Friday/Saturday’s Poem: Then God Arrives as a Friend

I dreamed a sort of dream of this.

You were standing in the shadow of a tree,

which was much closer to me as I

lingered between earth, water and sky.

That is, between this life and the entirety of it;

this beauty and another that cannot

be enough explored…territories lesser known.

A puzzle, to live in this time and to seek

beyond its borders where nothing can be

mistaken, ruined, lost, made too small.

But then your shadow, an eyelash slip through time,

opened up my mind as tremors of winter’s

coldness taunted me and left.

Darkness creased that greenness and my face

and between those, reflections of light.

I hummed of autumn as winter was tasted

on my tongue, then you were there,

then not, an early snow melting

before it found the place I stood alone.

But I recalled this body and good spirit

and deepening echoes of beyond.

No sadness for leaves laying rust and gold

upon my shoulders, no fear of fickle skies.

Beauty cannot cease when it is never done.

Shadows will not fail in visitation–

the fleeting twins of design I half may see.

They hint of more to be revealed and

it is not one thing or another I will greet

but a motley gathering of known/unknown–

truths patched together, words offered or not,

brush of fingers on bark or softer skin,

a dance given under thirty-one stars.

Yes, I dreamed a sort of dream of this.

You were standing in shadows of trees,

closer to me than silk of breath,

your form near, then receding

as I reached midway between your self and mine.


Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Playing for One

If she loved you once, she might love you twice

but this is her game, it is played as solitaire.

No fine king of diamonds, no mad jack of spades;

no fancy club for the lovelorn where you

can outmaneuver with a winsome grace.

This is not the game where anyone wins.

It is one heart played and nothing more to spare.

Like a dreamy master game, one step forward,

crisscross, slide three over but the window will close.

Set a table as if waiting for two– although

no service is forthcoming, no challenge of wits;

not even remembrances served with an aperitif.

After a cleansing fast, she may even return;

but this is her game and still true to one heart

it is played alone, remains a lively solitaire,

a long running, loss-defying life of solitaire.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: First, the Winter Walking

Not everything is sharp-edged, roped with worry or

shaken by the sight of winter’s familiar greying

as it gathers a curtain of chill, soon

to dissolve in staccato of raindrops.

A wool-bound fisherman at the river knows this,

and those nodding as they clip along the river walk

and the dogs that collide with me, all glad noses and tails

before they strain toward seagulls far from sea

that traverse this other water throughway.

I can’t help but be happy. I’m stuffed with nourishment

of wing and leaf, damp and moss, the wind a soft slap

on my cheeks, a tweak of muscles and bones.

Late light crystallizes the far horizon as I go.

November flows to the south where

waterfalls release the hurrying. These hills

settle deeper into irrevocable green.

It’s a lesson that comes when we see it,

the seeping brightness inside torrents,

rich mud snugged to asphalt and cement,

minty scents of winter with smoky autumn.

I am given this balm, ancient reassurance

as the river wends its way through wood and field.

There is kind remembrance of winters that have shone,

and will shine, and this poultice of rain and platinum clouds.

And, too, a daily circling up with love despite

tribulations, which one by one will

fall to earth and water,

stone and ash beneath our feet.

All photos by Cynthia Guenther Richardson 2020

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Middle Time, Better Time

Photo by Tatiana Syrikova on Pexels.com

What I need is not more time or the old time

but a better time, less seconds that push

everything down into valleys on the map

of a scarred and obfuscating world.

I need a time beyond itself with a harmony that

still pulses inside staccato sighs, and sky breaks

on my shoulders with cascading jangles of blue.

I need a right embrace, not a thousand,

one making a highway to the moon

where all radiance has flown

and stars chime all over here, there.

I need the energy inside the transparent core,

not needless pain of millions hunkered down and

making me itch all night, making me weep

as if there is no end to it and no beginning.

I need to pay attention. To be braver in this middle time.

***

What is needed has been long awaited.

There are dangerous rivers running to sea;

we seek the common, mighty albatross’ arrival.

Watch it glide for ten thousand miles,

dive into iridescent depths for sustenance,

then show us ways through the gloaming

before foaming waves of rancor take

us farther from wherever we want to go.

Seabirds, carry us high on wide wings;

show us the world you know and we so desire.

.***

I need this quicksand of lies reversed,

and a rain of wisdom to saturate the land.

I need to waken to a chorus of humans

calling out, resonant as heavenly bells,

and all the clenched fingers of hands to be

released, and more words of mouths and minds

to be as manna right now to help save us,

language and meaning like fragrant flames

guiding us toward a slow

breaking open of dawn,

our spirits once more

rowing, rowing, rowing toward the light.

.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Abundance

Photo by Cynthia Guenther Richardson Copyright 2020

A scarcity of words

scatter then to now-

how much can be told

in small offerings,

like seeds cast

upon wind that may

take root elsewhere.

Simplicity,

the whisper of austerity,

reveals abundance.

So, too, with us.