Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem & Photos: Light Cascades

Yachats, MR 66, Day 1, 2 130
Photos by Cynthia Guenther Richardson

Day opens, tentative, its vaporous cloak
a mask perhaps, for radiance in waiting.
My feet slip over earth, eyes fill with
sea, sky and forest, that tough shell
carryng my heart a-crackle.
Soon it breaks apart as faith holds:
obscurity dissipates, reveals
the sacred core that hides
to keep me reaching.
There can be little flailing in
the mire of life.
There is such light
here, there, and its confluence
cascades. Soul rises,
deepens, sings,
believes in liberty

Yachats, MR 66, Day 1, 2 119Yachats, MR 66, Day 1, 2 122Yachats, MR 66, Day 1, 2 124Yachats, MR 66, Day 1, 2 169Yachats, MR 66, Day 1, 2 189Yachats, MR 66, Day 1, 2 133Yachats, MR 66, Day 1, 2 163Yachats, MR 66, Day 1, 2 135Yachats, MR 66, Day 1, 2 147Yachats, MR 66, Day 1, 2 193Yachats, MR 66, Day 1, 2 209Yachats, MR 66, Days 3,4 077

Yachats, MR 66, Day 1, 2 149

Friday’s Quick Pick/Poem: Less is More

iPhone 004

This is not the deft poem
that other poets may identify,
but all that manifests this moment

a breath across wild space
a plea for uncommon sense
a gesture made toward heaven
a climb up a sycamore tree
a well echoing new fullness
a semblance of those gone
a blossom spun on a wave
a wish for someone’s scent
a tantrum that lost its steam
a trust in shadow’s light
a belief that remains whole
a falling down and rising up
a heart made only of singing
a ghost empty of pain
a release of all that fails
a river dancing my dreams
a madness that creates joy
a woman who ushers in dawn
a secret safely revealed
a whisper of boisterous things
a desert that welcomes rain
a love known to shift shapes
a tale of mercy for us all.

This is not a deft poem and
arrives as a living thing,
hews a trail to more,
thus grants me peace.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Loosening

Trees, flowers, etc 119
Photo by Cynthia Guenther Richardson

Bits of me have loosened, come away
like birch strips, so thin they curl, flutter,
litter earth where unseen creatures trod.
It’s the peculiar renewal of nature,
losing this and that, cells sloughing
with nary a shudder, everything
an invention, old making way for newer.

I dreamed once of an entire heroic life,
believing it likely but the person
I am is not made now of that heart
which floated in heaven’s boat,
soul vibrant as flutey chimes.
I have become other than imagined.
Deepened perhaps but less substantial,
working toward transparency.

More diminished as each one I’ve known
passes through the eye of storms
and into an evermore, far halcyon place.

I am not yet invisible but missing parts-
her laugh that sustained, his silence that
taught, their smiles that unlocked more life,
that brilliant blue eye of family that held the world.
One who offered poetry, a necessary bridge.
And, too, one who came ashore to find me,
then we dove right in from high places.
Now only I stand here, putting on my courage

while bits of me have loosened
like failing, downy petals,
revealing a tender center
where– despite fiery tears,
these worn regrets, swift delights,
sorts of love which defy naming–
you you you you you you
still roam, here, inside this sphere

I yet must inhabit

Saturday’s Poem: Elegy/Frontiers

Photo by Cynthia Guenther Richardson

The stories shared by our remaining brother
gave tribute to places sculpted by vastness,
drought and heat that could kill;
trees like beautiful spirits;
people crouched in expectation;
nights woven with soft netting and rent
by lions’ talk that elicited screams.
My safe skin tingled though far from Africa.
Earth is lush with danger and amazement.
In that place, life and death appeared simpler.

Orxyes, wildebeests, hippos, antelopes, leopards,
each name a bright bell rung around our table.
Rare tracks of the black rhino,
such zebras with curious children,
tiny frogs click click clicking under star-struck skies.
It is enough to make me abandon other realities.
Enough for my breath to be stilled not by loss
but adoration of prodigious designs.

Our older, lost brother would marvel over warthog, antelope.
After all, he and wolves knew one another;
we both admired their songs, endurance, loyalty.
He gave consideration to all manner of beasts.

I recalled more exotic countries–ones
mapped by the fierce intellect and feeling that
our lost brother had inhabited, full of more tales.
And the Mexican village to which he had longed to return,
with its colors singing, hands rough but open,
breezes like kisses as his saxophone,
clarinet or flute stirred dust and birds,

his living finally distilled, vibrations
no longer wounding heart nor disrupting his soul
…nor taking from him the best he may
have had yet to offer us. To himself.
That old frontier was a dream of new music
birthed of quietude, a calm wrested from forces
feverish, half-sorted, but that he owned.

I am audacious about God, about possibility,
so venture to report he has made his way.
He left us to the minutiae of time left,
to our capricious attitudes,
urgent manner of sentience.
I can say he seized hope near the end of his road.
It answered me as we hugged a last time;
his arms were weary but they were right.

Now our remaining prayers are loosed,
notes and words fleeing on May’s generous sweep,
a promise carried on shear of wind above
his music room, the rest of us
left with ache of love and wondering.

(For my brother, Gary, no longer here with us)
.

Friday’s Quick Pick/Photos with Poem: Spring Surrender

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All photos by Cynthia Guenther Richardson

Spring will claim then take you.
It may seem to ease in, inch
by inch, clamor softly at your edges
like verdant chimes ruffled by a breeze.
But eyes open to a baptism of clear light,
nose to a phantasmagoria of scents,
hands to satin petals amid a flurry of tiny wings,
ears to a scherzo of birds, frogs, bees.

Admit it, there can be no illusion of control.
Without your consent, renewal waltzes the body,
slakes a deep thirst from chalice of sky so
you rest in the palm of earth, amid a bounty
of countless, stirring perfections

as the world still plots, hearts grieve,
dreams founder, long stray aches
bind up the night, and phantoms of need
cast furtive shadows across the dawn.
Human life will always bruise, bleed, require
stitching even as we labor to make it safer.
We tend to its frailties but we want for peace.

So let another spring just now take you into
its nucleus of wisdom, its molecular beauties.
Its unprejudiced, forgiving, unerring welcome —
what else does this without your unbelieving retreat?
Say yes, hallelujah and your own sweet amen.

 

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