Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

The Words That Arise

when my beliefs
fall around me
like leaves
when my body
aches with the
weight of the years
when i long for
the pains of this
mortal flesh
to be washed
from me with the
morning rain
which runs
down my windows
when this gray morning
is somehow comforting
to the withering one within
i turn again
to that which
has sustained me
over the years
the words that arise
from somewhere and
sprinkle down around me
like an oil of blessing
and in the scribbling
before i begin to fade
back into the
walking sleep
that is my
existence
i find that
what i know i must do
yet am somehow
paralyzed from doing
is somehow
a lighter thing
that alights upon
my shoulder
to whisper of what
it can be

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

The Road Well Traveled

In the darkness, one cannot see the fire of the fox.
A shadow runs before the light of the opening door.
There are no straight lines in nature and tonight
is no exception. The ground warps the bright square
and the figure framed for a moment in its perimeter.

Tip of tail flames briefly in the flash and the fox
flees before discovery like some diminished sun,
across the snow over the wooded crest down to where
the great oak lies in perpetual decay beside the spring.

On the morrow, the figure revealed as human in the light
of the sun will discover scat in the middle of the trail
and be reminded that this path, contrary to the scratchings
of Frost and Peck, is like all of the others, not less
traveled, but rather well worn by the fox and the unseen
scurrying feet of nature’s countless millions.

1997

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Heiwa Haiku 72

Note to artist self: ~
Keep doing what you’re doing ~
The ugly will fade.

Posted in The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane

Prayer of the Seeker

Sometimes, when the feeling comes upon me, I look up from this world of myself and realize anew, that in the place I stand in, many others stood and slept and worked, dreamed and died. The mist of memories, of strange lands and times unravels before my eyes, and the longing to know comes. How vast the knowledge and history of humanity . . . and my ignorance. My world, though important in and of itself, pales in the light of the incredible bigness of the world without. Why begin? Within we are depthless and without it is much more so. One life is not enough to learn all, no not even a thousand lives. And so I remain, unmoving, not content, yet seeing the end as a hopeless task and like a rock to stay thus.

Yet I will go on. For I am thirsty and I wish to somehow taste of the river of these worlds, its peoples, its past. I am afraid. To say that I am not is to be dishonest for what will I gain but a greater realization of my ignorance? Yet I must go. For to remain is to stagnate. I must search the rocky, windswept crags of myself and life and persons. And someday I will know why I roamed those lonely places.

Though wherever I go, no matter how rugged or removed, whatever secret trail or path I trod, I know that You have walked every place before and You wish to walk with and guide me. Any place You have seen. Every emotion You have felt. Any sea no matter how deep You have swam to its end. Since the beginning of time, You have walked these places. You created them and with your own hand you have searched them out.

And You wish to probe me, mind, body, heart and spirit, gently of course. When I yield trembling, You touch me awhile and when your fingers go, streaks of gold remain, like the streams curling down my cheeks, glistening in the pale glow of the dawn.

August 4, 1989

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Returned Triumphant Dreamer

I remember the beginning
those suicidal thoughts
when my dreams were nothing and
I was cowed
driven like stupid
cattle
into this mindless chase
where we stumble
in our own shit.

I will arise and I will stand.
The rebellion is late
but it is
here and now.
I will pick up my pen and
I will gouge the page
until it bleeds
my heart
your eyes and
the earth melts
into that nasty sea called
reality
which I swam in
returned
triumphant
dreamer.

Without dreams there is no reality.

I am afraid of their whispering
what is this dark path?
but we will walk it
my God
you and I
as we have
always together.

He was a dreamer
and he dreamed the
impossible
dream
of a new world
of dying to bring life
of bleeding to heal every wound and
when they nailed that poem above his head
that dream became
reality.

Upon this road I stumbled
I know not how or why
perhaps led by some strange
spirit
blind and groping
I have walked and
suddenly
now
I am here.

I must speak
whispers to rooftop
shouts
perched on the pinnacle
and if I fall
burst on the ground
then at least I can say
that the scarlet stain
though washed away
was at least
glaringly there
real
for a moment.

9/1/89
Reposted from Sept. 2011

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Heiwa Haiku 69

find a rocky place ~
step outside your own circle ~
let the change expand

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Heiwa Haiku 68

find a sandy place ~
draw a circle around you ~
make a change inside

Posted in Musings

On Seeing Hidden Figures

We decided as a family to go see the movie Hidden Figures today as one way to honor Dr. King.

What an amazing group of women! I am so grateful their story is finally being told.

So many have overcome so much for any of us to give up.

We have come too far to turn back now.

Please . . .

Go see it and tell everyone you know.

Then go back to the circle where you reside and make the world a better place wherever you can.

Selah

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Heiwa Haiku 67

kings will come and go ~
the level of the knaves is ~
where true change happens