Somehow, on the road to love

Somewhere on the road to joy
I became a cup of light,
dancing in the sun,
drinking in the breeze.
Somehow, on the road to love,
I learned to stop and breathe,
to feel the sunlight on my face,
the ground beneath my feet.
Someday, on the road to You,
I'll stop again,
to breathe or feel,
to dance, or revel in the day,
and suddenly -- there you'll be,
and my heart will overflow.


* * *

Launching into the blue

It's spring again
and as the trees
begin to spin their lace
the line between
the mountains
and the clouds
begins to blur;
and why is it
that these distinctions
ever mattered, anyway?
The blue of distant hillsides
is not so different from the sky;
the purest white of snow,
lightly feathered by a landscape
could be a cloud,
or the delicate wing of a single white dove
and still it would be beautiful.
Why are we so intent on naming?
Let's just find ourselves a canoe,
launch it boldly into the blue
and float in nameless reflections...


* * *

I am the vase

I am the vase
from which all things will grow,
the rusted,
tarnished,
skin
that holds it in
does not reveal
the lively loam
that lies beneath,
enriched
and foaming with new life.

Hold me against your breast
O Holy One,
embrace and fuel
my creativity;
let me feel
your tender care --
together we will bring
bright flowers of love and hope
into being.


* * *

Necessary Farewells

Before she left,
an angel came to me and said
Don't be dismayed:
good-byes are not an end,
but a beginning.
You do,
the angel asked,
hope to meet again,
do you not?
Of course, I sighed;
I'm not sure I can bear
a life that carries no promise
of the chance that I might once more
hold her in my arms.
Just so, the angel said,
and placed a finger to my lips.
Say it.
Just say it.
Let it out; let your farewells perfume the air
and guide her spirit onward;
they'll guarantee that you will meet again.


This poem was written for this week's Carry on Tuesday prompt, from author Richard Bach:
"Don't be dismayed by good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again."


* * *

Bright promises

I am
a tulip field
gone to grass
green
and lush
and somehow
ordinary
and yet
when you pass by
if you look closely
you'll see a few
bright tulips --
renegades,
volunteers --
bold reminders
of once -- and future --
glories.

* * *

No majesty today

Feeling
a little sheepish,
I take my camera out,
remove the lens cap,
and peer through this dirty window
at the farms passing by,
waiting for something
to sing to me
the way the mountains sang
last night,
gleaming in the moonlight.

No majesty today,
just a field of sheep
and a bright red barn
dozing in the morning sun.


* * *

Outside in, inside out

Out there,
I am fragile,
vulnerable,
alone.
In here with you,
with your tender blessing
watching over me as I pray,
I feel safe,
and somehow holy,
as if the flames of passion
that burn within your soul
have set my little tent afire
and I can go
back out into the world
rejoicing,
inspired,
blessed,
and blessing;
knowing some part of you
still watches and prays
when I leave.


* * *

Taking a step toward joy

Stepping outside
to catch my breath,
I wandered through the parking lot
and found you there,
a thing of beauty,
lying beneath my feet --
reminding me gently
to return to that space
that lives in the center of being.

How astonishing
that all the earth conspires
to bless us with awareness;
that even the rocks and dirt
bear messages of hope
to the weary
and the lost,
that a simple act of self-control --
of taking a step or a breath --
can bring us back
to a forever kind of Joy...

I wrote this poem for the April 20 Blog Carnival, sponsored by Bridget Chumbley of One Word at a Time and for this week's Carry On Tuesday.

The Blog Carnival is a biweekly online event open to anyone. Participants write on a one-word prompt or topic. This week's is "self-control". Carry On Tuesday is a weekly event, and this week's prompt is "A thing of beauty is a joy forever."

* * *

Only a step away

What looks
and feels
like achingly alone
is simply
a trick
of the fog
and the stillness.

When all we see --
encased as we are
in the haze and the gloom --
are our own
spindly
reflections
we forget
the water which holds and nurtures us
the earth beneath, from which we spring,
and the nearby shores, which tell us
that there are others,
just like us,
only a step away.


* * *

Burning to be sung

Standing on the ferry deck
and gazing out across the water,
I feel your golden light:
it decorates the waves
with ribbons of longing.
Heart leaps, and aches, and yearns,
opening to the warmth,
softening as the light spreads
washing through the clouds,
beaming love upon the mountains
til even the hard gray rocks
spring greenly to life.
Somewhere inside, below my ribs
some cells are bursting into flame --
I can feel their song,
burning to be sung.


* * *

Lapping against the shores of silence

All Being
laps like water
against the shores of silence.
I carve the word
upon my heart
and seek it there,
burrowing down in,
finding warmth and grace
in the chill damp darkness.

Story comes along,
digging and poking with its sharp bill,
looking for some meat to feed upon
but I am safe in my striated shell
-- though when it passes,
I spit my salty fountain
at its feet.
Are these tears?
Or just a particularly forceful eruption
from this continual overflow
of Love?


* * *

Thirsting for the sky

Let me lie here,
with my shoulders,
hips and thighs,
head and heels
touching the deep rich earth,
and drink in the sky,
tip this clear bottle to my thirsty lips
and sip the nectar of clouds and blue:
I'm thirsty now
for starlight and moonbeams
for sunshine
and rain
and the soft mists
that drift over the water
on a cool spring morning.
Let the sky pour
in and through me,
and watch new growth
spring up around me
as earth explodes with new life.


