Friday’s Quick Pick/Poem: A Forgotten Bird Bath

Farmer's Market, Tryon hike, neighborhood flowers! 161

Year after year I’ve walked by though failed
to find this hidden place in bushes gathered near
thatched grasses, my eye turned elsewhere,
away from this apparent desiccated stone.
As I draw close, body and mind pause– as
from spongy dirt springs mossy life, tiny blossoms,
chosen rocks settled in the bowl of an old bird bath.
It served its time or did not fulfill its duty, thus
given another chance so prevailed as another thing:
a place for anything to appear, even take hold.

The four rocks I think were picked and placed–
happy child’s play– or they were underfoot
of one who seeded the curbside garden–
but they appear to me as elegant and smoothly dense,
pleasing eggs offered by earth to rest in sun and shadow.
I imagine all were given important names:
Mina, Elwyn, Duke and Chloe–old friends now.
Or each was meant to hold a wish:
inclusion, healing; clear skies, butterscotch cake.
It all may have meant far less, but randomness
creates its own value and has its place.

I step back to see again. There comes revealing light;
soul and senses fill up with pleasure, peace.
For I have seen opulence that could not rival these:
plain offerings given over to dominion of elements,
sparking renewed gratitude in this passerby, and
a certainty of good secrets, treasures to be found
and lessons of usefulness as I continue on.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Offering

Irvington flowers, park 050
Photo by Cynthia Guenther Richardson 2018

This morning a prescient light stirs,
and leads to a day of no retreat
where simple prayer opens shell of self
with masterful love, and all that

praises sky and dances water,
sweeps wind and deepens stone
speaks with reverence to willingness.
It feels like a falling into heaven,

remembering that what is hidden
yearns for careful revelation;
who is lost awaits a swift finding;
and all that is wounded seeks a healing.

Let us become stillness and motion
and breathe upon the spark of God,
fill with energy of uncommon power
to salvage and lift one another without

–for once!–any self-serving, hesitation
or regret. Embody the radiance, give it away.
Yes, Lord, let me be as the flower which
blooms in a burst of joy and leaves a blessing.

Friday’s Quick Pick/Poem: Masquerade

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Don’t tell me about loneliness, that fiendish friend.
We all well know its ways, how it arrives
and vanishes, and hollows a sinuous
trail inside density of life like
a worm or a beetle into greenness.
And then unbidden, you follow, track
it with eye of hawk, root out damage
of its work, you howling and quaking,
trying to snatch all up, take it away.

The trickery is that loneliness is a masquerade,
and it seeks to beckon you into places
where the wearied self must seek truth
blooming inside each perilous, solitary ache.
But God sits there, the One you forgot,
God Who flings stars that will forever net you,
Who prunes sorrow with a stubborn mercy.
Then brings forth a mirror, reveals how beloved
are we who somehow imagine abandonment.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: This Apple Fullness

Hello readers,

The next two weeks will be busy with places and people far from here so posts will be fewer. I leave you with this older poem oft revised as I prepare to attend a writers’ conference. Catch you again next Wednesday!

Blessings your way,

Cynthia

I consider the essential of all fruits,
artful spheres of blush and chill,
voluptuous, innocent of harm, a
rare simplicity in hand, on tongue,
happiness offered, never wasted.

An apple shines amid daily rumors
of ruin, confirmations of death.
Pressed closer to nose and lips,
this first scent and taste recalls
the hearty good which yet remains.

That such a thing so ordinary,
perfect, snug in my palm
could seem a salvation
frightens and reassures me
as I bite, savor sweetness,
its life sap moving from
bright skin to fill my hunger,
keeping at bay a bitter world.

Fridays’ Quick Pick/Poem: Beautiful Prison

 

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In the early morning as
visitations pause or fade,
past and future days that
will call upon one’s strength,
all bright wings and brokenness
left to such fading plum blackness,
its comforts, lessened terrors spilled as
sweet water over trespassed body, mind:

Lo, such a beautiful prison of humanness!
This right to wonder, to seek holiness
before hot tea and cinnamon bagel,
waking in shivery autumnal light
that tenders skin and bones and
illumines precious air as soul
nests within, home again,
just one sacred feather.