I will not turn on the light
as beside me she sleeps still.
Unstill I lie, reading lines
written onto the pages of night.
Projected there is darkness spelled in verse
lit from within by the light of memory.
I read, from a continuous scroll of poetic refrains,
a story of life without rhyme or form
flickering as if it were something old
unknown, without meter, beginning or end –
edited solely for the life of dreams.
Portland, Oregon – June 4, 2019
Conversation on Loon Lake, Alaska, night, Rabbi Shulman having just climbed out of the cold waters of the lake into the fishing boat:
Joel: “Rabbi, what are you doing here?”
Rabbi Shulman: “You go where the search takes you.”
Joel: “What’s it like down there?”
Rabbi Shulman: “It’s dark, Joel. It’s dark and it’s deep.”
What is out there when it is dark and deep
where we come from, where we sleep?
I see it outside my night window
hear the flailing of winter winds
as shadows and ghosts who won’t
make themselves known
except I quit my warm home
its lights and human comforts
to go out where I can hear
the Spirit’s sensual call, feel
its chill breath on my skin
dive into deep baptismal waters
be born again from out of a dark womb.
Portland, Oregon – February 28, 2019
My opening lines are from a 1994 Northern Exposure episode titled “A Fish Story,” spoken by characters Rabbi Alan Shulman and Dr. Joel Fleishman.
Pacific northwest winter mornings
shrouded in fog – cold, dense, dripping
from evergreen branches, fir and cedar,
sifting through blurred spaces and still swirls.
I see what is out there in the reaches
beyond the gray shadows laying
silent in the movement of days gone
away, lost in memory, shaken
awakened from the depths of slumber.
As a child I lay in bed
listening for the sound of trains
passing in the night; in the darkness
to the deep and resonant sound
from across the bay, of a foghorn
wakening the night, putting me to sleep
as if it were my own mother
coming to calm the terrors of my night.
Portland, Oregon – February 19, 2019
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
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
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.
Early morning autumn
waking in darkness.
For a moment
pushing aside the covers
placing my feet on the floor
I wonder
sleep still slung about me
will the light come?
It comes.
The world opens
in white petals
a lotus flower
in still water.
Portland, Oregon – October 1, 2018
In Cascadia 