Diane Walker's Poems and Photos

What drives us?

2012-01-28T09:00:00.000-08:00

The obstacles are beginning
to look insurmountable:
the water too deep,
the mountains too high,
the distance too far,
the light dimming fast --
yet still the mountaineers press on,
determined to place
the flag of accomplishment
on some remote unattainable peak.
What is it that drives us
onward, past endurance,
to completion? Why can't we be
content with here and now?

Wise ones

2012-01-27T12:50:00.000-08:00

Good things come in threes,
or so they say,
but why are these
festooned with cobwebs,
lost up on a shelf?
What has been set aside
and left to gather dust;
what guiding lights
or helping hands
have been discarded
over time,
and how can they be reclaimed?
Reach up, reach out,
reach through the web
and grasp the truth
that waits and watches;
guides, guards, and inspires.

I am the flame

2012-01-26T13:07:00.000-08:00

I am the monk
who places white candles
one by one
in the sand,
lighting each
so all may see
the glowing face
of God.

I am the mask
through which you peer
in hopes of seeing light.

I am the flame
that burns away the mask
revealing and igniting
the fire in God's eyes.

So many ways

2012-01-25T06:44:00.000-08:00

There are so many ways
to travel this river.
Why do you insist
on doing it alone
and in the dark
when light is everywhere?
You could share the load;
you could even let someone else
do all the work,
or raise your sails
and let me blow you home
to love.

Affirmation

2012-01-24T09:07:00.000-08:00

If only you could see
beyond your narrow window
of abandonment,
betrayal:
waiting there for you
are loving arms
and tender care;
more delight
and affection,
more genuine appreciation
for the very scent
of you
than you could ever
ask
or
imagine...

On the dark side of creation

2012-01-23T09:14:00.000-08:00

Dare to pull the string
on this bare light bulb;
expose your demons --
the baby, born so bright
and full of color,
trapped into a world
of black and white;
the mother, grieving and insecure,
who never wanted this;
the young ones, helpless to repair
the damage, and so wary;
the ones who whisper
behind her back;
the artist who longs
to turn away and run...
Dare to pull the string.
Drink the shadows, and pour out.

(Please note: none of these images are my own, but were found in a stack of images cut out from old magazines (probably Smithsonians?) as part of a workshop on Soul Collage; I apologize for not being able to credit the original photographer...)

Must a call lead to a fall?

2012-01-22T10:29:00.000-08:00

That step away from safety,
from the known
and from the comfort
may require a far stronger
sense of balance
than you ever knew you had,
or perhaps determination
and a strength
to carve new footholds
on a path that is both slick
and unfamiliar: are you ready?
Or must a call lead to a fall?

A brief autobiography

2012-01-21T21:45:00.000-08:00

The connection there
had grown so frayed,
some part of me
said "Make the cut,"
while other parts,
afraid to burn in hell,
did the next best thing
and moved away
to a small island,
and still I was pursued by faith,
and still some part of me
holds out
this scissored invitation.

Conflicting voices

2012-01-20T11:00:00.000-08:00

In any new situation,
whether social or artistic,
there are lots of voices
clamoring within:
the one that leaps with joy,
the one imprisoned by fear,
the vulnerable child,
the lazy one whose very laxity
stokes and fires the guns of terror,
and over all
the one who watches,
evaluating, waiting,
judging as she observes.

When the demons come

2012-01-19T08:56:00.000-08:00

Though I understand
that creativity, like water,
probably constitutes
about 80% of my psyche,
these days it mostly feels
like breathing underwater.
And on those rare occasions
when the possibilities bubble up,
it's only a matter of time
before the demons come
in their waterproof gear
to suck the life and joy
out of those brief visions,
to expose the dirt and grime
that lie beneath.
Please tell me
this is not my swan song...

Dark storms

2012-01-18T12:28:00.000-08:00

Storms come, light fades,
and all the color
leaches from the landscape --
skies turn from blue
to gun metal, puffy
with threats of devastation;
green trees grow blackened spires,
while light breaks
into cold and colder flakes
to fall, first blocking vision,
and then movement;
thick silence grows
and then consumes...

A sign of love

2012-01-17T14:47:00.000-08:00

Did the men
(surely they were men)
who clearcut these arcs
upon the mountain side
know that from this place,
this room,
in which we stand
and share the bread and wine,
those arcs,
framed by these branches
would send a message:
would serve as a sign
of love?

A rosy future

2012-01-14T09:02:00.000-08:00

What does the future hold?
We stand here,
at the edge of now,
and watch it
lurching on ahead,
with some inevitable missteps,
some unexpected
twists and turns,
(today it looks
particularly slippery)
and yet we cannot help
but step onto the path,
drawn by its rosy allure...

