Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Possibilities for Rescue

What cannot be surmounted

can be welcomed;

what cannot be released

can be tamed.

What cannot find its way

can be protected;

what cannot be believed

can be reviewed.

What cannot be healed

can be pardoned;

what cannot be changed

can be unchained.

What cannot be spoken

can be sung;

what cannot be moved

can be reawakened.

What cannot be joyous

can be recreated;

what cannot stop weeping

can be forgiven.

What cannot be revealed

can be redesigned;

what cannot be embraced

can be blessed.

What cannot come out of dark tunnels

can be retrieved with little flames of truth,

and it is expected that the luminosity

will well save you both.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: This World

Not the sea but the salt

not the sand but a grain

not the sky but the blue

not the cloud but the vapor.

Not the tree but the root

not the lilac but a bud

not the cave but a rock

not the lake but the fish.

Not the storm but the brightening

not the mountain but a peak

not the trail but the dirt

not the valley but the meadow.

Not the sickness but the healing

not the grief but the weeping

not the terror but release

not the hunger but the charity.

Not the moment but beyond;

not despair but keeping on;

not the end but regeneration.

…Not ailing world of bruising dark

without a rainbow bursting dawn;

not any street, alley or byway

without your waving at the windows;

nor the ragged thrum of hearts

without holy currents running

a rescue boat with nets and light

to gather and bind our wounds:

not this world but better with

an emergent covenant of care,

and not the blades of discord but

our human voices singing

bless you, amen amen amen

Friday’S Passing Fancy/Poem: A Small Thing

This isn’t a poem. 

It is a moment that wants 

to be set free,  a small

thing with a bigger imagination, 

a plaintive whistling in the dark, 

a boy with a bird on his shoulder, 

a shadowed heart that also blazes. 

This is a pause in lavender twilight, 

a thought that strikes dew-laden air,

a random stop on a serpentine trail that 

detains us so we may become less lost. 

This is a minor rescue despite the rending. 

It is a moment of intimacy saved for  

others frail or frightened or 

hungry for something else. 

Here arrives night, dreams or not,

still an old woolen blanket 

so that inside it we may camp, 

carried by night dense with falling stars,

warming our hands over pulses of

heat from stubs of saved candles. 

This is a memorial, yes, but a story

of miracles. The morning comes like a scarf

drifting over the face. It has always a 

luminosity that wants not to let us go, 

our human hopes close like protection, 

with recognition discerned in kindness, 

and soon everyone more known

to one another in the struggle. 

Angels, that’s what seems closer now, 

the angels summoned of our longing

or our surrendering,

each drifting this way, a chorus. 

To hold up.

To comfort.

To forge a way to new horizons.

So if this is no poem, 

then consider it a memo, 

a reminder, 

a way of remembering 

all that is good about the world, 

the things we must not misplace, 

and promises made to keep: 

find hallowed the life we each can mold 

now, not then nor far tomorrow,

and also release it, exuberant or weary,

with the wings and winds of God

to the hands that will open. 

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: A Small Incantation for Restoration of Goodness

These reminders of the old ways come forward-

so long have we been arriving from Spirit,

how long has the world been turning, teeming–

and the promise I feel beneath my feet

where the heart of a planet yet beats

and we creatures all who live and die

amid dirt, mineral, insect,

moss and vine, the tides that turn,

taste and hear and see. Feel at one.

I seek more courage, my Mother, my Father.

Here are earth, air, fire, water, ether,

a map, a memory of greater things,

our place to become wise, to create, offer love.

Wings and trees that hold up the infinite sky,

every light woven with every dark,

stars combusting, planets revolving:

these that honor flesh, bones, blood

in accordance with the design,

a life made sacred for wayfaring,

a chance for knowing and unknowing.

Ancient callings rise to the present,

on blessings of rain and bright wind:

May there be a vast undoing

of these maladies which grip us in

this time and circumstance where

reckless want devours need and the needy

and power blasphemes humanity, numinosity,

and mind and spirit shrink back

though God-in-all abhors all ways of hate,

and yet– waits, waits for us

to kneel, to speak and sing out, stand up

rekindle the fine cosmic order,

as you and you and I do become

braver. Truer. Ever good.

We are just this far from the All Divine,

closer than dared believe,

we are star filament, souls afire.

May we remember, our Mother/Father,

as we labor. Seek. Transform.

Friday’s passing Fancy/Poem + Photo: River Devotion

(Photo copyright 2020 Cynthia Guenther Richardson)

Some of us live right here,

creatures who cannot be on land alone,

and others of us find our way to

mercurial sheerness swallowing sky,

powers of light that gather and hold,

breath of river infusing our lungs.

I come to cleanse.

I come to loosen tightened bands of humanness.

To hear with hungry ears, see with fearless eyes.

My blood runs rich, cells plump with exuberance

while my soul flees struggle to find again

river strength born along bank to bank,

its beauty carried deep and far

as I follow its waters on lithe feet,

a confirmed devotee of God made visible