You know those
swirly, soapy bubbles
you used to blow?
That floated soft away,
and took your troubles,
bulged from a dainty, hoopy wand?
Which rode the breeze
until they fell in upon themselves,
and splashed a drop,
gone poof, with scarce a sound?
So you could take the wand again,
and blow some more to chase’m
and so, create
a light filled spectacle
with oozy, moving
rainbow colored decoration?
November Saturday. . .
music to play
an instrument
and things to do
but wondering what
was meant
by and for this day. . .
a clear blue sky
shatteringly bright
the for-now restored flow
of the for-years-thirsty creek below,
and above,
a bevy of scrub jays
here and there,
yack and make a brief racket,
and flap their wings,
hop fast about
to get in, snatch what they want,
and just as quickly,
fly back out
like a band of bandits,
while a kindred team
of croaking crows
perch on phone poles,
street lights,
or stately trees,
and survey
the snapshot human scene. . .
And then, quietly,
one twists its neck,
perhaps thinking
of where to scavenge that next
meal, snack, or tasty bite,
as it looks all around–
much more than just
both ways–
before it descends into
its bended knees
and bunches up
the muscled wings high on its back
to spring and spread,
as birds will do,
its whole self
and take flight.
An ancient piece of music
but not so old as I
pierces through the decades
again to touch my ear and heart
as if there were no time.
The thought
drifts away
from what is not. . .
the heart beats
the blood flows. . .
the nerves spark
the spirit leaps,
and all find play
and flowers in the park.
And even the weariest,
most hurt,
darkest, deepest soul
can grow at least a tiny bit
towards whole,
and meet once again
the greater One
of which that one soul plays a part
and merges with
all that
that greater One is
and what it knows.
Life may
sometimes be
like a giant jigsaw puzzle,
quite suitable
for experts to solve
and for us ordinaries
to be befuddled. . .
Those oods and oods of tiny pieces,
all ajumble
across the rug
or on the table
strewn ajumble,
randomly,
each sawn distinct,
in some strange shape
but so many of them,
in form and color,
just like so many of the others–
few sides,
few corners,
to get
any sort of helpful bearing,
And you,
never having lived this life before,
don’t always know
just what to do
to sort, to try, to see some pattern
of how to pull together
what starts separate and scattered. . .
certain things you can observe,
and, from there, deduce,
but other revelations
just, somehow, flash to you
out of the blue,
So, in picking puzzle-solving steps,
what on earth
can you, could you, should you do?
There’s no one right way
to begin.
You must rule out,
you must rule in
things that can
or cannot be,
but it’s also indispensable
simply to persist in breath,
and stay
at least somewhat open,
to anything
that may come in
to inspire,
and also, to whatever
you are seeing,
knowing,
feeling,
and to how |
this picture carved apart
on purpose
can with your input,
become whole again,
just as you,
who were broken
not on purpose
have and will become
both more whole
as an individual
and
more connected to the One,
in the path of your own healing.
I know it’s not good for me,
but I’ll have
just a little bit more,
or take just a little bit
more time here–
famous words,
which,
while
they may not
be my last,
do nothing
to make a better,
more loving,
more satisfying,
gratifying
and important path
for me clear.
Better perhaps
to seek
a welcoming shoulder
to cry on
or lend another
on which to cry,
or else,
lend or borrow
a sympathetic ear. . .
Especially
in the light-waning
days cloaked in clouds
and wind roaring with rain,
when, if I don’t watch
and step
with good gentle care,
I risk
to be pulled
into a quicksand of drear,
where I might have, instead,
chosen
to stomp
and to jump
as hard as I could
in a good splashy puddle
to raise in each fiber of me,
and in my kind onlookers too,
a wonderful overflow
of deep belly laugh cheer.
Visions are inspiring.
Deep down feelings are best for guiding.
Shapes of the future will, as with whistling wind
on whisper layers of snow
come clearly out of hiding.
The green flame-red gold
and its dry brittle
leaf
prep to break off
to tumble
and be trod upon
and crackle
and hopes that
the rest of fall,
itself
and many brothers’, sisters’ bodies
will nourish
roots low down
and mingle with
the nascent winter,
which hopes
have bringing drink to soak
the roots
and slake
the trunk’s deep thirst,
so that the sweetest, strongest, meekest
fresh young forerunner of leaf
emerge
to sing
that its tree
has not just
another year
survived,
but thoroughly refreshed itself
in its patient use
of the heavens’
gentlest, fiercest,
temperamentalest
very best
or worst.
This one breath. . .
this one ray of morning sun. .
at once
the only one with which
I know I’m blessed,
and yet I itch
to count this day
as just the first
of a living, breathing,
eye light seeing,
week to come.
Impatient
and imperfect
though I be,
I invite you
breathe now
with me. . .
and see
whatever sort of light
happens now
to grace your eye,
and I truly wish
for you
you shall delight
in each one breath
and each one ray
as if it were the only one.
A bird glides high
upon a wing,
the innate nature of the thing. . .
A little girl
puts in endless play and practice
to execute a weightless flip
or leap
or twirl.
We watch the bird
or watch the girl,
and jerk with fear,
or
merely stare
in rapt delight,
but do not stop to realize
the countless different inputs
into and from each kind,
to pull off
an outward seeming
twin effect
of glide or float
or shocking bound into the air,
which from each kind
then appears
to our unknowing, naive eyes
as that wonderous, airborne act
we have named flight.
The Danforth Anchor 