Dancing in the mist

2012-01-13T09:31:00.000-08:00

Glowing in the sunrise,
dancing in the mist,
the mountains hover
above the trees
singing distant songs
of hope and possibility,
of color and meaning,
of the beauty storms can bring.
And here, just below the mist,
the buffleheads parade
along the edge of a wave,
chuckling together
and calling to their friends.

While the flame lasts

2012-01-12T12:43:00.000-08:00

We glow for all too brief a time,
then fade again to dark;
a daily reminder
that what light we have
to bring into the world
is merely a reflection
of your fire.
And yet, while the flame lasts
it burns so deep and true;
far larger and more powerful
than one might guess,
just looking
at this modest exterior...

When all inside is dark

2012-01-11T11:11:00.000-08:00

Help me to remember
that when all inside is dark
it helps to step outside myself;
to stand inside the light,
look back,
and see the wisdom reflected
on the windows of my soul;
to see the tenderness and care
that watches over me
and cradles
all creation.

Occasional stars

2012-01-09T08:13:00.000-08:00

If I am a pen,
yours is the ink
into which I dip:
the nourishment
that fills my barrel;
the words that flow through me
and out onto the waiting page.
If mine is the hand
that holds the pen,
yours is the hand
that guides my fingers;
yours the wisdom
that somehow finds its way
through all the cluttered thoughts
to sparkle here and there --
occasional stars
on a dark and clouded sky.

God's fingerprints

2012-01-08T10:51:00.000-08:00

Would we ever
frown at the mirror,
expressing distaste
for the scars,
and the laugh lines
if we just understood
that each imperfection
is a gift,
each striation makes us
unique,
each lump and bump
God' fingerprint
upon our skin,
marking us
as chosen,
and unique?

Does the fish rejoice?

2012-01-07T12:00:00.000-08:00

Does the fish rejoice
when the waves subside?
Or do the ripples
even touch
his world
beneath the surface
of the sea?
Do clouds or sunshine,
patterns of light or color,
make any appreciable difference
on how he perceives
the space in which he swims,
or is the water, like air for us,
invisible to him?

Assurance

2012-01-06T13:10:00.000-08:00

As we travel down
this endless hallway,
wondering what unexpected trials
might leap out
from behind closed doors,
could we not instead
step with confidence;
feel the soft beauty
of the rug beneath our feet,
the brilliance
that guides us down the path,
the assurance
of the love
that even now
lies in wait
behind that final door
and fills the hall with light?

A mother's journey

2012-01-05T07:57:00.000-08:00

We hold them in our arms
for all too brief a time,
then let them go
to make their way
into the world.
One faltering step
and then another
and all too soon
they're walking
and then riding
on their own.
And as we watch
their journeys take them
far away from home
we remember
the feel of their warm skin
against our own...

Blessing in a wave

2012-01-04T08:07:00.000-08:00

Each hand,
lifted in greeting,
is a blessing;
echo of this tiny hand,
waving in delight:
mirror that hand,
and greet
each one you meet
with a wave,
a silent blessing,
remembering
the magic
of a baby's
first learning
to wave
from the safety
of his mother's arms...

Belovedness

2012-01-02T09:38:00.000-08:00

Another year,
a new one;
another day,
a new dawn,
and the familiar view
comes alive again,
calling to us:
yes, it is the same,
yet always changing --
one moment dark and gray,
and then, having turned away,
turn back again
to see a whole world
lit with color and joy,
and as we stare
it fades again
and yet -- the memory lingers...

The promise

2012-01-01T09:09:00.000-08:00

Hail,
O Favored Ones,
the hope and grace
of a beloved life
is promised to each
and every one of us:
not just the strong,
the wise, or the rich,
but also to those who kneel
in grass or straw or sand
and beg for courage
to face another day,
to survive, or to escape,
to breathe, to walk,
or even just to see once more
the faces of those
whom we have left behind.

Watching the Res on New Year's Eve

2011-12-31T12:57:00.000-08:00

The trees that loom
above the lagoon
sing their night songs
to the darkening sky,
leaping onto my window,
to peer over my shoulder
at the houses across the way,
lined up along the water,
huddling together
beneath a soft pink blanket
and blushing
as they wait
for the light to fade
and fireworks to begin.

Listen for the current

2011-12-30T08:40:00.000-08:00

Find me a place
where I may sit
undisturbed
by the winds of desire
or the tides of thought.

Help me to lift my oars
away from the temptation
to push, or steer;
help me listen for -- and feel --
the current of Your voice.

You grew up with wings

2011-12-29T08:18:00.000-08:00

It's all very well for you:
you grew up doing this --
trusting, floating,
riding the waves.
You grew up with wings,
always knowing
if the water got too rough
you could fly away.
But for me,
every ripple brings new awareness
that I could tip over
and drown.

