Holy Seasons

Tuesday Evening – Holy Week

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Spring rain, evening rain
as tulips close for the day, as
wind lifts each branch and new leaf.
Waiting in somber tones
minor chords and whispers
as God comes from the inside of space
just around a curve in the weft of woven time
spun in warp weave glistening.
Tuesday evening holiness
whole cloth ruffled in the breeze
lit by the setting sun
marked in water
the last few drops of rain.

Portland, Oregon – April 11, 2017

Holy week in the Christian tradition begins with Palm Sunday and reaches its zenith on Easter Sunday.

The Requirement of Spring

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still-winter

Ash Wednesday it opened, the first daffodil
under gray skies, near the rock pile, just the one
blowing about on its pale green thin stem
come brightly unfolding in winters chill.

Now a cold wind pesters about from all directions
bringing dark clouds filled with hail bits, blasts of rain,
threats of snow in the night and in the early morn.
Still it is winter and still just the one daffodil.

Spring comes, I know, all else says it’s so, but spring
leaves us wanting it bright and quick to come
hurry to usurp this winters persistent and dark rumble
wearing at our willingness to wait, so weary.

Come, spring!  Why need you an equinoxian turn
when other seasons linger long or too early arrive?
Come, spring!  Bring on your abundant breaking
through the doors of winter as has this daffodil done.

Portland, Oregon – March 5, 2017

img_20170305_160656639

Photos are my own, taken March 5, 2017

Epiphany

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pail-of-water

Bending arc of the sun in southerly decline
beyond the frozen garden
over the slender curve of the earth
while I hold my winter breath –
still upon still in the morning sunlight.

Birds and squirrels come to the fountain
looking for water in deep ice.
I’ll put out a pail of warm water,
change it before it freezes hard –
soon the sun will spring bring again.

Portland, Oregon – January 6, 2017 – Feast of the Epiphany

Fading Coal

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Waiting…

Waiting…

Wind flutter on fading coal
in this longing season –
shrouded sun hanging low
over the gauzed and furry horizon –
the reaches of self and the world.

Wind, tree rustling cold bare branches,
thrilling spaces between dark limbs
quavering deep reaches
of space beyond our pale light,
trilling starlight gleams while stellar grains
float broadcast in cosmic fields.

Poetic dream to be wind brushed
hushed into warmth of words
from within, hidden in heart shadows,
the heat of breath on cold winter nights.

Portland, Oregon – December 14, 2016

“Poetry is not like reasoning, a power to be exerted according to the determination of the will. A man cannot say, “I will compose poetry.” The greatest poet even cannot say it; for the mind in creation is as a fading coal, which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory brightness; this power arises from within…”

Percy Bysshe Shelley, In Defense of Poetry (paragraph 39)

http://www.bartleby.com/27/23.html

First Snow

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Today, the first snow
in blown flakes and ice;
cold evergreens, tall pacific
giants bending before the will
of winter come at last.
Freeze the year past gone
now the spring green psalms
the warm summer balm
verdant calm of leaves falling
into the now winter twilight.
Come, night long lasting
until the crackling morning
sun illumines sharp shards
of ice encrusted snow.

Portland, Oregon – December 8, 2016

Oceti Sakowin

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Rivers join, long flowing
in time and space within the land.
The buffalo plains a swept grace –
prairie grass flowing in eternal wind,
heads of grain lifted above the snowfall –
seven fires of unquenchable flame.

Oceti Sakowin

Oyate – born of the land – gather
in unmeasured time, passing
in cloud form, leaf quiver, snow fall
beneath forever stars,
burning sun strewn in layers
across their faces, raised hands
over life-giving streams
blossoming from the far hills
running where horses drink
sacred water of holy places.

Oceti Sakowin

Portland, Oregon – December 6, 2016

Like many, I have been moved by the actions of the water protectors at Standing Rock in North Dakota.  I believe it is an important, perhaps seminal action which will long be remembered.

