Author: robertalanrife

I have spent the better part of my life as a professional musician. Primarily, that has meant the fun and challenging world of church music. Most recently, I have transitioned out of my role as worship and music director for Yakima Covenant Church, Yakima, Washington to global service in Edinburgh, Scotland. I'm a singer-songwriter, liturgist, poet, and writer. I love words. I love to read them. I love to write them. Most of all, I love the many intersections, like a sacramental tapestry, of life, liturgy, literature, the arts, and spiritual formation...oh, and I love haggis.

Maybe

On August 4, 2014 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

Stop. I hear the running colors,

bleeding their way into staves of

yesterday’s piecemeal hide and seek.

They have a way about them, stoic and

unyielding in their passion.

Maybe it’s the seagull songs,

where nobody knows the words?

But the shear intensity of

competing voices marks territory

for newcomers and ne’er do wells.

Maybe it’s the ease with which

lyrics come back from high school sweet

heart songs? Backseat strolls, stretching

out winding fingers, unseen aches;

the Marco Polo jaunts of un-easy un-initiates.

Maybe there’s blood in the notes

that tease from privileged places,

hung high upon their low lying lines,

the wide open spaces where old things ease

and new things grow? The music of veins.

Maybe clapping these rhythms merely

confuses our steps to a dance, unfrozen,

that teams with uncertainty, like deer on the highway?

This dance, best left alone, makes off

with all remaining reticence, leaving behind

only tired partners.

Maybe, like the salmon choir, we submerge in

subversive harmonies, fit only to glide

through effortless musings on riddles of

the underworld? Faint words and muffled sounds

force us to listen more closely.

Maybe, instead of the insistence of virtuosity,

primping and perfectly postur’d, we should let

our barstool voices take us where

only friends can go. Sometimes,

there are better tales told under tables,

than solos sung from spotlights.

Maybe, the worried demeanor of

our shaky performances stalls itself,

out among the cocain’d critics and shadow-puppet

friends? Would that we only pursued

what’s dangerous, dying in the process, than

soil ourselves waiting for graceless applause.

Stop. I hear the running colors,

taking up their places, im-prism’d.

Reinstituted truths of tales best left

un-sung, songs best left un-painted,

casting long shadows on the longer land.

Image found here

Where the real things are

On July 31, 2014August 2, 2014 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic2 Comments

There is wonder in the weeds,

stallions in chicken coops where

the tame things are –

waiting, transfixed beyond the scale of our

misconceptions. Only the breathing green-

sleeves of jacketed noon ever make it

past the sifting of a targeted light.

Not everyone fears what everyone fears.

Sometimes all the berries congregate at the

bottom of the bowl, past the necessary stuff.

Sometimes we self-gift with what matters least,

except for whomever owns the mirror.

Could it be that someone pushed too

hard and a cart pulled a horse? Would that

be so bad, given the size of a cart,

the nature of a horse? Down-trodden

are the nightmares of the demure ones.

Instead, let the hunger feed its own will.

We’ll take our tea in bed.

It gets into you, like blood on cotton,

thorns in feet. They only pull when we’re not

watching. Waiting their turn to

preen the pastiche until

its awake enough to turn and

face another cautious page, inked and

waiting – where the real things are.

One Stop Shop Blog Hop

On July 14, 2014 By robertalanrifeIn Uncategorized1 Comment

If you’d like, come join me on my other blog for a fun game of global “blog hop.”

Rob's Lit-Bits

So, this is part of a fun blogger’s initiative called a “Blog Hop.” Here’s how it works. I was invited by writer/poet friend, Lesley-Anne Evans, to join what amounts to a writer’s pyramid scheme. The rules of the game? Tag three other bloggers, all of whom will answer four questions about writing and the writing process. We post two weeks after the previous crew. Therefore, every two weeks, the number of bloggers posting grows exponentially!

