Friday’s Quick Pick/Poem: One Love, One Life, One God

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Though health may elude me or
riches arrive, betray and leave
there is a wonder that visits
with a whisper, a deep ease of life
and folds me into gratitude
like a cocoon; it generates courage
and beauty that cannot wither.

For still humanity dares to be humane,
wild creatures birth and roam.
Sun watches like a merciful witness
and moon gilds our way through sleep.
Again, ripening harvest times
break open a splendor of change.
Rains signal to me like gifted
fingers over ancient drums.

Inside this breath, upon this heart
there is certainty of an etheric veil
which sways open and closed
like wings of rarest guardians
of one Love, one Life, one God.
I retrieve these gifts, bow my head.

 

(See you folks in ten days–I’m off on another small adventure. Be well.)

Friday’s Quick Pick/Poem: Sea Drift

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Pacific Ocean, 9-17, Cynthia Guenther Richardson

Sea’s breath
cashmere mist
cooling veil
lain upon
the flaring fall
bumptious minds
good fortune’s reprieve:
drift into moon’s realm
chalice of evening star

sip
deeply

Friday’s Poem: A Call to the Heart

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Nothing can be saved but that
we heed the call to our humanity,
take up hearts and minds  to
stave off the deafening winds
of disregard and retribution.

Our world has not yet perished.
These lives we carry withstand
errors and woundings, the heave
of grief and swell of need.
But it cannot hoard emptiness
that pretends as if it is fullness or
ignorance as if wisdom, and fare well.

Let not any thought render useless
the import of daily dreams and acts.

Instead create right and good of little,
be amazed, enamored of one another,
find strength in a more willing spirit
and walk with expectancy into that
center where light cannot be hidden.

Nor ourselves, though rent by hardship,
no less valiant, not undone, unmoved.

Nothing can be saved but that
we heed the call of our humanity.
Buoy up, protect heart and mind
then combat this maddening noise
of destruction and revenge.
Be one among the many who hold fast,
remind yourself this is necessary,
it is humane as it is brilliant:

to build the courageous engine of hope
even when hope may beg to flee.

(Photos taken at a Romani Festival, 2013.)

Friday’s Quick Pick/Poem: The View You Seek

Yachats trip, last day 118
All photographs by Cynthia Guenther Richardson

This life as we imagine it draws breath,
expands and shrinks as is required, while
a universe births and thrives in a water drop.
It is a signal of more, a homily for humility.
Yet the scramble of cogitation thrills us and
we are diverted into mazes, veering off course.
Angst-ridden inquiry tends toward dead ends.

Try instead a pilgrimage of quietude.
Be chased and adorned by salty tang of sea,
let spontaneous wind usurp the worry, fear.
It matters less that you win a solution
and more that a stream of tawny or aqua sky
slips over the aching slope of your shoulders.
Any thoughts you hold close will captivate you.

This cave brought you here to lead you from
yourself, mend cracks and knots you’ve sustained
as has this earth with its eons of wisdom, power, beauty.
Why do you hope to find an enduring answer
within ego’s declarative restraints, its petty smallness?
Sit awhile with volcanic sand and agate, crab and whale,
wave and wing, the headland a bulwark against storms.

Visions and knowledge arise and find you here;
your compass trembles, horizon shines, skin sighs.
The soul does not need to solve one single thing,
nor travel fast or far to find its truth and be at home.
It feels familiar because it has made a place here, in you.

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Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Night Vocabulary

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Then night’s dark environs curved a cave
about as I shut eyes and mind cruised
among a cornucopia of thoughts,
such a banquet that seemed not to
whet my appetite, so I let go and fell

in a wilderness of words, nets
of rapture and folly that caught me,
brave conspiracy of verbal happiness,
a wardrobe of syllables crafted for me
of dismal slags and daring surprise.

Such vocabulary leaving and arriving
hews deep, familiar pathways
to moments which manifest life
despite being paused–by age or health,
temporary material circumstance;

or that restlessness of worry,
all the hard prayers to high slung moons.
Every arc of words creates a visage
of love that recognizes me or not as yet
as I navigate waves of wakeful slumber.

These tricky acrobatics of curiosity,
capricious nouns holding forth, verbs astir,
a language of energy launching me toward
horizons colored with shining letters…
ah, may language of this small bestowed life not desert me.

May I attend and serve until the ending blesses.
And we shall leap, drift into rhapsodies of silence.