this picture made me smile...

source

There is much to learn
here by the blue water.
Her soul is ever drinking
in the sky
and she moves
to touch every little thing
with life.

the dream that was the dream

as the winter wind closed
upon the year,
the clouds wept bitterly above.
i stopped dead, wondering if
it was all a dream,
the fog gathered
round me like a sheath.
still, i went further
to hunt the soft light
hiding behind hesitant corners.
small lambent wings
rummaged for harbor
through the shifting
crepuscular streets.

Featuring...an old favorite

Gerard Manley Hopkins.

I took a class on Hopkins a few years ago with about 12 other students and one Loren Wilkinson of Regent College. It has proved to be one of the most influential classes I've taken in my life. Hopkins' poetry is no mere feel-good art, nor has it perfect poetic meter. What it does have is the kind of theological depth that when tasted, nourishes for long periods of time. Here is a beauty:

Binsley Poplars

felled 1879

My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,
All felled, felled, are all felled;
Of a fresh and following folded rank
Not spared, not one
That dandled a sandalled
Shadow that swam or sank
On meadow and river and wind-wandering weed-winding bank.

O if we but knew what we do
When we delve or hew -
Hack and rack the growing green!
Since country is so tender
To touch, her being so slender,
That, like this sleek and seeing ball
But a prick will make no eye at all,
Where we, even where we mean
To mend her we end her,
When we hew or delve:
After-comers cannot guess the beauty been.
Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve
Strokes of havoc unselve
The sweet especial scene,
Rural scene, a rural scene,
Sweet especial rural scene.

its been awhile since i've posted anything on here... maybe it is due to a lag in inspiration, or maybe its been awhile since i had a chance to breathe.


blue lights burn dimly
through the grey shadow of night.
there are children in this city
orphans seeking bread
hunting down the dancing ribbons
that have strung life along
so far.
the darkness would spread
its hand over them, if it could.
but they hold within them the quiet seed
of the morning -
the everlasting morning -
a song that echoes without end
to which darkness has no threat.

sunlight

Sunlight
rests gently upon my sleeves,
sheltering
then moving
throughout the anxious turning
of the breeze.
A storm will no doubt arise
from beneath the layers of
such warm, dark
summer nights.
Wait
for the cloudburst torrent of rain
coming restlessly to wrap up the world
in its garments again.

the matrix

It's no a secret that I'm afraid
of a lot of things in this world.
All the right-winged left-brained people
keep telling me
(over and over)
that there is nothing to fear.
However -
because I am afraid of exactly them
- it doesn't help.
Help!

How can I tell you how I feel?
You are like the grass,
root and blade
growing into my heart.
You are always new life -
a fresh patch of pasture -
a sure place of rest.
My heart is different now,
green, soft, and ready.
In a world of drought,
You keep sprouting.

a favorite

The Old Poets of China


Wherever I am, the world comes after me.
It offers me its busyness. It does not believe
that I do not want it. Now I understand
why the old poets of China went so far and high
into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.


Mary Oliver

passing through

beauty has deep roots
and durable clothes on.
there is something earthy
and eternal in her walk
though we can't know
where she'll go next.
where she might crop up -
in the most unfavorable places,
most likely.
her journey is arduous,
grievous and far,
but the ground beneath her steps
pools with joy, every inch.

graduate school

my mind is a rake
gathering up
the brightly colored
straying leaves
of other people's
thoughts.

the field is
an ample flame
reaching for the sky.
its yellow branches of
fire-light lift and lilt
against the blue
leaning of night.
gophers turn somersaults
laughing to cry:
come near sweet showers!
cleanse our world
again.

It is time to be converted,
once again.
Sell all.
Every last cent
poured out for the poor.
Keep not proud thoughts.
Be clothed in coarse garments. Your
downed head with hair undone,
weep for death's undoing
everywhere.
Then stand
before the cold winds of silence
with your naked open hands.
It is to be human. It is the only way
to be born again.
Receive
the astonishing richness of God.

anniversary

Flowers flicker light against the sapphire sea,
the sun plays the fiddle and the grass
yawns, stretching its thousand arms.

There is so much to say. So much

that floats

on the soft winds of easy silence.
But only a whisper is heard -
a butterfly brushes past:

"Rest here, rest here awhile, children.
For moments hold and gather
the real. Then comes time."

for S.

you were a delicate child, so
awake to the life and lives
that danced around you.
a dreamer with a wit
so sharp it stunned.

what night came into your world
when your father was taken
from you
so suddenly?
what hope was arrested from your heart
and where did faith fall to
from all the beauty you held?

you were a delicate child.
touched by every bloom, color,
and breath.
but none can live
untouched by death.
so fear spun each day into darkness
while hope grew frail and aged.
until you couldn't bear
the loving touch
of the world any longer.
or even the belief
that Another held all of its
glory, sharp edges,
(as well as your father)
in his arms.

You couldn't bear it.
you wrote beautifully about it
then you left it.

Sylvia Plath

"A Better Resurrection"

I have no wit, I have no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
A lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is like the falling leaf;
O Jesus, quicken me.

Reaching Out

On a precipice I am
listening to a bow
against string.
Up here,
touching rock and wind,
I am hidden
in contemplation
soaked
in gossamer air.
If only to glimpse
life again!
Far and wholly away
from ruck and wave
and question.

when i've given up on words
(which is usually
too often and
too easy)

i enter the silence. it is not always
death;
it is a spaciousness
formed by centuries of living

bearing with the earth
over times, transformations,
the history
of human feelings
and actions.

if you listen

if you get to that point that is
silent enough

you can hear it.

the word upon which all else
moves
begotten from the heart of God
and burning

through everything
for
the cosmos and you.

