening about this
and that, never considering there might be
an easier way- just let it unfold
with discernment intact and eyes wide open.

Fear is irrelevant, though I may feel it.
If what I fear is coming, it will come
regardless of what I do or do not do
to avoid or rework or disregard entirely.

If it comes not, I cannot make it- though I can
create other knots to fill my time in the future,
other dilemmas to keep life interesting,
other potholes to fill later on
with the mortar of disinherited memory.

Monday, November 20, 2006


20 November 2006, 8:34 PM
On the eve of the Feast of the Entrance.

I'd had my fill of butterflies-
honestly, I didn't see how they'd fit
another kindred into so small a space-
they were crammed wing to wing already,
beating furiously against my abdomen.

I hadn't realized the power of simple,
unassuming touch to calm the chaos-
she's such a mother, such a gift to me
for my sanity, to know just what I needed,
and just when; how silence coupled
with a ken which entails my world's
complexities could bring the butterflies
to rest for just a moment
in the solace of our Father's house.


20 November 2006, 12:23 AM

The words I seek cannot be spoken,
nor could I recount if I tried
all things broken, left unmended
for a time, and hope which comes
when once the opportunities arise,
always keeping wisdom and discernment
within sight, to redeem
what never was what it should have been,
to find what should never have been lost;
has seemed irretrievable for most
of a lifetime. I know nothing
beyond the dragons flying 'round about
the corners of my mind; the Sycamore
so long at rest, or searching-
yes, searching in the shadows
of a night which could not have lasted
forever- if I'm honest, I always knew
it wouldn't last beyond its measure.

Perhaps it hasn't yet reached its measure,
and I think I can live with darkness
a while longer, if need be.

Light of Moon and stars
has seldom led astray my feet,
even when the path they walked upon
has made me weep.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

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.

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,
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."


I HATE being wide awake and exhausted at the same time. Most 'specially and 'sclusively (if you haven't read Kipling, you really must) at 0430 AM in the morning. Yes, I am aware that "0430 AM in the morning" is doubly redundant. In Hebrew (or is it Greek? Or do I care anymore?), repetition communicates emPHAsis.

And it just occurred to me that I'm hungry, which adds insult to injury. Nevertheless, I shall attempt to find Sleep again. Do pray, Best Beloved, that Sleep finds me.

19 November 2006, 4:36 AM

There comes a moment in waking
when you realize there’s no going back.
You’re stuck with wakefulness, perhaps
until morning, though you may be desperate
for any sort of rest. None will be found,
for you spent the day filling your head
with thought after thought after thought,
and not a one of them will let you sleep.
They've got you by the tail, Best Beloved,
and not a one of them will let you sleep.

So you go about your business at 4:30 AM,
trying to pretend it’s normal to be
so very alert and feeling so drained
it’s difficult to sit up.

Yet it’s torturous to lay down.
There’s nothing on that couch
nor in that bed that will coax your mind
into letting go its vigilance.

No, Best Beloved, there’s nothing at all
on that couch nor in that bed
to lead you on to rest.

“Best Beloved” borrowed from Rudyard Kipling’s _Just So Stories_.

Friday, November 17, 2006


9 November 2006, 9:54 PM

Please don't think me false if I can't appear
at home in my own skin- it's difficult,
may even seem contrived when I attempt
the simplest expression of what may be
so fundamental from the outside
looking in: Few things here are granted.
Every speck of reality is up for debate
and rigorous testing. Assume nothing
when you've finally attained the Inner Sanctum-
even I don't know what I might say,
where I might go, who I might be
when once an Unknown steps inside of me.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

A Bottle

27 June 2006, 1:27 PM

A younger wine, fruity and sweet,
has obvious virtues to the untrained palate;
is easy to enjoy with no investment nor interest
in the fine art of fermentation.

The more discerning tongue cannot delight
in a brew intended for the masses.

Unwittingly (or perhaps quite intentionally),
I have learned to prefer more sophisticated
flavors, less obviously sweet, patiently
alluring, gently drawing me toward spices;
composition and complexity;
a longer finish; pleasure which lasts
beyond a bottle.

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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