* * *

The creative process

The leaf curls in upon itself,
creating a cocoon,
and then unfurls again
to reveal, not worm,
but butterfly
as color shifts
from green to blue
imagination takes flight,
and then, impaled upon
an artificial sunset
and examined
we then again can see
the veins of what has gone before
and wonder at the shifts
that have occurred,
irreproducible,
unique as each of us,
and every snowflake
that bursts onto the scene,
then fades into some damp oblivion
to nurture seeds of that which is to come.


* * *

Tulip, meditating

On seeing Him
she holds her breath
and turns her face
as if to the sun.
Wrapping her petals more tightly
so as not to lose a drop,
she forms herself
into a cup,
drinking deeply from the light
cherishing the taste
of warm, rich color,
luxuriating
in the scent of love.
Bracing against thought's stirring breeze,
she stills herself more consciously
so that His breath
might be the only thing
that moves her.


* * *

In the dying of the light, perspective

As the day and the season
draw slowly to a close
we turn our backs on what's to come
to look at what is past
and see how what were once dark clouds
are now illuminated
by the light of what will be;
seeing now --
in a flash of perception --
that those blackest moments
provide a bright counterpoint
to the placid blue skies
we thought we wanted,
and know that what now seems dark
will also come to light
as day wears on and night rolls in.


* * *

Other in the field of being

Who's to say
who belongs here
and who does not;
whose yard this is,
who needs this space
to train their young
to grow in leaps and bounds?
And who's to say
who's watching
or being watched,
whose wary eyes
are poised to look away;
what clouds will move and part,
carrying this strip of light
forward to illumination,
freezing this moment
when you and I
stand paralyzed,
astonished by the surprising presence
of Other
in this field of being.

From curse to blessing

Our bodies cast their shadows:
no matter what their shape, or size,
we must always be aware
of the ways they project
and inhibit us;
the messages they convey
without our permission --
or even knowing;
the limits they enforce,
the demands -- like children --
for food, and sleep;
for shelter, and warmth,
for love, and expression
of the energy that courses through,
whatever form that takes.
Funny, how the length of these legs --
once a guarantee of clumsiness --
has proven such a blessing through the years.
Funny, how the tripping of the heart --
that once brought fear --
now signals renewed stumbling into joy.


* * *

Notre père indifférent

In the secret garden
hidden behind this gate,
you are still known for gentleness and love.
The colors there are softer,
the accents more refined,
and I so long to visit there --
but this gate's been stuck for decades;
I can only peer through the words
and wish I were a child again,
walking hand in hand with you,
in that time before I came to know
the difference --
or perhaps it was indifference --
between the man I thought you were
and who he came to be...

I wish I could say "Vive la Difference!"
but we both know it's nothing
I will ever want to celebrate,
and so I skip that first line
every time I say the prayer.


This poem was written both for the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival (this month's word is Gentleness) and for the Carry on Tuesday prompt, which, this week, was "Vive La Difference!"

* * *

Dance upon the silence

That which flows between us --
me, aflame with autumn,
marked with heights and gullies;
you still green with summer,
flat and even, warm, embracing --
is a river,
peaceful, still,
and yet alive with movement.
Come stand with me upon the bridge:
we'll toss our thoughts
into the water,
watch the ripples
touch each other's banks,
wash over rock and sand
and nurture that which grows
at the water's edge.
Or hold me in your arms:
we'll watch in quiet harmony
as our reflections
dance upon the silence.


* * *

Looking past illusion

Look closely at these eggs,
and see,
this grass is really nets and rope;
the eggs are floats,
awaiting fishermen
to toss them to the sea
to serve as they were meant to serve.
We see what we're conditioned to see,
and so, today,
while poring through the grass for eggs,
Just ask yourself:
What am I really seeking?
And what -- or whom -- was I born to serve?


* * *

Time to bloom

So it's come to this,
just black and white,
just a spark of color
here and there
to remind us
how the world was meant to be;
two dogs snarling,
behind a fence,
each certain he is right,
each defending territory
that should never have been divided.
How will we ever imagine
a world so completely at war with itself
bathed in sunlight
and covered with flowers?
How will we plant the seeds of Easter
in all this dark and gloom?
Ah, I see; they've already been planted:
we are the seeds,
and the time has come to bloom.
Bloom in Peace, my friend; bloom Peace.


* * *

Stumbling back to Bethlehem

Will this year be different?
When we rise
on Easter morning,
will the tomb
at last
be empty?
Will all the things
that deaden our lives --
the hate, the anger,
brutality and scorn;
acquisition and control,
everything that augments
our separation from each other
and from You --
will all those chains
that weigh down the cross
be dissolved, and released?
Will there -- at last -- be light?
Or will we have to sigh again,
slide the rock back over the door
and stumble back to Bethlehem to wait?


* * *

You are becoming

What
-- and who --
are you becoming?
Butterfly,
or star?
Dancing with the flowers,
or dancing with the light --
it matters not which,
but only that
you are becoming
what you were born to be,
whether glowing with color
or dark bright beams,
piercing the night
or sparkling in the grass,
dancing above
or grounded below,
what matters is only
that you are becoming
what you were created
to be.


* * *