When art burns

2011-12-28T23:23:00.000-08:00

When art becomes an outlet
to express the pain
you cannot name,
there may come a time
when you have to stop
creating beauty out of ugliness
and step into the fire.
Sometimes the longer you wait
the hotter the fire burns.
Sometimes the art you create
burns brighter for the waiting.
But always
the only way out
is through the fire.
Let me hold your hand:
together we can make it
to the other side...

Before nightfall

2011-12-27T14:41:00.000-08:00

Winter, late afternoon,
and in the fading light
he walks beside
the dying plants,
trying to remember
where he left the watering can.
Behind him, in the kitchen,
a cacophony of tiny clocks
collected from garage sales
chatter away the hours
til nightfall.

Simple sunrise

2011-12-26T11:16:00.000-08:00

No smoke,
no fire --
just a simple sunrise,
easily missed;
a brief moment
when my heart
goes out to the trees
before I understand
they're in no pain:
it's only the light
breaking through
the dark clouds
of winter.

Still to come

2011-12-24T09:07:00.000-08:00

Whatever beauty we create
pales beside the gifts
you've given us --
the sleek dark of winter,
the crisp promise of spring,
the ripe rich glow
of the camellia --
and yet we beg you:
bless us, once again,
with the hope
and the promise
of new life
still to come...

Praying for the light

2011-12-23T09:25:00.000-08:00

We sit and wait,
surrounded on all sides
by fog,
hoping for the light
to glow through
and reveal the treasures
that surround us here:
the water and the sky;
the deep pine scent of peace;
the shadows,
laying their dark stripes
across the green grass;
and there,
just before us,
no longer hidden,
the path that will lead us
home.

Thinking of you

2011-12-22T08:29:00.000-08:00

You who are wounded,
tired and sore;
who carry a child
or fight in a war;
you who are grieving,
too tearful to sing;
you who are taxed
beyond reckoning;
you who are jobless,
or homeless; so poor
that Christmas is salt
in your wounds --
I'm thinking of you.

May all divisions cease

2011-12-21T08:42:00.000-08:00

God walks the path
that lies between,
reminding us
that these divisions --
your land and mine,
your life and mine,
your heart and mine,
are immaterial;
that sky will always
reach down to touch
the land and sea;
that the sea will always
lap at the edges of the shore;
that mountain and valley
share a common soil;
that you and I and land and sea
are One.

Come away refreshed

2011-12-20T09:57:00.000-08:00

May we who rejoice
in the texture and color
of land, sea and sky
behold in each
the glory of Your presence.
May all who pause
in this holy place
to drink Your beauty
come away refreshed.

How entangled; how like God

2011-12-19T14:30:00.000-08:00

Our lives are so entangled here,
woven together like the storm-tossed kelp
that litters the winter beach:
the Spanish teacher
married to the fire chief,
the physicist who leads
our Sunday worship;
the librarian who once ran the store,
the Swiss businessman who drove
his friend -- a retired fisherman's --
boat across the country
so his wife could come to know
her adopted land...

the lines of connection,
the many ways and places
our lives intersect,
a microcosm of the larger world
beyond the island,
where things can get so complicated
that we no longer see
how dependent we are on one another,
and how like God we all are
at the core.

While shepherds watch

2011-12-17T09:00:00.000-08:00

What light is this, suspended
here, above this lowly stable
where the sweet lamb browses
under the watchful eye
of the shopkeeper?
What hosts of angels
drew them forth
with promises
of peace and joy;
sweet blessings to be found
in a ring of animals,
a necklace of stars,
one brighter still than all the rest
lying in a bed of straw?

Tis the season...

2011-12-16T15:19:00.000-08:00

For all their sparkling
fur-encrusted finery,
the glitter
that pervades their world;
for all the wealth
and opportunity;
you'd think the holidays
would hold delight,
or joy, or gratitude;
some awareness of the blessings
that decorate and drive
their weary lives.
I suppose it is a chore
to dress and dance
after a hard day of shopping
and planning charity balls;
perhaps they'd rather sleep...

Hope

2011-12-14T11:23:00.000-08:00

Through eyes glazed
with fevered thoughts --
reality seen only
through the haze
of pain and fear --
the day still dawns,
peaceful,
chilled,
the trees
dancing in the fog;
One power,
One light,
always returning
even when all else
has been shut down
or disconnected:
Hope.

Come and rest

2011-12-13T09:03:00.000-08:00

Can you --
will you --
rest a moment;
set aside
the jobs that you've
assigned for yourself --
all the tasks
that give you value --
and just sink into my arms?
When did you forget
that you were precious
in my sight,
and why do you assume
that without these roles you play
your life and your body
have no worth?
Come, my child, and rest.

