bald winter moment

Today I sit on frozen rock
waiting
watching
the white lake of snow spread out
wings gently beneath my feet.
Slowly the cold seeps in. It
keeps me awake. Alive enough to witness
what life would subtly concede.
Today the white arms of winter
hold up the horizon - the world is open,
inviting, free.

This is a window. One of the edges
I am drawn to.
At the edge there is wilderness
and release
the death of concern.
Standing upon this border
one knows at once home's solace
and adventure's beckoning.
A birds eye view of paradox
reality.
Here I breathe,
begin to be.

I am standing here!
It is the edge of my being!
and I am a tree - rooted -
but branches dip, rise, sway
as potent silver winds break
through leaves -
with unrestrained embrace.

It is baptism. It is seasons.
It is what life would cry given
tongue to speak.
But we are pioneers
to whom the task belongs
to discover and believe.

finally...

After the seas are all cross’d, (as they seem already cross’d)
After the great captains and engineers have accomplish’d their work,
After the noble inventors, after the scientists, the chemist, the geologist, the ethnologist,
Finally comes the poet worthy of that name,
The true son of God shall come singing his songs.

-Walt Whitman
Leaves of Grass

to one and many

you are a hunter
in the field of your
soul's loneliness.

day after night
after evening after
dawn - endlessly
you are driven on

in search of a harbor
for your cry.
your 'greatness'
hides you - both
disguise and dilemma
- all too oft
betrayer of need.

but, in summer's green embrace,
open up your eyes. see
the shadow of your beloved
draw near
bending down
to touch your face.

not a poem but...

beautiful -
from Blaise Pascal:

"The Christian's God does not consist merely of a God who is the author of mathematical truths...but the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob. The God of the Christians is a God of love and consolation: he is a God who fills the soul and heart of those whom he possesses: he is a God who makes them inwardly aware of their wretchedness and his infinite mercy: who united himself with them in the depths of their soul: who fills it with humility, joy, confidence and love: who makes them incapable of having any other end but him."

Also,

"The way of God who disposes all things with gentleness, is to instil religion into our minds with reasoned arguments and into our hearts with grace, but attempting to instil it into hearts and minds with force and threats is to instil not religion but terror."

mercy

mercy is
deep
as twilight
and as broad
as prairie sky
drop a few coins in her
well and watch
thoughts sink
to new depths
overwhelmed
but gone after given.
all that lives on in the distance
are small copper fires
floating
with occasional
impetuous
eternal glisten.

some things are received
more soundly
unsaid.
we grate against the void

(loss of understanding)

that threatens death
upon we who live to know. but,
in the severe movements of silence,
idol gods die.
hearts burn - bear fire -
and grow.

winged bird of hope
return to my breast
with gentle song
tarry
within my heart,
build a nest.

Sabbath has become strange to me.
I rest in corners, clutch at shadows
write poetry on the floor of
library avenues.
Feeling as if I set a table for rest
it would be unwilling come, or
it wouldn't be fresh.
So I gather up scattered
flowers of sleep
into a fragrant bouquet born,
alas, from uneven peace
send up a prayer, set down to hope
til Sabbath return
upon my broken busy world.

October rain falls with an icy overture
summoning bright leaves
from branches
to stony disintegration
beneath tire and sole.
Eyes fix upon ground which
once were held high.
The weary world wonders
at this last ripple of laughter
gently yielding
to beauty’s rustling murmur.
Though death stands nigh
ankles are blanketed with light.

A response to "Wild Geese"

I am not able to be good, anyway.
So, I think I may have to walk on my knees
for a hundred miles through the desert,
repenting
(not because I warrant or am
capable of extraordinary suffering)
but because I am called after One
who sought my self-bent despair to relieve.
Whose Love compelled him
to walk a hundred miles through the desert
through the wilderness of fallen
faithless humanity to Calvary,
where the soft animal of his body
was nailed to a tree.

All because he loved what he loved!
the world.
And we loved what we loved,
darkness.

