Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Good Christmas/This Day So Long

Photo by Gabriela Palai on Pexels.com

The denouement of this day is long, so long,

even though morning’s sheen wore off worry,

polished any dullness with a lick of sun escaping.

A shimmer of expectancy colored time

so that the year’s cracked shards were kept

in place by a paste of will and hope.

This Christmas Day: an awkward, mended beauty.

There came movement between whole and parts,

small but needed seesaws.

A barrage of rain loosened sky’s heaviness.

Music’s enchantment scooped extra weight,

tossed all into the well of deeper hearts.

*

Prayer and wonder, a hand on shoulder,

laughter rising to the top, chai and babka-

such things bear pains and puzzles of life.

And yet, the greatest victory is not made

of these but endurance while

spun in, out of sorrow and amazement.

Longings, dangers, frailties-

words spoken, unspoken-

so much wanted, denied and replaced.

The music and candlelight loosened

this confinement: darkness now is lit with

exaltations and whispers of love.

God holds steady as I move

beyond precarious moments.

*

Faith winnows all offerings like a good psalm,

and it seeds this night with mysteries of the Divine.

It is a good Christmas; we have survived.

It is another day passing. It is this life given and received.

A long time of it, still; body and soul reach for rest.

I close my eyes, see the snow of childhood,

its flung nets, its dome of splendor,

and leave the ache of bitter and sweet.

Tomorrow will soon appear, a white flower

on the verge of blooming inside the spill of fresh rain.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Middle Time, Better Time

Photo by Tatiana Syrikova on Pexels.com

What I need is not more time or the old time

but a better time, less seconds that push

everything down into valleys on the map

of a scarred and obfuscating world.

I need a time beyond itself with a harmony that

still pulses inside staccato sighs, and sky breaks

on my shoulders with cascading jangles of blue.

I need a right embrace, not a thousand,

one making a highway to the moon

where all radiance has flown

and stars chime all over here, there.

I need the energy inside the transparent core,

not needless pain of millions hunkered down and

making me itch all night, making me weep

as if there is no end to it and no beginning.

I need to pay attention. To be braver in this middle time.

***

What is needed has been long awaited.

There are dangerous rivers running to sea;

we seek the common, mighty albatross’ arrival.

Watch it glide for ten thousand miles,

dive into iridescent depths for sustenance,

then show us ways through the gloaming

before foaming waves of rancor take

us farther from wherever we want to go.

Seabirds, carry us high on wide wings;

show us the world you know and we so desire.

.***

I need this quicksand of lies reversed,

and a rain of wisdom to saturate the land.

I need to waken to a chorus of humans

calling out, resonant as heavenly bells,

and all the clenched fingers of hands to be

released, and more words of mouths and minds

to be as manna right now to help save us,

language and meaning like fragrant flames

guiding us toward a slow

breaking open of dawn,

our spirits once more

rowing, rowing, rowing toward the light.

.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: These Feet of Rain

This is how life can turn,

on ghosts of smoke, spin of air

and flare of yellow as

clouds grab and release

the weighted, bilious sky.

My toes seek the rarified wetness;

my breath does not halt and drag.

This thundering morning

is not (for me) like the other eleven

as firestorms snagged and exploded

not so far from this locked, taped door.

Long hours have been disappeared into jaws of flame,

bound by smoke, thief and master.

Who believed that time could be erased

by a manic advance of fire that roared,

massacred like hordes unleashed?

There are too many who dread the final report.

But here, now, I unlatch, open my door a crack,

lift my nose to sniff a slick of breeze,

push outward inch by inch into open air,

step into the diffident moment and

an exhausted, mourning earth,

a world that still spins within loss.

I cannot believe any promise of full healing.

Every step now feels like a lingering cry,

a call to wilderness whose great heart blackens.

Still, now, these feet of flesh and rain

hold fast to the primal dirt,

my face lifting to a startle of sunlight.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Soul Sailing

Yachats trip, last day 092
Photos of Tillamook River rest area, Tillamook, OR. by Cynthia Guenther Richardson

I am taking a small break today from the blog and may take a day off next week if the ocean calls me. But I offer this poem from 2017 and an uploaded audio of my reading. (In the future I might try more recordings; I sure miss face-to-face poetry and other public readings.)

I hope you find a phrase or two to uplift or enjoy today. Please have a safe Labor Day, US readers.

That light is captured by treetops again.
It shakes free its magic and onto me.
I slide into a leafy river afternoon;
earth refines its song, music for living.
What is this tugging
at the corners of my soul?

It becomes a broad sail shining so I go,
passing by smallest creatures that
know me by my name and I, theirs.
This is easy falling in love,
sun riding wind caressing earth,
more sparks from the universe.
Everything is in this balance.
Whatever has been, shall be sacred,
revealed in cathedrals of earth.

So tell me: why do we hurt each other?
Do the skies wound mountains,
or mountains defy their forests,
rivers bleed cradling lands or
lands shun bits of stones hidden deep?
We claim the same privilege of life;
it seeks not to rend, never to ruin us.

Forget not how the Giver loves;
hold back no small act of honor.
Find the root and its branches;
they anchor us one to another.
This I recall by glossy waters,
by the greenness of things.

There, light is captured by treetops again.
It shakes free its magic onto me.
I slide, reach inside a bloom of sun
sheltering a summer sky, soul gliding
like hope to truth, heart to heart.

Yachats trip, last day 081

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