Intelligent design

2011-12-12T10:11:00.000-08:00

At first glance,
perfect symmetry,
but no --
there's only one
of this white branch,
with two of that bright fuchsia,
each hanging horizontal
centered on the pot
while the white
drops down
to the left
and even the leaves
droop more on left
than right
yet somehow
it all works:
intelligent design...

Jeweled potential

2011-12-11T08:38:00.000-08:00

The light that streams
through the cracks
and crevices
of our broken existence
carries with it
all the colors of possibility
and sets the angels dancing.
Don't turn your head away,
but stare, deeply;
absorb the shape of the cracks,
drink in the color
of the light,
stop long enough
to see the angel,
clasping hands with delight
as she showers you
with jeweled potential.

From Grace to Grace

2011-12-09T07:04:00.000-08:00

Whose wings
will carry us
across the dark
and snowy mountains?
Whose wings
will carry us home?
Whose arms will hold us
during the long flight
that leaves from Grace
and flies with Grace
and lands with Grace again?
So many arms --
all Yours.

Watching and learning

2011-12-08T19:05:00.000-08:00

Life, they tell us
is what happens
while we're making
other plans,
and so I'm watching
as it happens;
sifting through surprises
and re-adjusting
along the way.
Tomorrow is already
not going as I planned;
but I mean that
in a good way:
staying loose,
going with the flow
could be fun;
I'm learning, I'm learning...

Dance of anticipation

2011-12-07T08:40:00.000-08:00

When that creative impulse strikes,
it's just as if a dozen
brightly colored fairies
start dancing in your heart,
spreading their arms
in welcome,
fluttering their wings
in anticipation:
Come! Dance with us!
Throw away those inhibitions!
Play!

Projection

2011-12-06T12:55:00.000-08:00

If I look blue, to you,
it doesn't necessarily mean
I am sad.
If I look wealthy
to you,
it doesn't necessarily mean
I'm rich
in the ways that count.
If my features look perfect
to you
it doesn't necessarily mean
my life is perfect.
And yet, can you see,
how each thing that you project
onto me
is something that belongs
to you.

Safe arrival

2011-12-05T10:42:00.000-08:00

A mother watches
as the child's journey begins,
again, and again:
a hand to hold
for those first steps,
and then a lunch
for that first long day at school.
We teach them how to pack
and how to read a map;
we teach them what to trust
and what to avoid
and send them on their way
into the world...

Where will they go?
And how will they travel --
by boat or by plane,
couch-surfing or camping,
hostels or hotels...
exploring one area
or covering lots of ground --
all those choices to be made
will be theirs to make.
And a mother watches,
from a distance now,
never far from the phone,
always a little on tiptoe,
the hand outstretched,
the breath, caught,
then calmed again
by word of safe arrival.

The scarecrow's request

2011-12-04T14:23:00.000-08:00

Like the scarecrow,
we stumble through our days
assuming life would be much better
if we only had a brain --
or at least a more efficient brain.
But isn't it the brain
that categorizes,
and divides;
that names,
and numbers,
prioritizing our days?
Were I to land in Oz,
I think I'd ask
that man behind the curtain
for the wisdom
to listen
to my heart...

You, me, and the kids

2011-12-03T08:53:00.000-08:00

We're all in this conversation together:
you, me, and our inner kids --
the infants,
hungry for love and attention;
the two-year-olds,
frustrated and furious;
the four-year-olds,
learning to manipulate
with their charm...
If we close our eyes,
we might forget who's speaking --
which could prove to be
an unfortunate, divisive, mistake.
Before we speak,
let's stop and listen for a moment:
it could make a difference
in the future of our friendship...

When the rain begins

2011-12-02T09:46:00.000-08:00

As I pass by
in my warm car,
bracing for the chill to come,
I see you squatting there,
your skin exposed
for all of us to see.
You do not seem to shiver,
but I ache
for all your vulnerability
and wonder:
where will you sleep
when the rain begins?

Seeking the Via Media

2011-12-01T08:56:00.000-08:00

Surely there's some
middle ground
between the bold crusader,
striding forward in the world,
and those who sit and wait
for blessings to fall
into outstretched hands,
certain that just being
is enough.
How many of us
have chosen to wear
some version
of this man's bold pink button,
shaking our fists
at an absent God and crying,
"Tip me,
you cheap bastard!"

Why Graceland?

2011-11-30T09:25:00.000-08:00

What part did Grace play
in the sway of your hips,
the curve of your lips,
and your guitar?

Were you dressing as an angel,
clad in white
with all those sparkles
and that pink car?

Did you lose at love,and was it, then,
a window in your heart?
And -- tell me true --
did you believe
that we all would be received
in Graceland?