Meanwhile the world goes on.
Unfeeling, unseeing,
As God draws near
having paid the desert's wearisome toll
of reconciling.
So when I hear the wild geese cry – harsh and exciting –
and the beauty of created things encloses about me,
I will listen, allow my imagination to be held and borne
upon the wind of eternal invitation.

Do you think lightly of the riches of His kindness
and tolerance and patience, not knowing
that the kindness of God leads you to repentance?
Romans 2:4

Wild Geese

by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours,
And I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving
Across the landscapes
Over the prairies and the deep trees,
The mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clear blue air,
Are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
The world offers itself to your imagination,
Calls to you like the wild geese
Harsh and exciting –
Over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

A response to "The Journey"

It was a wild night
The wind cut - so cold
it froze warm blooded breaths.
I wrapped the red cloak tighter
around me thinking, "Yes it is wretched
but it is better. Ah! how good and sweet
it is - at last - to feel."

Feel what? Something.
Anything real. Anything
other than the dull, heavy drumbeat
of ought's to do and ought's to be,
should have done, should have been.
Something softer, something cooler -
than the fiery agitation endlessly driving
the crowd toward suicidal comparison.

At first it was tempting
to see it as an emptiness
a desert of vast loneliness
(departing).
But further down the road alone I discovered
I was being discovered.
And feeling those hands
Carefully peeling off my masks
touching things buried, long putrid and dead
I gave myself wholly over to
this holy unknown friend.

I was stripped down to my nakedness
but no longer did I feel the icy wind
Possessions melted to nothing but
the edges of eternity before me
did beautifully extend.
And as the night gave way to dawn
my whole being gave birth to song.

A Poem by Mary Oliver

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save

sky

The blue sky above me is breaking
into fragments of sun, dark gray, and green,
while I lay with my back upon the grass
looking upward through the trees.
Cracks from branches stretch jaggedly
as if they were jaggedly stretching,
scratching, the insides of me.
There is no method or madness to their beauty
and although they appear broken
they carry life to tender leaves.

Wilderness God*

It was your idea to take me out of the city,
hedging me in with thorns
so I would not - desperate -
cling to lovers who did not love.

You led me to the unknown

Out of ignorance into wilderness
where my cry no longer was suffocated
under striving, smoke, or steel.

To stand alone before you
to bow, to learn only
that it is You alone I should fear.

To a barren place,
starving me out of compulsion, craving
inner prisons that made me slave to
what the city needs and that upon which it feeds.

I heard an unexpected voice: a Bridegroom!
His presence, faithful, protecting, providing -
Love. speaking tenderly as if to a Bride,
a language fully alien
to my harlotry and the thirsty gods
of a land and people given over
to devouring.

Words came like the wind
A storm all around me
then they came like the rain
cleansing, restoring, remaking
and lastly like the dew
gentle covering of mercy.

You led me to the wilderness
but your love caused it to become a spring.
From former waste of pain,
Rises hope
and I lie down in arms everlasting.


*see Hosea

humility

Humility, forgotton virtue
forgotton
for we are far gone now, so
high with our own estimation
we cannot even touch
the hem of your garment. Reality.
To come down, to draw near...
First we would have to love our neighbor.
Well, lets be honest, see our neighbor,
and then esteem them for their worth
which is: better than ourselves.
Who is my neighbor?
My brother? No - even my sister?
Really? Come on,
you cannot be serious.
They don't know how to think
and well, they're not all that pretty
and if thats not enough, its clear
they aren't even close to as virtuous
as you or me.
So you, humility, handmaiden
of inner beauty,
remain untouchable and unacceptable,
cinderella sweeping.

gift

you are small. full of light.
having a seriousness bigger

than a 3-year-old
but an openness that is ever responding
wonder-fully to life.
you are strong, built like your father,
with a gentle spirit,
and a jig in your step, like your mother.
you still have that reservation
i remember from the season i took care of you:
turning from strange voices and too many faces.
and i, ha, also was only too eager
to exchange formalities for that greater wisdom
of love, simplicity, fun, and courageous vulnerability
that you, and every child, keep teaching me.
you speak much more clearly and intelligently
than you did back then.
but...i can't help but be playful,
leaving "education" for a moment, to the wind.
today we laughed, shaking randrops from branches
that splashed on our clothes and faces.
somehow this brief time
profoundly renewed my heart:
a spring watering dry places.