Let it.
and that word will hush other words

incising your heart of stone
til it become flesh,
making it
a fountain, clear and flowing forth.

Now, speak.

sundown approaches and
we wonder
what it is
we've been waiting
for. all the striving
settles like
dust turning
to damp dirt
beneath our feet.
our lives, like a crumpled
piece of paper
toss and turn unevenly
across the grass, away.
it was for this moment
this one glimpse
where despair kisses
the Great Coming
of All Being.
it was, finally,
for this exact death
we've waited, so to enter
into the hope
of all that Is.

you are a gentle light
to me. leading to pastures
cool from evening's shade.
i kneel down and wait
knowing your faithfulness
will come and gather
me home.

Mary Oliver: The Fist

There are days
when the sun goes down
like a fist,
though of course

if you see anything
in the heavens
in this way
you had better get

your eyes checked
or, better still,
your diminished spirit.
The heavens

have no fist,
or wouldn't they have been
shaking it
for a thousand years now,

and even
longer than that,
at the dull, brutish
ways of mankind --

heaven's own
creation?
Instead, such patience!
Such willingness
to let us continue!
To hear,
little by little,
the voices --

only, so far, in
the pockets of the world--
suggesting
the possibilities

of peace?
Keep looking.
Behold, how the fist opens
with invitation.


From: Thirst

obedience

Obedience
will not suffocate you.

It will break you open,
shatter
that dead shell
you have called living.
It will demand your
(yes your)
presence in territories
unseen
and look to you
for the language
to describe their beauty.

It will birth the shy bird living
silently
inside your being
and make her sing.

wild beauty

Blooming requires
unselfconscious
exposure. The
fearlessness
that marks the
fragility
of a flower – birthed
upon the coarse face
of an unfeeling world.
Her wilderness
is rife with hope.
She is drunk
with the life of God.

Gethsemane

One night

you walked

a rock's toss

from your friends' touch.

There, kneeling down, you knew

the weight of separation

of the loneliest.

Darkness'

cold breath.

You knelt down alone

to pray

against the inevitable.

To wait, bear

sorrow unto death:

the fear.

Threatened

with forethought

of rejection

betrayal

death

pain

you cried out!

God-willing, to obey.

The others slept heavily -

the cup remained.

You were crucified in the garden

before taken outside the gate.

Holy One

Holy One:

who holds this aching cosmos,

I hope

quietly hover

hesitatingly wonder

before your dreadful
beautiful presence

awaiting
broad white wing (Spirit!)

to sweep, gather mightily-

trembling sheep
to Christ
's deep love on earth unfolding.

Night falls
on our faces
so we close
our hoping eyes
climbing down
to give the weight
of our bodies
back to the earth
once more.
Trying not to remember
day's arduous length when
we earnestly gave the wind
wanting
compensation
for our 'labor.'
And didn't know their names
or
the inconsequential thing
they dreamed of
or needed.

eternity

There might be
beyond this
dark present unknowing
something
quietly beautiful
waiting
with open hands
past the inconstancy
of existence.
So,
when the last glass
falls and breaks ---
it will not all give way
to
emptiness.
Gentle life will endure,
a seed,
planted.

autumnal dandelions

I walk through fields
to leave,
hand what is left,
over.
autumnal dandelions turn white
thousand-stranded
when Indian winds
finally call them home.
It reveals meaning a heart
perfectly knows,
in summer
sometimes
it snows.

A long distance runner once, I loved
the feeling that I was on my way
somewhere, passionate and alone across
landscape and time. Leaving it all behind and pressing
forward into an unknown hope. The beauty of it
was that I was not, in fact, alone at all.
Together we descended into wind and breath.

It wasn't a fool's freedom from pain -
it was fueling movement with ache,
as if arms and legs could paint upon the air, upon
the ground and fields we passed - impressing
upon the world the rhythm
of a beating heart.

Always a circle or
out and back.
We return to the place we left, softly
to gather past's orphaned pieces once again:
a mother lifts her child after rest
love's well springs, out of depths
incomprehensible, afresh.

Can't Go Back Now

Has there ever been a song that touches you every time you hear it? "Can't Go Back Now" by The Weepies does it for me. and yes - every single time. It means something new each time as well.

The lyrics:

Yesterday, when you were young,
Everything you needed done was done for you.
Now you do it on your own
But you find you're all alone,
What can you do?

You and me walk on
Cause you can't go back now.

You know there will be days when you're so tired that you can't take another step,
The night will have no stars and you'll think you've gone as far as you will ever get

But you and me walk on
Cause you can't go back now
And yeah, yeah, go where you want to go
Be what you want to be,
If you ever turn around, you'll see me.

I can't really say why everybody wishes they were somewhere else
But in the end, the only steps that matter are the ones you take all by yourself

And you and me walk on
Yeah you and me walk on
Cause you can't go back now
Walk on, walk on, walk on
You can't go back now

miracles hit
jolting the heart
see dragonfly blue
over sun-fired pond.
it startles to waking
with refreshing reprieve --
Grace!
comes in fountains
to water,
bide trial,
and reach.

memory spins like a pinwheel;
colors stream, in spite of
grip on cool reality.
and - for such love and pain
darkness and glory -
I cannot, I cannot keep
heart from breaking.
I could not hold them, they fell
through cracks in this old
wooden floor of my soul. I
could not say - how could I say -
how can we find the right words to say??
how beautiful are souls -
how we long to dance for hours,
years, in joy's dim light that
clothed us in moments.
I can only pray as they go away
that love will trail them and I
through life's inconstant night.