When good casts its shadows

2011-11-29T09:08:00.000-08:00

When good casts its shadows,
will we take time to look?
What happens in the dark places
created by the power of the light?
Will we turn our back
on the true light of day?
Prefer the impact of the light
in the darkness?
Become creatures of the night
who worship the shadows?
Better we should choose
to live for the morning
when light will shift and broaden
to cover all of the scene.
Then the statue will fade,
and all will become one
with the house of the Lord.

(Somehow I kept thinking of Penn State when I wrote this...)

Swamped by the holidays

2011-11-28T08:35:00.000-08:00

I never quite realized
before seeing this
that there might be a connection
as visual as it is visceral
between Christmas --
and the tree,
all covered with oddments
of Christmases past --
and feeling,
well,
swamped.
Perhaps, when the tree
goes up this year,
I'll add a small alligator
as a reminder:
this is perfectly normal,
and still beautiful...

A song of her own

2011-11-27T12:18:00.000-08:00

Each of us
has a song of her own,
and though I may be singing mine
while you are drumming yours
the combined effect
if we will both
do what we do best
is sure to draw a crowd.
Get out on the street:
Set up your suitcases,
your drums, mikes and sound.
The beat of your voice
will make the alleys ring with joy.

What next?

2011-11-25T05:10:00.000-08:00

There are mysteries,
and there are mysteries,
some start with a bang,
others end with a whimper,
but the meat of each
is anticipation:
what will come next?
What surprising gifts --
or challenges --
will swoop down upon us
or flutter lightly by,
titillating souls
or nostrils
with the scents
of possibility,
of fear;
of blood, or hope?

Suffer in silence

2011-11-24T04:15:00.000-08:00

And if, by chance,
you were to eat --
or drink --
too much this day,
and find your head
is feeling
cracked and sore,
fair weighted down
with remorse
and regret;
your stomach
bloated with shame,
remember those
less fortunate
and suffer
in silence...

Beautiful, beloved

2011-11-23T13:10:00.000-08:00

As long as we continue
to hunger for the exotic,
the unreachable;
for plumage
unrelated to our species
we may very well continue
to be fish out of water.
All the leprechauns in the world
cannot recreate us
as other than we are --
beautiful,
beloved,
and infinitely vulnerable...

Don't think of Icarus

2011-11-22T07:12:00.000-08:00

Let's fly together,
you and I,
off into the sunset:
just think
how romantic it could be!
Don't think
about a stray wind
or a broken line,
your fear of heights
or mine,
or what it would be like
to fall.
Don't think of Icarus.

This fence you built

2011-11-21T07:41:00.000-08:00

About this fence you built --
the one that separates
your land from mine --
can you see your way through it?
And if the trees on my side
came from seeds
sown by your trees,
who is it, then,
whose job it is
to rake the leaves
that fall
and turn the road to gold?

Hope like a mist

2011-11-20T09:56:00.000-08:00

When the cold night
of unfortunate truths
connects again
with the warm depths of being,
Hope rises like a mist,
drifting over a silver sea,
highlighted
by the dawning light.
Illuminating some thoughts
while obscuring others,
it floats, ephemeral,
then fades again
as daily consciousness returns.

The hope that lies beneath

2011-11-19T08:38:00.000-08:00

As the sea carves
its ever-changing path
through the sand
that coats the shores of being,
so does the truth
that courses through our veins
engrave your word
upon our hearts,
scraping away
the sedimental self
to reveal
the glow of purity;
the hope that lies beneath.

Those bitter stones

2011-11-18T09:30:00.000-08:00

Through the signs
and symbols of the loss to come
we catch a glimpse
of the river of hope,
running a bit low
this time of year
and yet the current flows,
making its inexorable way
past all the obstacles
placed in its path --
and can we see
those bitter stones
as stepping stones
to the Other Side;
the gift that will one day
allow us, too,
to walk on water?

Put your finger in the water

2011-11-17T17:16:00.000-08:00

I'm tapping in
to the Crossroads of Now --
just a slight dip,
you understand;
just getting my toes wet...
I never dreamed
(as Katherine Hepburn said
in African Queen,
after going over the falls)
"any
mere
physical experience
could be so exhilarating!"

They don't give out Oscars

2011-11-16T11:35:00.000-08:00

Despite what your mother
may have led you to believe,
they don't give out Oscars
for busy-ness.

So relax a little.
Drop the sword.
Put away
the inessential tasks.

Get in touch --
with the body,
the anxiety,
the family,
the issues,
and the love
that lies beneath it all.

Lost in fog

2011-11-15T13:03:00.001-08:00

Morning,
and the fog rolls in again,
muffling the boundaries
and whispering
of sun and warmth to come.
Above the cold gray sea
clouds drift and scatter,
soft and woolly,
blue against the rising dawn,
while tufts of land
reach out, then disappear,
sliding doors
into infinity.