Please, wade in these waters. 

gently 

dip toes, 

foot, ankle, 

knees -

learn to bear the initial icy jolt 

that shocks 

your independence but touches 

deep joy - that is, 

warm hope of the soul's refreshment.

allow the plaguing illusion of control 

to slip utterly beneath the swift stream's current 

and get lost in its enigmatic dimensions of blue. 

Go deeper! waist, 

stomach, 

chest, 

neck - deep 

enough for your body to give up the heat 

of all its striving, 

relieved from false demand.

and (finally!) put down thy head. Feel

waters rush over, through, 

your face, 

eyes, lips, 

hair -

and let yourself be carried 

below and above the waters 

in this one and only stream called, 

"the clear merciful love of God."

more wendell berry

Sabbaths 2002 (Given)

X.

Teach me the work that honors Thy work,

the true economies of goods and words,

to make my arts compatible

with the songs of local birds.

Teach me patience beyond work

and, beyond patience, the blest

Sabbath of Thy unresting love

which lights all things and gives rest.

Sabbaths 1999 (Given)

II.

I dream of a quiet man

who explains nothing and defends

nothing, but only knows

where the rarest wildflowers

are blooming, and who goes,

and finds that he is smiling

not by his own will.

Bookstore poem

I am drawn to bookstores...

for the company! I suppose.

They are all there,

waiting, as it were,

like long-time friends - ready

for enriching and provocative conversation.

They are gentle, unassuming, as they wait

for me to reach, to touch and open

and wander through their leaves.

Many of them are old.

While I read, I can sense their strength -

more: maturity - from their travels

through life, the world,

and back again.

They smile generous like the sun, to see

their gift unfold to the world, to

my own small but curious heart.

The young ones often pierce me

with bright angles. The rawness of their

emotional insights. They paint in brighter colors

awakening me from too much comfort or sleep

but are lacking the aloe to soothe my fears.

The bookstore exists as a garden of thoughts

bearing both aesthetic and pragmatic fruits

or like a mine, small cave in the side of the earth

where you dig, make diligent search,

delighting to extract gold, precious jewels.

The company here is soft at first, colorful and diverse

like the land in which we live.

They speak in tongues, in mysteries,

in laments, in praises,

they speak the language of humanity

and my soul is thirsty for solace and understanding.

I think Thoreau was right when he implied
That if you want to live deliberately
you better go to the woods.

We better go to the woods!
or perhaps out to some desert, or garden
maybe not entirely unlike Gesthemane -
in order to bury our willful straying self in silent soil
under leaves of repentance

held deep, in dark earth, but also the arms of Christ’s everlasting forgiveness.
We need to bury our tears there that are falling
heavily to the ground, full with the weight of this world’s pain,
ours and others’ we were never meant to be separate from.
The salt will dissolve in the ground and spread out to the roots of plants
Seasoning their juices, readying for life to come balm for the journey:

recollection of those before who battled will and tears
in aching hope reaching for rest and light,
who are gone, but in joy, us and others await.

We also need to bury there our fears that freeze us.
Kneeling down to the power greater than ourselves
which is burning, like the sun, with the warmth of such love
that alone can (and wills to) thaw us.
And once we are all buried we’ll lose the emptiness that clung to us
And come back, return home more ourselves than when we left.

Life Together

It is quiet and cool, breath catching

upon the breeze, up! Somewhere

into the high heavens - Somewhere

we feel but cannot see.

It is quiet here. We do not speak.

But our roots gently, slowly, carefully

begin around each other to weave.

We look and breathe out onto the night

stars shine above us like promises

that came as old as Abraham upon this

world and still, brightly stand.

We do not speak. But Something is speaking

and in our silence, we are responding.

