Advent – a slow fall into winter.
Bright crystalline stars
crisp brittle plate moon.
In an instant it could shatter,
break back into a dark and dreamless sleep.
It holds, a thin fluttering veil
all that we know
hung upon the perfect tree
an ornament on the Christ tree
architecture of night divine.
It holds, flung into the cold –
a play of fluttering bright lights
strung into dark and holy nights.
I cannot recall where I was when I wrote this, only that I wrote it in 2009.
Thank you.
For what?
Life.
What does it mean?
Must it mean?
Yes.
No.
What then?
Be.
Be what?
Be.
Is that all?
No.
What more?
Give thanks.
Waldport, Oregon – Thanksgiving day, November 22, 2018
On a table in front of me cut stems of lavender lie
that days before grew, rapt within a November sky.
Plait them into the wreaths of December
through branches of pine and cedar to remember
the fullness of spring in clear and washed lights
summer’s warmth in ripples of radiant sun bright
pulling from the lavender it’s sweet scent, lifted,
lingering in a fragrance lost, borne aloft
in wild winds and rain blown waves
breathing as the world on us this day.
Waldport, Oregon – Thanksgiving day, November 22, 2018
It is a time to plant, late autumn,
as the rain and the cold come on.
Roots, tender and young, find their way –
spaces among the stones
crevices in the clay.
Among young spring cedars
I first breathed the fresh air
began to grow into the welcoming earth.
My flower opened, my branches
stretched out to the brightening sky.
Spring will follow winter
revealing what lives, what is dying.
The thin and leafless young plants
may bear life in bright fruits –
birds in their branches,
wind in their leaves.
So may spring find me
replenished in the land
opening my arms to the cool breezes
my heart to the falling rains of spring.
Portland, Oregon – November 14, 2018
Out of the depths I am
here now to tell of life and loss.
From the earth I came
walked the green fields
returned when my time had come.
I remember the swirl of life
light playing within myriad forms
spun in sensuous warp and weft
color woven into darkness
I, transfixed in the weave.
What might have been
had I courage, will, and love
enough to bear the world, wronged –
words of peace always on my lips
spoken with my dying breath?
Portland, Oregon – All Hallows’ Eve – October 31, 2018
My photo is of a terracotta/ceramic sculptural piece I recently found in my front yard. It was buried under an old fern at the base of a big tree. I found it intact and no worse for living many years in the elements. I do not know who crafted it or how it came to be where I found it.
As to “De Profundis” please see Psalm 130 and a profound letter from Mr. Oscar Wilde.
Time is a season
passing away.
Time?
These ticking moments
our ocean and air?
Our ground?
Yes.
To the sea the desert is an illusion
as time is to eternity.
She watches over us –
a loving mother
clapping at first steps
waiting to hear her name.
Portland, Oregon – October 26, 2018
Glory October days in yellow and bronze
float through the sun’s low slanting lights.
Spring flowers and green summer leaves
melt into twilight, dinnertime, and a glass of wine.
A spare and bare ground is lost in sounds
of geese crying overhead – going, going, gone.
The forecast is rain as autumn leaves again
with the geese on the wing, in the wind
blowing fast towards our unknown
days and nights of wonder and fear.
Let us drink the season full
feel the passage of time as a lost love
come again to guide our way.
Portland, Oregon – October 22, 2018
A bell hangs in the courtyard tower
over the darkened city, waiting to toll.
Where is one who will pull it’s cord
light the cold city lamps
cry out in the shrouded night
to waken those who sleep
as peril creeps
up to the city gates?
In a dream I try
to reach the cord
light the lamps
cry in the night
but fast asleep I lie.
There is a watchman, I have heard,
who haunts the highways and stalks the byways
shaking the locks and rattling the doors
without sleep or dream or play
so I’ve heard, so I say.
She has listened to the tolled bell
sounded down the ages and the empty lanes.
She lights the lamps and cries
during the long and lonely days
sounding deep into the darkening nights.
Portland, Oregon – October 19, 2018
I am small
a part of myself.
I cannot see
all of me.
Birds fly
in the cool morning
through the rain.
I seem to be with them.
How big am I?
I am small.
Tree and mountain
lift themselves high
to be with sun and stars.
Are they, also, I?
I touch leaves and loves
music and madness.
I hold the sun in a heart
that seems to be my own.
How big am I
to hold the sky
the sun and moon
the birds that fly?
Am I small at all
just an autumn leaf
in free fall?
Am I more
than in the mirror
I seem to be?
A star
light years away
said, “I am small.”
I heard it call
in the night
with a voice
that was my own
and was my all.
Portland, Oregon – October 11, 2018
I don’t know the artist or origin of the print I’ve used here. It comes from a Pinterest post but without credit provided. I wish I knew.
He sat under the boughs of a great tree
fasted and prayed on a wind ravished desert floor.
She saw visions in her cold cell fastened to a church wall
lived impoverished in a walkup room over a city street.
What did they see
when they saw what they saw?
I saw a bird bathing in a pool of water
a leaf fall from the maple tree
an acorn from the oak.
I saw jays shaking acorns from the oak tree
squirrels burying them in autumn ground.
I saw the sun rise the east
the moon set in the west.
What did I see
when I saw what I saw?
Portland, Oregon – October 4 2018
Feast of St. Francis. In memory of the Buddha, Jesus, Julian of Norwich, and Dorothy Day.
In Cascadia 