The goal is simple – to connect writers who blog in a tighter community and hopefully, enrich others looking for answers to their own writing questions. Lesley-Anne is a gifted writer and poet who spends much of her time beautifying neighborhoods, cafes, street corners…wherever really, with poetry “installations.” She also does a fun thing called “Pop-up Poetry.” To see her contribution, click here.

We begin:

1) What am I working on?

Light…

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One Stop Shop Blog Hop

On July 14, 2014July 14, 2014 By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Music and the arts, Waxing Poetic, Words...always words4 Comments

We begin:

1) What am I working on?

Light Write, June 26/14 — Light Write poetry/photography exhibition, June 26/14

These days, apparently, poetry is the language I speak. I’m learning to speak this language with more weight (as Lesley-Anne would say!), clarity, and authenticity. But also, simplicity. The degree to which my language learning translates into quality production remains to be seen. But, like my poetry, I’m a work in progress.

I’m pleased and proud to be an active participant in the process of broadening the literary/artistic voice in the Yakima Valley. This is a valley of varied, often harsh, beauty. Many poets, writers, artists, and musicians have stepped up to sing her praises. Recently I was chosen as one of thirty-four poets to contribute poetry for a mixed media art show featuring the work of local photographers. The event? Light Write. Read more about it here.

A snapshot of my work and process will soon be available on an exciting new Facebook chat room, Altarwork. Alongside finishing a new EP with my son, Calum as producer, I’m working on a book of sacred prayers, poetry and liturgy, listening for a book of poetry to emerge with the working title, The Beauty of Wasted Space and helping my wife in her own process of writing a novel.

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Piper Renee-Richmond and I at Light Write — Performing at Light Write with Piper Renee-Richmond

On one level, I’m not so sure it does. However, as a poet, I am deeply influenced by old school poets. But, I seek to bring their influence to my own emerging voice, all the while writing in more contemporary genres. It gives a certain “traditional non-conventionality” to it.

I am an advocate of language for its own sake. The beauty of the words themselves brings a joy that predates the images and meanings derived from those meanings. But I also love the challenges offered poets from adapting ideas and thoughts to preexisting forms. It’s my tip of the hat to iambic pentameter, triangle poetry, Haiku or sonnets!

3) Why do I write what I do?

My words here will echo every other writer I’ve ever heard who’ve answered this question. I write because it is a compulsion. That compulsion might be out of anger or frustration surrounding some issue about which I need to weigh in, usually for my own conscience! More often than not I write because I’m inspired to ‘word up’ what I see in the world around me. My experience of that world yields a seemingly endless supply of emotional detritus needing to find its way out. When it does, I’m either writing and/or composing.

For me, poetry is contemplative prayer. It is as much a spiritual exercise as it is literary, and one of the primary ways by which I connect to my center and to the Sacred Center of all things. What is most freeing about this arrangement is how seriously and, at the same time, laissez faire, I can take my approach to the art. At least right now, it grows from much that is yet un-mined in my spirit. If you’re okay with it, I am too.

4) How does my writing process work?

Assuming the process actually does “work”, it differs depending upon what I write. It has also changed. In terms of poetry, it is becoming more about less. It was at one time a game of output. Now, it’s more about input. I read much more poetry than I ever write.

Composing prose is more an act of ‘pin the tail on the donkey.’ I chase around an elusive gem that needs to be caught, tamed just enough to stay on the page, and released back into the world for the consumption of other hungry readers. I have discovered that writing works best for me when I simply barf up whatever is bubbling in my literary stomach and then ‘read the leavings’ for anything substantial, worthy of further consideration. I’m not generally an outline kinda guy!

Well, that’s it for now. Thanks for listening! For the next stop on the blog hop, I’ve tagged the following stellar individuals.

Seymour Jacklin is one of those delightful serendipities. A fellow ex-pat, he is becoming my friend alongside his considerable skill as a poet, blogger, editor, educator, and story-teller. We’re also mutual fans and players of Celtic music! Hear him play right…here.