A Poem for My Mother

We only get one mother.
One heartbeat that God chooses
To bring us into being
Beneath.
One voice that shapes us
As we hear her talk, laugh, sing,
Whisper to herself as she walks
Alone among the trees.
And later she became the fruitful tree
Under whose shade we would take refuge
From storms, bullies, or bad dreams.
And her wisdom, vision, inner convictions,
Became the fruit we were so blessed to eat.

I am thankful that God chose you, mom,
To be my mother.
You have given me more than I could dream.
Your down to earth-ness, kind humility,
Gave me the roots I needed
To ground me in wonder
At the gift of life, loved ones,
To tenderly behold and care for,
The world around me filled
with God’s rich and mysterious glory.
Your ability to see, create, and bless
All the beauty around you
Comes from your graciousness
Towards the Creator and every created thing.
Your faith gave me wings.
You believed for the best when waves
Of darkness and confusion were crashing over me.
And I know, in the face of the world’s darkness
that you, too, have weeped.
But always, you always found joy –
And your contagious laughter!!
As many of us so well know, catches
everyone near you up into some kind of
hopeful heavenly glimmer
of delight. A glimpse of that Day
when from hardship and suffering
We shall be delivered.

And one more thing – your strength
Taught me how to fight.
To not give up, to wait for the dawn
Of every night.
For example, with your store, “Back Porch Antiques”
The hours, days and nights, you put in,
Miles you traveled to get that perfect piece,
In the end you worried it wasn’t worth it all,
But what I learned was courage, as you gave
A piece of your heart to the world.

We, your children, were fortunate enough to receive
Your heart in its entirety.
We are grateful
To have listened to your heart steadily beat
To have heard your laughter brightly ring
To have grown under the shadow of your life
Blessed by your example of love and grace.


I love you mom! Happy Birthday!

Denise Levertov (3 poems)

Variation on a Theme by Rilke

A certain day became a presence to me;

there it was, confronting me -- a sky, air, light:

a being. And before it started to descend

from the height of noon, it leaned over

and struck my shoulder as if with

the flat of a sword, granting me

honor and a task. The day's blow

rang out, metallic--or it was I, a bell awakened,

and what I heard was my whole self

saying and singing what it knew: I can.

The Prayer Plant (Maranta Leuconeura)

The prayer plant must long

for darkness, that it may fold and raise

its many pairs of green hands

to speak at last, in that gesture;

the way a shy believer,

at last in solitude, at last,

with what relief

kneels down to praise You.

Poetics of Faith

'Straight to the point'

can ricochet,

unconvincing.

Circumlocution, analogy,

parable's ambiguities, provide

context, stepping-stones.

Most of the time. And then

the lightning power

amidst these indirections,

of plain

unheralded miracle!

For example,

as if forgetting

to prepare them, He simply

walks on water

toward them, casually--

and impetuous Peter, empowered,

jumps from the boat and rushes

on wave-tip to meet Him--

a few steps, anyway--

(til it occurs to him,

'I can't, this is preposterous'

and Jesus has to grab him,

tumble his weight

back over the gunwale).

Sustaining those light and swift

steps was more than Peter

could manage. Still,

years later,

his toes and insteps, just before sleep,

would remember their passage.

A Wren Flies in Vancouver

A leaf turns

like a weighty sheaf of paper
chapter of life
over.
part of me could not believe
that winter would ever turn to spring
that life, love, the Dawn
would pour in over those dark hills
of yesterday.

but here are her hands - watch,
they're painting
spreading color out before us
filling our eyes with honest dreams
our souls, our hearts
with her bright heat
as we are called to "come forth!"
to live, play, walk slow, be.

Sabbath Poem

Rest awhile here, in hallowed spaces.

Here.

Where the sunlight dances

like a sprightly nymph upon

the green brushwood

mingling through afternoon shade.

Itself - dark and gentle.

Safekeeper of what is quiet,

every fear or lonely whisper.

Holder of songs of wait.

Your weary heart

will find refuge.

As you lie down, held

by the light and sight

of an arm-filled sky of trees.

Wendell Berry

is incredible.