Oceti Sakowin – The proper name for the people commonly known as the Sioux is Oceti Sakowin, (Och-et-eeshak-oh-win) meaning Seven Council Fires. The original Sioux tribe was made up of Seven Council Fires.  (Oceti Sakowin – Akta Lakota Museum & Cultural Center – aktalakota.stjo.org/site/News2?page=NewsArticle&id=8309)

Advent – Again

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advent-pic-for-2016

This liminal season in somber tones
of rain as sounds on rooftops
dripping splashes from creaking eves
blowing swirls of drizzle around summer chairs
forgotten in the sodden backyard tangle.

These darkening hours in shades of gray
among the wilted stems and withered leaves
in a wet mess where in spring grew the green garden
budding in bright lime and lush leaves.
Now, an oozing palette of soppy yellow-brown
fused in an organic, slippery, molding life.

Advent – the threshold over which I hang
suspended between the earth and heaven –
posing still the questions I asked when,
as a child, I turned out the lamp to sleep
or, later, woke to a dark and breathless silence.

The only answer I’ve received
among all the bright or forlorn possibilities
is the answer of the season:

Wait.

Be still.

Awaken.

Portland, Oregon – Advent eve, November 27, 2016

All Hallows’ Eve

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We are surrounded by a great cloud
of witnesses – hovering as ghosts
surging up from stores of memory –
whom we have known or been told;
encircled by once familiar sacred hands
held through all our years, as beads
strung on everlasting cords of love
lost, imperfect, unknown, remembered.

They wander through our dreams
endless phantasms in light,
shadows moving along receding walls.
We knew them who once held us –
stood by them in the aching pews
shouted down the long hallways
ran wild on the diamond fields
fled wordless through dark nights
of trouble searching for answers.

We are surrounded by heavenly hosts
who look so familiar, consumed
by life spent in small deeds
vanishing acts of work and laughter
mingled with that deep unknowable
life they carried in silence.
Some went before us on the road –
followed the curving pathways
vanished around the foggy headlands.
Others walk with us on the way
speak with us, see our faces
lift their whispered voices in earnest prayer
with outstretched hands of friendship –
unmerited grace in every darkness form
on this holy hallowed eve.

Portland, Oregon – All Hallows’ Eve, October 31, 2016

After Easter

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After Easter alleluias
brunch and bunches
of spring flowers in vases
the effort of work
age gathering letting go
staring at the moon
sweet face before our eyes
brushes of spring and autumn.

Vigil

The blaze of the new fire –
primal roaring crackle
throwing violent sparks into the night
stills to silent flames tamed
on candles held singly against the darkness.
Sung proclamations batter church walls
bells ringing raising banners
procession leading white robed dancers
rafters receive rising incense clouds
Easter bloom from death.

Fade to succession of days
leading away from steeples
oaken doors clothed altars hushed apses
into snug pubs food carts coffee joints
bestowing on each other our time
broken laughter intimate love words
knowing neither beginning or end
there too am I with a raised glass
remembering occasionally
fleeting moments of clarity
like bells far away
the new fire burns
dancers whirl in the night
incense billows in deep forests
stars hold celestial banners
the air itself breathes alleluias.

Portland, Oregon – Easter Sunday, March 27, 2016

The images in this work are from the celebration of the Easter Vigil, the culmination of the three day service known as the Triduum, or, the “Three Days:” The Vigil is held on the Saturday evening before Easter Sunday

Also, my recognition and thanks to the great French poet Arthur Rimbaud for his beautiful line: “I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; Garlands from window to window; Golden chains from star to star … And I dance.” I thought of that when I wrote, above, “Stars hold celestial banners.”

Violet Gray

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Violet gray
winter abandoning
bird trembling
in violet gray.
Stones in desert foliage
speak of Christ
violet flesh
gray eyes
troubled, fearful.
Fire on the water
water violet gray
in the morning.
Hymns, antiphonally,
Gregorian tones
in violet gray.
Hush! Hush!
whispered season
a waiting, afraid
of violet bursting
gray emanating
dubious death
questioned arising.

Menlo Park,  California – March 9, 1984
Lenten Series