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

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: New Talk, Old Talk (for Craig)

We friends learning each other carry stories–

being told them, telling them ourselves–

and speaking for myself moving

like a thief to steal this or that one

from pockets of thin air–

and we trade one chapter for another

in the corner coffee spot: talk reveals things,

talk connects.

But I am in between the moments

as treetops gather and release

sweet bits of sun, gold gleanings of time.

Gratitude spills from our lips

while in me an ache drifts by, a pale feather.

Loss bleeds, though I say only that

a sorrowful message came early today.

Strange how one thing begins, another leaves off;

breathlessness coexists with breathing;

victory is won for some as others flail in darkness.

That one may have left the earth without

one’s hand in another’s–this thought stabs me–

and that hope is held close until there is nothing

brave enough to prop it up against emptiness,

so is abandoned:

this is not what I speak about.

That knowledge slips through a safety net

of words that holds fast the fragrant coffee shop

and moors me–and others–to the ordinary world.

But later on, when on my walk unspooling in the hills,

there are pines that offer themselves

as protection against wind’s wounding

and my legs and heart propel me to the crest,

November cold ripening, roughing my skin.

And as I pause in a swath of sunshine there

comes a whistle through a maze of branches

that holds, a moment, then releases your name.

But I hear it, feel it as I stand alone by the road,

and it’s like a passing train on a high ridge

Friday’s Pick/Poem: September Segue into Courage

IMG_1470

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 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…)