This is a poem by Wendell Berry. It is a favorite poem of one of my friends and has become one of mine too! Read it out loud, and slowly, on the beach (or other nature setting), for the best effect ;) The world needs more WB.

"How to Be a Poet"

(to remind myself)

Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill - more of each
than you have - inspiration
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your work,
doubt their judgment.

Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.


- Wendell Berry, Given.

i tremble as i stand on the edges of you.

i have been the wind, since i was a child,

but you - you are a tree.

and your words are like the leaves of autumn

ripe with the wisdom of age,

Flames of beauty

as they fall so easily

from your lips.

having been nourished by that deep

place in you where the God of fire dwells.

i pick them up with my hands.

all around me they begin to sway, float, dance.

O i am humbled by the beauty

of these brothers and sisters,

who combine all that life is, with a smile,

in a kind of comic, majestic, tragic mystery.

church history

I am walking in these old tracks

leading to some Wild Haven

pressed into ancient hills where

the wind's breath bears

the voices of saints.

They lead me to places most humbly ordinary
where long grasses, sour plums,
and thistles abide.

But once in awhile, they steal me off

to a star strewn height

where I'm blinded by pure
goodness, beauty, or love:
where I touch
the edge of an angel's wing,
fiery white.

Exploring the Artists

"As I understand the gift of the spirit in art, so I understand prayer...
At their best, both become completely unselfconscious activities; the self-conscious, fragmented person is totally thrown away and integrated in work, and for moments of such work, be it prayer or writing, I know wholeness, and sunside and nightside are no longer divided."


Lately I've been more fascinated by other writers than attempting to write for myself. Fortunately, this is a good thing because as I immerse myself into their hearts and minds and words, I resurface with new creative inspiration! So anyway, I am thinking of posting other voices in addition to my own for awhile. Maybe, if you check this, you were hoping I'd say that a long time ago! ;)

To begin, the quote above is by Madeleine L'Engle, from The Irrational Season, p. 122. I believe prayer, work, art, and love are all things that draw us out of our "fragmented" selves into something greater, a greater prayer, a greater art, a greater work, a greater Love... but what the source or inspiration of these things is, is key. We can have many motivations to do the things above that may be escapist. But when God is our motivation and our inspiration, they become good, beautiful, and blessed. And we, unhindered, discover joy, freedom, and fruitfulness.

Damien Rice - Grey Room Lyrics

Today I was touched by the lyrics to Damien Rice's song, "Grey Room."
Its kind of a sad song, but not without hope. My pastor gave me a cd
and this song he related to Lent... my favorite stanza is the
"have I still got you" bit, and as we have waited for the Lord during Lent,
Good Friday, and Holy Saturday we remember our longing for
His Presence, our hunger for reunion. And today is Easter Sunday!
Today we celebrate His Resurrection, His victory, His promises fulfilled to us.
The grave is empty, the door to heaven is open - its "opening time."
Music is poetry! I love it....you gotta hear this though, not just read it.

Well I've been here before
Sat on the floor in a grey grey room
Where I stay in all day
I don't eat, but I play with this grey grey food

Desolate, if someone is prayin' then I might break out,
Desolate, even if I scream I can't scream that loud

I'm all alone again
Crawling back home again
Stuck by the phone again

Well I've been here before
Sat on a floor in a grey grey mood
Where I stay up all night
And all that I write is a grey grey tune

So pray for me child, just for a while
That I might break out yeah
Pray for me child
Even a smile would do for now

'Cause I'm all alone again
Crawling back home again
Stuck by the phone again

Have I still got you to be my open door
Have I still got you to be my sandy shore
Have I still got you to cross my bridge in this storm
Have I still got you to keep me warm

If I squeeze my grape and I drink my wine
Coz if I squeeze my grape and I drink my wine
Oh coz nothing is lost, it's just frozen in frost,
And it's opening time, there's no-one in line

But I've still got me to be your open door,
I've still got me to be your sandy shore
I've still got me to cross your bridge in this storm
And I've still got me to keep you warm

Warmer than warm, yeah
Warmer than warm, yeah
Warmer than warm, yeah
Warmer than warm, yeah