Here, the light blows past my eyes

like breezes of sapphired memories

imploding into smallest beauties, personified.

* * *

Here, I escape Neptune’s icy breath

and settle in pillowed wonder

to gaze into the eyes of God.

* * *

Here, the small becomes greater

than the expanse of all

that seeks greatness above all.

* * *

Here, the silence sounds as one

the bells of never-ending music,

symphonic scenes of peaceful song.

* * *

Here, Heaven’s whispers are louder

than the screams of hell.

Among many voices, I hear but one.

* * *

Here, there live the deepest things,

their freshness, drained of dark and ill

point my seeking face toward Another.

* * *

Here, I’ve learned to stay and sing,

to sing the Day of days

when night, abandoned, disappears. 

 

* * *

Still not moving a muscle,

her musings take a different turn.

Her thens and nows merge

into what thens? what ifs? whys?

She digs into chambers of stillness

yet untainted by too many wrong questions

and finds enough echo of

the questions once most prevalent:

why not? How?

* * *

Timelines soon give way

to time’s lines wending their way

through the groves of memory,

the pastures of her being

where placid, daytime scenes

of yesterday’s yearnings

force their way upward

and sit on the floor of her conscious heart.

* * *

Is the ideal and the real

a good place to struggle?

“How long?” she thinks, must this

place elude where

boundaries crave margins,

periods demand commas

on statements crying out to be questions?

“Isn’t this story old enough?

When do I get to narrate what

seems so uncontrollable, characters

unrecognizable, a plot unyielding?

* * *

“Birds don’t sing because

they have an answer,

but because they have a song” they say.

Who is “they” and what do

“they” say when the “song”,

already oversung, becomes a mockery

in its lack of answers?

Sometimes the ready breath

of silence with neither song nor answer

brings more life than

a song that is merely a

kitchen without windows.

Painting: At the Kitchen Window by American painter De Scott Evans (1847-1898)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She stands

gazing out her kitchen window

with that expression

that says too much.

Her eyes betray

the meeting place of

her head and her gut.

It pulls at the need for space

with the space for need –

a balance long lost to her.

* * *

From the kitchen window

she sees her, a robin, full-throated

and proud.

Her song is persistent, ragged

and rough around the edges,

but sure, notes as they were meant to be:

bloated with joy,

brushed with pain,

saturated in the sound

of summer winds

unconcerned with propriety.

No careless, garish squawks

from this dear throat – only love.

* * *

Revealed in the ruffled folds

of her dress, a life,

though less ruffled,

still cries out for ironing.

Uneven pleats and

mismatched colors bleed into

unsecured hems.

* * *

Still, as she waits

and stares at nothing,

it says everything.

And at the place where a robin’s song

threads itself like a needle

along the coastline of uncomfortable garments

there is in her a missing reconnaissance –

like the bird feeder lacking birds.

* * *

This messy business

of life’s lovely entrapments:

friendships in the guise of interrupted

moments too bright for sunny afternoons

meant for more eyes,

the song of birds

meant for more ears

than hers.

Picture found here

Disturbance

There is a disturbance here.

It has rendered me dumb.

Life, under-the-sun,

repels itself

and blows to

greedy

death.

 

Shadow self

We are but a shadow self,

alone, till someone sees

what pains prop us up

against the backdrop

of time and chance.

Faith, alone,

brings us

home.

 

Distractions

Every time I look away

I fail to see what’s here.

What’s there is not now.

I’m here, not then,

now, not when;

living

still.

Picture found here

Petition

I petition one unseen

for things to which I’m blind

and yearn for mem’ry

and love’s best chance

to marvel,

rest, and

see.

 

Distillation

Life is God’s distillation

of everything brooding

beneath the surface,

where my fears hide,

revealing

my sour

drink.

 

 

 

 

For my late Grandma, Rosamond Kearns 1914-2000

I miss your tea, apple pie and, most of all, your stories.

 

There you stand, small, but unshakable;

a frail willow too weak for shade,

too pale to paint,

or uncertain to dance,

but winsome and sure.

The bastion of your mind

en-routed, but disheveled,

distracted, but joyful

gropes for never-tired stories,

fondles the moments and

strains after voices of nobler days.

Your siren song,

once allergic to melancholy

whispers notelessly, looking for shape

in the notes of the long, lazy journey

back home, the place of

satin-edged afternoons

and doilies under teacups.

Full of happy times,

you sip the hot, sweet satisfaction

and taste yesterday’s laughter

on well-worn faces.

Today was always better than

tomorrow mirrored against yesterday.

It stands

alone,

unheralded by that which is past,

unremembered by that which will come.

Here, you can stand tall, unshakable,

stronger now because

life has steeped long enough to pour

from your well-stained cup

our well-brewed tomorrow.

For Randy Henry, whose hopeful tomorrows come at the expense of painful todays. We suffer with you, dear brother.

And like the flowers dry and few

in dust, unveiled in sidewalk cracks,

these words may just, in part, renew

the seasons spent like melted wax.

* * *

The silences of friends remain

the best of words in time of spoil.

Their tender glances probe the pain

absorbing tears, and sharing toil.

* * *

This gruesome tear upon your soul,

it’s lancing gash no mercy knows.

But fill again this gaping hole

with wholeness, robust summer rose.

* * *

So now embark, dear friend, once more

to journey’s end, a start to find.

‘Tis here we stand on healing, sure

of hope ahead, and loss, behind.

 

For Lori Jane, 1963-2013. We will miss your light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the end of the big dipper is the North Star.

It has a name.

Like she who has a name,

who shone brightly but

whose light has gone dim,

if only until we name the others.