Friday’s Quick Pick/Poem: These Things Amid True Beauty

All the pleasing useless items

hedging their bets that they

take precedence, lined up along

walls or closets, at attention on shelves

and bunched in summer’s spark

and colorations–

these objects playing at art, their

hollow meanings ascribed by those

too restless, with avarice or adoration

 

and how can possessions claim prominence?

What makes the parade of belongings so winsome–

temporal natures proffering importance,

their attributes heightened when placed amid

life’s cracks and repairs, we so arrogant, faithless?

 

Why must this small thing with heft in hand seem a treasure?

We are directed to acquire and we obey easily, choices

a surrender to ragged need of relief. Or simple delight.

We bring so close what fails to stir us deeply,

as if the material world is what saves us.

Which we know will most often

discard us with no backward glances.

 

I survey decorative items chosen and gifted,

at ease in place despite my pondering.

Often their loveliness is facile,

turns heavy and dull, the room more lonely.

I note: let no thing enter that is not real. Wanted.

 

But there is a finer matter: human spaces shared.

A life opened, remade with the touch of a hand.

 

When beckoned by a call, stillness rippling,

I scoop up this blooming peony-soft being

that fits here without thought,

warm against my chest,

eyes round with no blame or insouciance

mouth void of duplicity or meanness

and the breadth and width of the whole world

empties and refills with inestimable value.

This moment and place I belong to earth

becomes infinite as I belong to her.

Any praise uttered cannot

state enough truth

so she sighs and chirps,

speaks for me,

an expectancy of and

a claim upon love.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Where It Happens

This is it, where it happens that

life turns, turns, vast kaleidoscope

all brilliance of human mosaics,

a quixotic time come true,

this gathering up of more

stardust into fine arrays,

rare skin of butterfly wings,

sea eyes fathoms of wonder,

twenty fingers of power,

twenty toes of shyness,

pulsing spirits of trust

offered to our daily welcome

of grace unto miracles: they

dismantle–such ease of it!–

every single doubt in life:

these our gifts earthly, holy.

 

 

(Readers, the twins arrived safely. Bliss…)

Friday’s Quick Pick/Poem: Night Unto Morning

aerial view of mountain during dawn
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

The morning does not break.
It rises, restless, a thing alive.
It swells, unsettles me with its
erasures of darkness.
Tendrils of light striate blackness,
precocious colors disrupting
night blindness.

But my eyes are not safe from day and
press silk mask and quilt to lashes and lips.
I toss and turn; pieces are misplaced
from endless puzzling dreams.

There is no defense on this earth
where a beam reveals rough edges,
chaos of truth, soured sweetness,
yet every shining thing throbs
in me like impending birth
and behold, the refrain of joy.

I am made for the prismatic
core that fuels life, yet it is
dazzling, strikes chords hard.
So within mysterious slippage
from midnight to dawn
I seek relief, glide and wait.
Before crescendos of light
the web of shadows is erected;
it plans for metamorphosis.

We all want completion, kind illumination,
faces pressed against the scrim,
lives spilling from our palms,
seeking a route for night’s
blending into morning but
without further disturbance,
not one more loss.

The dawn does not break, it escapes
from a well of quietude,
rolls on prodigious waves.
It offers its brilliance.
And then affixes me to this plane,
this spot so I can stand tall, place feet
on floor, walk into a sunlit, fretful world.
Morning is a messenger not refused
and again I must find my way.

Friday’s Quick Pick/Photos & Poem: Heart of Family

Floers, family (2013 cruise) 057

Remember that from the start it was
one for all, all for one? An entire lifetime of this.
A sweep of arms that gather in all.

It may have been a fervent dream of hope,
an obstinate faith in unknowns, but still
our circle has looped and held even
when torn to nearly broken.
And repaired, each thread twined with
the next in tensile links of love,
defining a net that catches sustenance,
saves whatever falls and binds together our
disparate truths. And loosens to let you go your ways.

Will you remember when you are less sturdy?
When I am gone? Or if the ties unravel and
you wait at the window, hands reaching for more?
There will be rifts. Misplaced time. Miles flung far.
Yet it has been, remains and will be this:
all for one, one for all, heart overlaid with hearts.