Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Truest of Things

These may be the truest of life,

to eat marionberries or Cox’s Orange Pippins

on a day that glimmers with laughter spilled

and simple promises made and kept

or to sit cross legged under pine and cedar,

attend to doings of blue jay and hawk, and

sniff wind’s foretelling of rain and smoke.

Or to gather up wiggling twin beings,

my arms stretched to bundle affection or need,

my heart breaking and mending with

a certain sort of love’s lightning strikes.

This, that, these–they command an entire universe.

They all know and sow certain secrets.

Even the babies’ eyes, how they find

the might of smallest, momentary things,

and deep-see even me, and oh how we

welcome each other, no reservations.

All instructs me to care more, more:

to savor abundance of apple and berry;

to draw close to the fire of forest gifts;

to hear winged things telegraph wisdom;

to find more when there may seem less,

to discover wee hands tender and sure,

fragrant with newness, nestled in mine.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: The Findings

Leaves vermilion, bronze afloat now

take me over mountains and time

to undulating land beneath northern skies,

where colors burst like birds into blueness

and brightness limned vaporous grey:

that was a place, a time when every breath

was charged with a fury of wind on edge;

spirit made sanctuary in pine and birch,

and wanderlust, powered by desire,

carried my heart in search of stars

over lakes major and minor

to chart a strong course.

To live poems and songs.

And found you.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: For Those Who Think They are Lost but are Only Weary

Perhaps to rediscover the bedrock

of all happiness, she crouches

in the creek’s whispering path

where rocks are made of death and life,

and water becomes liquid light.

Above, forest canopy and fleet things hover

as if to pluck out, lift this small woman,

her blood laden with cellular grief,

mind a circumnavigation of hope,

bones compacted with weariness.

Late day gold floats, settles on her skin,

explodes in the air and inside her eyes,

flings her far beyond herself,

startles tears caught in her throat that

sound like the cry of an angel or animal,

that singular voice of life as it emerges

from darker places that would steal us all

if we relented, forgetting the majesty

of it, the Love that calls and recreates us

but we do not forget, we cannot forget,

immortal and mortal, each tethered

to one and another here and there.

And the woman finds power, stands, steps away.

Friday’s Pick/Poem: September Segue into Courage

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This is for all the times
we have not done enough
of what we might have done;
for moments when
language dangles between us
as heroic swinging bridges,
devised but distrusted;
for nights and days when
the ominous and sacred
are neither well discerned or heeded.

We can still seek luminosity within
pockets of space and thought,
recruit hope from the morning’s song.
And act as if truth lives here,

our efforts reverting soul’s unease,

filling needs for mercy multiplied.

I write this for you when you think nothing else can be offered, slumbering in a cave of defeat.
It is for when plenty seems paucity
and we have forgotten there is always
a greater sum than failed or shrieking parts.

You ask, I ask, what can save us?
Is not the value in our moments of courage,
readying for receipt of what may come? It may be better; our raggedness knows nothing.

What unspools next may morph with creativity, cause our cells to dance eternal, counsel us to believe. In kindness. To help each other gather up, move to the warmth in the dark, closer.

So lift your eyes before you curse every broken thing imperiling or wounding your feet.
Look up, praise the greatness of your God

without end.

Do you think we strive, fail, dream, mourn alone?
This universe does not quit, it labors, it redesigns and recovers, it offers evidence of this such

blazing love

aflame for us.

 

Friday’s Pick/Poem: Cricket Wisdom

The group commences to sing.

Sun hides, air thins with cooling,

lean shadows go grey to black-violet.

Stage is set; I am the audience.

Their stridulation uncaps peace,

an elixir of sudden happiness,

and they are busy romancing.

How hard is the work of seeking mates,

the mute females invisible to me yet ready?

Love is not the point or the promise

not the favor or reward.

Songs rise and pause, stake out the night

with aggressive beauty, concoct a spell

I do not care to break.

Will the females not dare speak, are they

breathless with knowledge and mystery?

Heat lingers just beyond my skin,

music weaves among thickets,

stars beam with power and water stills.

Stolen songs carry my body, soul;

eyelids close for a flash of dream.

Love has meant so little, so much.

How simple to sing for coupling and

fear no–hold no–other expectations.

The crickets pulse with late summer, feel

my footsteps as I seek them out–

for good fortune yes, that, too–

and they fall silent as my ears shyly

wait for the next song to bring me

more gifts of this luxuriant night.

A remembrance of things.

A wholeness of life being lived.