Goddess of Mercy

2011-11-14T08:44:00.000-08:00

Goddess of Mercy,
hold us in your warm embrace
as we embark
upon the sea of days.
Help us to accept
the constant presence
of our shadows
and teach us
by your gracious example
that a step into the darkness
is but the beginning of a dance
that leads us once again,
ever stronger
and more sure,
into that which lies beyond
both light and dark.

*These lovely statues created by Anita Feng of Golden Wind Raku.

Pierced

2011-11-13T07:55:00.000-08:00

Pierced
at the point of conception
we question yet again:
what is the point
of all those lives
once lived, now lost;
or perhaps
more to the point --
what is the point
of those lives left behind,
and what would be the point
of staying?
Forced to look inward
by the challenge of the season,
pointed reminders
of inevitability,
we fall like leaves
into our groundedness;
scrabble among the stones that pierce our knees
in search of that one pure diamond of awareness
whose sharp light might cut through the shadows,
and still we cannot see
that this need not be another instance of divine finger pointing,
but rather the divine reaching out, extending a hand,
becoming more deeply rooted
in being.

For Now

2011-11-12T09:56:00.000-08:00

We build the walls
and plant the trees
yet still the bones pile up,
threatening to overwhelm
our carefully crafted shores;
the leaves -- so bright,
when we chose to plant them --
falling now, the dead bare branches
mournful echo of the bones below,
the stones, cold graves that mark
the losses, wait for wind and wave
and tide to bring yet more.

Perhaps I'll mow the lawn
to keep this tidy edge,
delineating what is mine,
is green, is thriving still -- life --
and what is not, is theirs,
is oh so carefully held at bay,
but mounting up until I can't ignore,
and feel this fragile boundary
dissolving, color leaching out
while gray seeps in.

Come, blessed fog:
roll in, and muffle sound and feeling,
tame the dark and light
until they no longer speak,
no longer tell the tale
of was and is and is to come
but only toll for Now
for Now
for Now.

Blush to forget

2011-11-11T20:54:00.000-08:00

I blush to think
I've strayed so far afield:
here I am,
all grown up,
almost ready
to take that final leap,
to sever that last cord
and drift away from all that was
to all that may someday be --
and I forgot
the cardinal rule:
we are what we were born to be,
nothing less,
nothing more,
just -- everything we are.
What ever made me forget
I need no more than I have?

The jewel of infinity

2011-11-10T11:32:00.000-08:00

November,
a small island.

Heading home
After a long day,
Rejoicing in deserted roads;
Alone at last.

I turn the corner,
And beauty flares,
Igniting the path ahead.

Peace.

Where the music goes

2011-11-09T06:42:00.000-08:00

This man,
whose horn blew once
so strong and true --
where will the music play
when he no longer
has the strength to blow?
The rhythm will live on,
the songs inside his head,
but without breath,
the horn is just a horn;
no life, no spirit spilling into sound.
But still the music lives,
and so it reinvents itself
in smiles and heart, and grace;
a lap to hold a grandchild on
while humming
jazz tunes in her ears.

I find it hard to watch

2011-11-08T07:17:00.000-08:00

I understand
that death must come to all,
that trees must shed their leaves in fall
to feed the soil
which will in turn
feed them in spring.
But I find it hard to watch
when death takes the young ones
who haven't had the chance to grow,
whose futures seem so bright,
and yet must dim, and fall...
And in that long lazy circle,
carried on the breezes to infinity,
do they, who ride so much more lightly,
laugh and rejoice,
delighting in their journey
homeward?

Afternoon light

2011-11-07T13:12:00.000-08:00

Late afternoon, Autumn,
and as the day deepens into blue
a few last fingers of light
part the branches of the old Maple
to cast a blessing
on the leaves that thrive in its shade,
exposing the hole
in the apron of one,
the tattered edges of another,
and still they bask in the sun,
arching and unfurling;
Cinderella glowing
in that one brief moment of love
before midnight falls,
the glass shoes dissolve into dust
and her briefly golden gown
subsides to rags.

In memoriam

2011-11-06T12:43:00.000-08:00

And so, with voice and drum
the cloud of witnesses
swells yet again --
one more soul
sung into flight --
and we are left
with grief and guilt,
with joy, and mystery,
and wonder, that so much life
can be lived so graciously
in so very short a time.

The Shattering

2011-11-05T14:26:00.000-07:00

Purer,
and more beautiful,
than gold --
this light that pours through us
as we prepare to die;
shedding
(at the moment
of greatest glory)
all of our accumulated jewels
in one last attempt
to avoid the inevitable:
take this, I ask,
and this,
please --
dripping jewels into your hand
(as if death were a mugger,
easily bribed)

Walking through some radiant forest
I'm stuffing sunlight in my pockets
hoping to preserve the memory
of that bright flame
only to find
on emptying again
the crumbled, crisp remains
of what was once
so true
shattered in my hand.