Kelly Belmonte is a recent friend, having met online as mutual admirer’s of one another’s work. She’s a wonderful writer and a deep soul. But, rather than just tell you, you need to go and discover more about her right…here.

Paul Bowman and I began a friendship journey in 2008 when sharing a cohort in an MA in Spiritual Formation and Leadership from Spring Arbor University. We’ve since graduated from that program and are supportive of each other’s quest to spread salt and light through words to a thirsty world. Find out more about him, his writer-wife and gorgeous kids right…here.

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If the next blog hop posts aren’t up by July 14, please check again in a few days. Thanks for playing along and your support of online writing!

Listen for what finds you

On July 7, 2014July 5, 2014 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic2 Comments

Listen loudly for the stirring glass

of day, unknowing. Her constancy

rewards your swelling incontinence

of spirit, grey and unraveled. She lowers

her eyes in hithering glance.

Listen for stolen subterfuge and

let your wings unstretch and prepare for flight

to the forgotten address, that place without

doors. Only windows looking out like

grassland sonnets, playing their words

for rusty ears, still ringing.

Listen for the ache, for those moments

when the pregnancy of pause reminded you

of anxiety gone bad, replaced by the

hearing of silent songs, brightly sonorous.

Even in your absence,

they sang for you.

Listen for the memory of color,

the liquidity of mind, dressed in its own

repast. This is the ocean floor, unmitigated

and confident in its vast demeanor. In these

hands, you are again – and playfully small.

Listen, unexpecting and directionless, for

Heaven’s mapping of your vine-choaked heart.

Something strangely reminiscent of good, acceptable,

perfect tunnels down to brooklets of diamond

water, tickling your subterranean way.

Listen for the intuited climax of

nothing special, wrapped in candy of evermore.

Blatent in repose, the jacketed wonder of a

good day, surprising you in presence. Listen here.

You have found the nothing

you didn’t know you were looking for.

Your valley-scented breath

On June 29, 2014 By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Music and the arts, Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

Last evening I had the honor of participating in a local effort, here in Yakima, featuring the work of 30 poets of which I was one. We each were assigned a photograph, also by local artists, and tasked to produce a piece that was representative of that photo. It was a fun affair and drew many poetry/photography/art enthusiasts who drank local wine and beer and otherwise supported a great cause: The Yakima Light Gallery. The name of the event was Light Write.

The following was my offering (image not included for copyright reasons, and so as not to infringe upon the Gallery’s intention to gain physical viewers…at least until after September!).

_______________________________________________________________________

Your valley-scented breath

Your valley-scented breath, raspy, wind-dried and whiskered,

blusters loudly, secrets untethered from your mountain mistress,

haughty and aloof. Your nose, veiled and distant,

thrust shamelessly into the virgin air,

undrapes an impish, powdered face,

intruding on the lesser ones.

Lacking restraint, you choose to hold back nothing.

Instead, winking impudently, you shrug in brazen withdrawal

and tilt the globe to burnish your burnt, brown breast –

glacial bosom, alive, rising above the depths

of the hot belching earth, quivering in silence but

creased with ten thousand yesterdays. Dug deep

into your dark maw, full of old light and new promises,

there boasts a hardscrabble domain. You wear pitted patterns

like a tiara, dousing noon-day heat in cowboy spittle.

There’s a mischievous glint in eyes drawn tight against

a yawning sky where your introspections crouch,

petitioning their release from dusty shelves.

As the choir of stones sings the well-worn songs,

a valley coos, relaxing on your grizzled lap.

An untidy blouse of wayward blue

billows out willing, mottled, stretched across

the scarred loom of your ancient back.

There, there it is we shall walk.

There, where sallow cheeks of star-burnt faces

hide themselves behind the paint of the green years.

Silly fool! What lips have you to kiss these wandering feet,

still too soft, that bleed at your touch?

