Darkening Days

Perhaps it is the settling in of winter
I mean when I write of darkening days.
Yes.  That is what I mean.
Or, the darkness descending
on one growing old.
I mean that too –
I am one within the other.

I wake in the night
open my eyes to see
darkness. I wait for fear
as when I was a child.
Fear does not come, only
silence as at the end
of a difficult journey
when I lay down my coat
take off my hat and shoes
and sit to gather my breath.

I search for understanding of darkness
unfolding in many forms and disguises.
Each day might reveal some new thing
about what is coming, what lies
in and beyond the seamless
sacred realm of darkness.


Portland, Oregon – December 11, 2019

 

Sentient World

I sit outdoors in every weather
letting come, inside or out, what comes.
Today it is steady rain and chill.
I take cover in the garage
sitting on a camp chair
before the open door.
I see down the long drive
the last oak leaves hanging on
in the face of December
soon to fall to winter’s floor.

Out in Cascadia’s realm I am
being drawn into the phenomenal world
scented in the calm and quiet of natural life –
wild and mysterious in sensual appeal.

Wool cap and down jacket, warm boots,
fingerless gloves for work –
finger tips getting cold now.
The steady rain turns to a slow drizzle
as my thoughts slow and still.
I hear whispers out there, seekers
searching for listeners.
The sentient world
trying to tell me something.

Here I am.


Portland, Oregon – December 7, 2019

Poet?

I began this site in December 2015 after many years of writing only occasionally. During those years I would, from time to time, dash something out on paper and quickly abandon to a box without taking the time to sit with it, work on it or, as often happens now, trash it because it simply was not satisfying and I could not think how to make it satisfying.  In those days I thought to myself that, after all, I am not a poet because I do not write or only so rarely as to not qualify even for my own sense of what calling myself a poet might mean.

Since I began In Cascadia I have written at least one poem every month, for four years. My average output per month is something over three poems. Quantifying poetic output doesn’t go well with the poetic sense, I know, but my reason for doing so is simple. It means that I have been writing consistently and for a number of years. This gives me confidence to say, at least to myself, that I am a poet.  While I know that the innate desire was part of me, patiently waiting since at least my high school days, it was not until I began to write with some consistency that I felt I could claim to be, in earnest, a poet.

Now, there is no need to go into whether I am a good poet or not. There are far too many  subjective and objective qualifiers to go into here.  I have, however, read a few “how to” books from “real” poets, enough to understand that the quality of my work will not likely bear the hard scrutiny of established critical standards. So be it.

My own standards are these:

  • Do I like and appreciate my own work?
  • When I go back to read poems I wrote months or years ago, am I still satisfied?
  • Does writing add meaning to my life?
  • Do I enjoy the process?
  • Am I fascinated by the way a poem morphs along the way, sometimes ending far differently than how I thought at the beginning?

Yes.  To all, yes.

My conclusion is that to be a poet means that I must write poetry and with some regularity.  This is no different from any other writing form.  One just has to sit down and write and see where it takes you.  I do not think it has as much to do with meter, rhyme, line break, or any other of the many qualities that are ascribed to poetry.  All these are important of course but writing itself is the finest teacher I have – always there for me.

I am very grateful for those few who follow my work here. I never expected to reach many readers so I’ve not been disappointed. I greatly appreciate your expressions of “like” for my work.

Peace,

Tom

Advent – Come!

I do not wish for more to come than has come
piling up in thick layers, smothering
the society we have stitched from the cloth
of history, woven with strands of doubt
of error, patched with blood and care.

We wake in the morning with relief
having flailed through sleep fragments
dream chaos and thickening coughs
that push silence to the far corners,
peace into the dark and hidden closet.

“Do not come!” if what comes are more
battered days of human failure and betrayal.
“Go away!” Let us have the time we need
to repair what is breaking in us –
our beliefs, the symbols we thought
would sustain our already fragile faith.
Let racing time slow to accord
with this natural season – fallen leaves,
frozen ponds, sun’s light sliding
low and long across the wintry horizon –
the seasons’ lights, the veiled half moon.

We have time enough for this, to quiet and still.
It is enough to say, because we’ve learned
from our traditions and hold to them
as to a branch hanging over an abyss,
unknowing and feebly but from deep within: “Come!” 


Portland, Oregon – December 3, 2019.  The season of Advent is a Christian liturgical season which ends on December 24th, this year.  It is a traditional time of waiting, of stillness – in hopeful preparation for the coming of joy – silent night, holy night, night divine. May all traditions be welcome to join in this sacred time.