Ode to creation

2011-11-04T10:03:00.000-07:00

O Holy One,
you weave such beauty
into the world,
with such attention
to the little things,
the design and pattern of our days...
Help us to stop,
to breathe,
to lift your delicate creation
into vision;
to see your delicate stitchery
in a leaf, a wave,
in the wrinkles on a face;
help us to protect
and not to rip or tear your work
in greed, or haste,
or anger.

Glowing up

2011-11-02T08:36:00.000-07:00

We start out so green,
and then,
the closer we get to you,
the brighter we become,
or is that
a blush of shame,
a final recognition
of how little we deserve
all these blessings?

I like to think
that it might be
a glow, a beacon;
proof, somehow,
that we are filled to the brim
with the glory
that is you...

How many chairs?

2011-11-01T16:33:00.000-07:00

How many times
can we sit and watch
the sun die in their eyes,
the floor beneath us
wet with tears;
how many empty chairs?
And yet we still believe
that once we turn away,
accept the night,
that morning will come again;
that if we turn and face,
not past, but future,
light will fill the sky again,

a slow pure drift,
trickling along the edge of mourning;
clouds lit like memories,
a spark of anticipation
before -- as in winter --
it falls again, this gray; this grief,
muffling all light and joy,
and still we see the shapes around us
take on form;
dawn's soft illumination still unfolds,
to bring again
that sharp bright ache of longing.

Something threw me

2011-10-31T10:45:00.000-07:00

Back in the ring again,
gripping the saddle
to keep from being thrown
by all those latent fears
and desires.
Up and down,
back and forth,
and still I cling,
desperate to prove
I can ride this through.
And when the rocking stops,
there's still that knocking
in the knees: the body knows
something threw me
even though I thought
I was doing a good job
of hanging on...

Doing the Hokey

2011-10-29T11:37:00.000-07:00

You can choose to be a flame;
to glow bright against the dark;
you can bring a note of cheer
into the gloom.

You can moan that life is short;
there's no difference you can make;
there's no joy that you can bring
into the room.

Bright light, or blues?
Which will you choose?
The time left to decide is all too brief...

Darkness or flame?
Which will you claim?
What will your answers say about your belief?

(Just a note: Please understand -- these Baptist rhythms and theologies were drummed into me repeatedly from a very early age. Believe me: they are EVERY bit as irritating to me as I suspect they are to you. But sometimes I just have to let them have their way with me, in hopes that having once gained the spotlight they'll slink back into the shadows where they belong...)

The voice of hope

2011-10-28T09:44:00.000-07:00

Some days
we grit our teeth
and bear the load,
convinced that we are carrying
too much,
and alone.
Don't fight it:
ours is not to be warriors,
shouting our determination
to the sky.
Bend; bow to the emptiness,
sink into the helplessness,
and hear at last--
when you're too spent to shout --
the voice
you long to hear;
the voice of hope.

Imagining snow

2011-10-26T12:29:00.000-07:00

Look at the trees, I said --
they're beautiful!
They're dying, she replied;
all these bright colors,
they're the death throes.
And then beneath
the red and gold dresses
I could see the skeletons
of winter yet to come
twirling spindly arms
imagining snow...

Step outside

2011-10-25T08:51:00.000-07:00

And where is it,
my child,
that you expect
to see God?
Do not be afraid
to look beyond the steeple,
to step outside the walled enclave,
the Wednesday nights
and Sunday mornings
where worship traditionally occurs.
Stop, and look;
see the tree
that waits outside the door;
breathe the scent of fallen leaves
and know the love
that always waits
for you.

Another perspective

2011-10-24T11:14:00.000-07:00

Here it is: another chance
to get caught up in ugliness;
to feel myself
slowly waterlogged
with feelings of unworthiness;
to feel trapped, tied down
and full of grit and grime.
Breathe, I say -- step back
and try to look at it this way:
appreciate that you are still afloat,
the stillness of the water,
the safety of the ties,
the tangled charm
of questions and emotions.

Longing to glide

2011-10-23T08:54:00.000-07:00

What courage would it take,
to walk on water?
How much practice would I need,
to glide with so much confidence,
to stand beside the birds,
to skim the waves
above the fish?
How long, O Lord,
before I can dance without a paddle?

You are the flame

2011-10-22T17:12:00.000-07:00

You are the flame
that lights my path,
glowing,
even on the darkest days,
filling my life
with color, and with song,
stopping me in my tracks
with shouts of beauty;
your glory so immense
my camera can't contain it all,
though it captures what it can,
composing pixelated hymns
of praise.

