Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem/Photo: Order and Otherwise

Japanese Garden, Portland, OR

This is one sort of preference:

vessels useful and voluptuous,

lithesome fishes lined up for breezes,

trees well refined that mind themselves,

stone with a softer side but that does not give in.

A variety of order beguiles with certainty.

I am intrigued by definitions of texture

and design, of utility and indulgence.

But within chaos rises a web of connectivity

that brings to the fore the powers of Presence.

Out of strife surges creativity,

intimacy with confusion allows clarity,

and it is a value of peace and discord

that we humans can jostle to and fro,

discern amazement within, without

and secure our (mutable) selves here

and beyond the living maze of mirrors.

Mirror Art Installation in San Diego (artist unknown)

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.