So, cough up your tumbleweed tales of

desperado dances and roughneck rambles.

Let your thin, dry tongue trace lightly in meandering lines,

the long-forgotten stories of mound-bellied earth,

unaccustomed to such attention. Only then would you

blush and turn the other cheek.

©Robert Alan Rife, May, 2014

The Poets

What happens after,

On June 24, 2014 By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

There is a laziness in the light

while evening shadows crouch in fear

behind too much sun, still breathing heavily,

pushing their way, like pain.

________

Windows marble and cut the

dusk, more raw for her energy.

She pants, lurching over a tired prow,

pinching the hours before a Marco Polo

entrance. An ache of greying green sprawls

out on the dirty floor, like boredom.

________

What dalliances lay their grievous joie de misère

under tables of discontent? What mis-

matched lyrics to over-sung songs

ever find their way back to tired voices?

They strain through candied throats the coughed up

suggestions of music more real for its yearning, like lust.

________

Perhaps if Hemingway’s whiskey’d voice, husky

in remonstrance, bellowed his last lines

first of the last first tale?

Told last, would it matter less?

Through Tequilla’d sight, he climbed to heights sufficient to

claim a boastful repast and only good came.

Let’s invoke a simpler meaning to all that hides. Conveying

messages in the unbidden shivers of quilted days, like drunk.

________

“Steady on,” the curtains answer, chilled in

the gossip of an impatient midnight. “Nothing is

yet. Just memorize what couldn’t be found

among the bones.” There will be

another branch to add to another tree,

that only cares to know

what happens afterward, like now.

________

Picture found here

The bricks in our walls

On June 23, 2014October 19, 2015 By robertalanrifeIn Christianity, faith, life together, sacramental living, spiritual formationLeave a comment

1974. I remember Burkandt, my Turkish friend with legs that barely worked. His eyebrows, far too bushy for a kid of ten, swept upward in a wave, not unlike his thick, brown, curly hair. It was as though his facial hair just wanted to point us to God. The accent was only an obstacle if someone wasn’t really interested in talking to him. Despite his physical handicap, he was remarkably fast and shockingly strong. I laugh to myself as I recall the piss poor way he’d stumble through telling jokes. He never did understand that a joke is best told with the punch line at the end. At least he tried. He was fascinating. He was my friend.

Jamie-Lee Andrews (pseudonym) cowered in a smelly corner of the schoolyard. She thought herself safer there from the abuse she suffered at the hands of my schoolmates. An only child, she lived with her parents in a house even tinier than the 900 square foot bungalow we called home. Whenever an unholy hoard would surround her with arrowed words and painful jabs, I’d hide away like a coward so as to protect my “conscience” from involvement. If I hadn’t been so horrified of the potential social fallout, she too could have been my friend. Not a soul seemed to like, let alone befriend, her. I ached for her.

My sister’s First Nations friend, Olive Redfoot (also a pseudonym) lived between worlds, caught on an unenviable tightrope of a predominantly white professional community in which her father was a lawyer, and no life at all on the reservation where the other unmentionables were stowed. It was not uncommon for either natives or non-natives to egg their house, showering them in sticky disapproval. She was a beautiful girl with long double-braided hair that flowed, wild but disciplined, past her derrière. My sister loved her. I kind of did, too.

Saturday mornings were best. It was a time I looked forward to with stomach-rumbling anticipation every week. My parents would drive me the fifteen miles from our home for bagpipe lessons. At the time it was in the town of Midnapore, well beyond the extreme south end of my home town of Calgary, where we lived. Nowadays, the entire journey is one elongated shopping extravaganza with hardly a green space to be found. We would pass at least half a dozen grain elevators, innumerable cattle, and a train station (it used to run within a stone’s throw of our home). From 9:00 a.m. until noon, the smell of elk-hide pipe bags, cobbler’s wax, cane reeds, Mr. Reed’s coffee, and a room full of young boys would map themselves into my nasal memory.