Tatters, dancing in the wind

2011-10-21T11:05:00.000-07:00

This structure we built
is still sturdy;
it's only the covers
we use to keep out the rain
that are frayed.
Time to peel back
the broken bits,
strip to the bones,
and apply some fresh hope.
Until we get the time
to take that on, let's appreciate
this way the tatters have
of dancing in the wind...

Food chain

2011-10-20T23:32:00.000-07:00

The eagle perched
on my neighbor's stump,
is finishing off his morning dish
of salmon, fresh from the sound.
I watch him,
as he eyes his kingdom,
and pray he's just too sated
to consider going after
a middle aged
asthmatic cat
who's hiding in the nearby grass
finishing off his morning dish
of sparrow...

Degrees of expertise

2011-10-19T10:31:00.000-07:00

There are degrees,
and there are degrees.
This one may be in engineering,
but where I truly excel --
to an extraordinary degree --
is in loving.
Trusting.
Giving.
Licking.
Hugging.
and did I mention killing?
That mouse carcass I left for you--
by the trash can? -- that's mine.

Neighbors

2011-10-18T08:52:00.000-07:00

Morning,
and the rosy glow of dawn
on your boat has caught my eye.
Seeing you
clambering around
on that narrow deck
I cannot help but watch
until you are safely
back in your cabin.
As fog rolls in you steam away;
I say a prayer
for your continued safety.

A simple loop of rope

2011-10-17T08:18:00.000-07:00

There is such grace
in tying up;
in resting here
beside the dock,
all purpose set aside
for the sheer joy
of bobbing in the waves;
of breathing in
salt air,
rejoicing in
the cries of the gulls,
the gentle slap
of water against the hull,
the safety
of a simple
loop of rope.

Song of love

2011-10-16T12:26:00.000-07:00

Whatever the language
or color of skin,
the patterns
or shapes of the clothes --
the tenderness
of a mother's arms
and the light of love
that surrounds them both
speaks to all;
breathes music through hearts
of artists
and into souls
in every land and culture.

Universal truths

2011-10-15T10:17:00.000-07:00

We know there must be universal truths
when a sculpture, photographed in NH,
brings solace to a woman grieving
on a quiet beach in Washington
for the loss of eleven birds
who were migrating from Alaska
on their way to California.
Does it matter that the birds
are not an endangered species?
Does it matter that what killed them
may just be toxic algae, nothing dramatic
like oil spills, or pollution?
Does that alleviate the sadness?
No. And so I picture Mother Earth,
with these birds cradled in her arms,
crooning her universal mother song
of love and reassurance...

When God makes the toss

2011-10-14T09:44:00.000-07:00

God threw the ball for me today!
Inside me a hundred puppies
are leaping to their feet
in pursuit of the golden prize,
their tiny lopped-off tails
wiggling so hard
it throws them off the track.

Which is better?
The rush of wind in my fur,
the thrill of pursuit,
the taste of yellow?

No,
it’s that moment,
that split second,
when I capture the ball in my mouth
and look back at you;
that smile of complicity:

We both know I will never drop it at your feet.

No longer mine

2011-10-13T12:04:00.000-07:00

I spent my 20's in New England
and every fall rejoiced
in the Paniculata Grandiflora,
a flowering hydrangea tree
that turned a lovely peach color
every autumn. I even planted one
in the yard of the first house
I ever owned, some 40 years ago.
I wonder now: is it still there?
Did it, unlike that marriage,
grow strong and tall,
and bless, and shade those fortunates
who dare to venture near?

Finding our way

2011-10-12T12:24:00.000-07:00

Some days
the world seems topsy-turvy
and church seems even worse.
How do we turn that picture
upside down; set things to rights,
strike a better balance?
Perhaps some time with Mary;
time spent in contemplation,
intimate with Christ,
tender with all that is --
even the horror of death --
might help us
find our way again...

Beyond doubt

2011-10-11T08:07:00.000-07:00

How could we ever doubt?
Surely the power
that makes the sun to rise
so gloriously,
the moon to set
with such perfect grace
can move in us
with grace and glory
achieving more than you or I
could ever ask or imagine...

Color will return

2011-10-10T09:33:00.000-07:00

There will, of course, be days
when shame and self-disgust,
rooted in that sense of emptiness,
stretch their gray tentacles
upward, like a cancer,
leaching the color
from all that thrives and flourishes,
green and true;
that reaches for the sky
and touches into possibility.
Breathe deep, and remember --
the light will shift,
and color will return.

These wingèd sails

2011-10-09T10:40:00.000-07:00

Some part of us, though born to sail,
hungers for the stillness,
that anchor point between
the safety of what is or was
and the inevitable turmoil
of what's to come,
and so we tie ourselves in knots,
clinging to the known
which only makes it harder
when the time comes to unfurl
these wingèd sails
and run before the wind.
Loosen, don't tighten, loosen!