Dana was my best friend. He lived four houses down from me. We used to pretend we were WWF wrestlers, dinosaurs or superheroes, and trade NHL hockey cards. Fights were inevitable given his insistence upon championing the Black Hawks when the Montreal Canadiens were the betting man’s choice. We’d walk to school with my other friend, Darrell, who lived across the street from us, and just be troublesome, generally speaking. One day we were lighting farts behind his house and a flame came out of Dana’s flaming air-trap that burned the paint off the side of his parent’s trailer. We were a classy lot.

I wish these were more than just a random collection of disparate memories in a middle-aged guy’s sketchy recall. Sometimes, they push their way to the front of a crowded reminiscence and I can still touch their faces, like bricks in my wall; walls not meant to guard, but to support and frame.

Picture found here

Loving Judas

On June 10, 2014May 25, 2014 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

Legs dangle, arms crossed, nestled in the humming lilacs,

oblivious to all but the playful patter of unicorn hooves –

a wax doll flays a panda and steals a school bus

like the lips of Judas kissing his friend.

There is a flower, stamen intact, but anemic to incursion of lesser bees,

boasting contempt for unadorned suitors, never met.

Sweetest honey, end game of lovers and shared hives,

cannot match the preferred taste of a bloodless friend.

Pen at the ready, the steady scratch of solitary ink,

the price of life pretended, unlived living gets written instead.

Freedom, pillaged by cool tranquility, sits aloof on a park bench,

munching contentedly the bones of a dead friend.

Drifting, like the Lady of the Lake on a

fairy tale palm frond, someone catches a reflection –

a presence, vaguely recognizable, still unflinching,

puckers again the brutal kiss, in full view of no one.

Yet even Judas was brother to some, friend of one.

A silver mouth overlaid with the tarnish of deceived deceit

was still not enough to steal compassion’s face,

bearing down on the grain of a lost friend.

Image: “The Kiss of Judas” by Caravaggio

To thine own self…

On June 9, 2014September 23, 2015 By robertalanrifeIn Christianity, faith, life together, poetry, sacramental living, spiritual formation, UncategorizedLeave a comment

My DNA, such as it is, swims in the veins of two amazing young men – my sons, Calum – 23 and Graeme – 18. Each morning, looking back from the bathroom mirror is a reminder that a percentage of my younger self dwells in their lives. To some degree, when they see their own reflections, they are seeing me. As they experience fear, pain, remorse or joy, they do so in ways similar to my own. Their responses, either good or bad, to the involuntary stimuli thrown out from a quivering universe will be reminiscent of my own. Whatever I’ve been able to cobble together as my present ‘self’, God and I struggling together, is what they too must face. It will be their challenge as they overcome in themselves my numerous knotted patterns of being that, sometimes, can strangle or eviscerate. But it is also their gift, implanted in their psyches to help guide them in those mirky moments that will require whatever small intuition was gifted me.

Watching my younger son graduate from high school last Thursday night (6/5/14) was pause enough to sing the praise of both these men. I cannot claim to be half the man I need to be for them. Indeed, I cannot always claim I’ve been a man at all to them. What I can say with a clear conscience and not inconsiderable pride is how much I wish I were more like them. That more of them might be seen in me. My life, my energy, the very blood in my veins, belongs to them.

Their calling now is to find their calling; to find their truest selves; to be their most passionate selves for a very needy world that awaits them, and needs who they are (thanks Mr. Buechner). Precious few would I trust to write what they should most hear. Today, I entrust this sacred task into the hands of the late John O’Donohue…

For the Unknown Self

So much of what delights and troubles you

Happens on a surface

You take for ground.

Your mind thinks your life alone,

Your eyes consider air your nearest neighbor,

Yet it seems that a little below your heart

There houses in you an unknown self

Who prefers the patterns of the dark

And is not persuaded by the eye’s affection

Or caught by the flash of thought.

It is a self that enjoys contemplative patience