Praise

Mutilated
—these words
broken, fragmented,
endless run-ons!

Wild Fires
A     lo     ha
~~~the island shivering
in ash.

Praise, praise the 
natural world
wreaking havoc on the
learned, ignoring the signs.

The stock exchange
adds their numbers,

while DNA samples
—the only means
identifying the dead.

Plucking a chord on my guitar
—a vibration
fans the room
finding a way to an open window.

The music
finds its way to the devastation,
the destruction

—voices rise like incense.

Praise the mutilation
of the world,
dance in the funeral’s ballad.

Nothing is truly missing
—life has a way of passing on,

returning new in a mutilated world.

Would you try to sing a hymn of Praise?

Mahalo
Inspired by the Poem: Try to Praise the Mutilated World by Adam Zagajewski
Translated by Clare Cavanagh

Moments…in her rose garden

Each year
in early Spring,
she would put on her old overalls
that rose high above her ankles.
She put on ‘his’ old night shirt…
she loved him and always longed
him to be near
even if it be his musty worn sweated scent.

She stepped outside.
The sun blurred her vison.
Still, she held her gaze.
No words spoken aloud, but the prayer
was alive.

Making her way into the garage,
she gathered all the tools necessary
for the labor already begun.

Singing an unknown tune,
she began delicately weaving herself
alongside each bush.  She tilled
the earth, raked tiny patterns
and, as the days passed,
the rose buds began to ripen.

She never stopped singing—
the roses unfolded…
sometimes she would clip a few,
place them in a vase and carry them
into the house.

He smiled, took the vase from her hand,
carried it to their room.  He, too, loved
the scent of her.  She was his rose,
a blossom he never tired gazing upon.

Is this a love poem…
the moments being written here?

I recall when she went into the garden,
and pierced herself on a thorn.
Again, she pierced herself drawing  blood.

Death came for her Lover,
and the sting was just like that thorn.

She wept,
sometimes all night long.
Soon her tears became petals—
her garden became fuller
because of the love that grew inside her.

His old shirt now draped off
her shoulders.
Death may have moved him from this world,
but love, the love she had grown and nurtured…

she would live it all over again
for this same ending.

Raindrops
Raindrops
dampened the page.

The words expanded
like a stone dropped
into a pond.

Swelling, each letter,
every consonant,
vowel,
became something new
unto itself.

Unknown, these words
—a language
my Soul does not
understand. The hid-den
meaning writes itself.

You are what lies between
each ring carried upon
the surface of the pond.

So much more,
so much less
—the raindrops
magnify the meaning
until each phrase
sinks into the page.

Out of the Blue

Who came up with the phrase
‘out of the blue’???

Why not out of the red,
yellow or green?

‘Out of the Blue???’

Why not purple, orange or pink?

Wait, ‘out of the blue’
rises a sun filling the blueness…
expanding its brilliance revealing
no boundaries whatsoever.

One tiny bird
perched on a branch
—its platform—
and sings the ‘blues.’

Each note adds to the hues
circling the burning flame
imbued in a sky of blue

as if ‘out of NOwhere!’

Smoke and Clarity
(Inspired by Jeremy Marks’ poem “Smoke Gets in My Eyes”)

Particles dangled on leafy branches.

When a small breeze pushed through,
the particles ‘gathered’
~~~smoke clouds puffing through a 
dense forest.

Walking, wiping my eyes
from particles? from tears?  both!

Laying on the ground
dampened by dew,
the grass—green.
A sudden sense of clarity
I could SEE!

Why rise?
I could stay here.
I cannot stay. I have to go back
into the smoke.

I see him…95 years old.
The particles of his being dissolving.
Some are gathering, readying themselves
to move on from here…
the smoke doesn’t matter to him.
He’s seeing quite clearly.
I touch his hand.

She’s 103…took a fall.
Her hip hurts and she doesn’t want anything done.
She goes to the Chapel
to sit quietly in prayer.
They say she has dementia.
She’s not seeing smoke—her clarity?
I’ll not be a judge.
I kiss her cheek.

The love of his life…the chapters closed.
One last kiss…he’s not pretending it
doesn’t hurt.
A broken heart.  Love does that and he’d
Love all over again…Clarity?  Absolutely!
The only smoke…the illusion of
life without suffering.
The realization of bliss when love holds a heart.

New case of COVID…
relapses even after vaccines.
Brain fog, memory loss, quarantine. AGAIN!
Really.

Swelling on the brain…is that COVID?
Smokey here, yet clarity is______________

Particles appear and fade away.
They’ll return— How?   unclear, but
they’ll return
and, too, clarity.

Soon to be 88.
Diabetes, glaucoma…the rising sun~~~
she no longer SEES, yet she feels
the warmth, its touch.  She misses words
so I share stories.  It’s smoky, yet
when she touches my face ALL the 
smoke fades.

A Kindred Soul, in remission, lymphedema
weighs her legs down
drowning her mobility.
She keeps kicking, swimming in smoke, metaphorically.

Lifting herself above the surface,
she whispers aloud each day, in perfect clarity,
“Thank you, thank you for another day.”

A storm breaks
torrential rains.
Smoke WASHED away.
I look out.   Before my eyes,
a bow in the sky, and another.

I rush outside…each color filling the
empty spaces with peace.

I watch it fade—
smoke…clarity.

In everything,
a sense of Pride
the Rainbow IS

—all the colors
washing my eyes dry.

Unwritten

Wrestling with a pen,
an instrument, willing to splash ink…

Matters not upon what, or for whom.

The hand that holds the pen
perceives this time as inopportune.

Sudden events
—tragic, inconsequential, unexplained.

One following another…
the phone rings…I wish not to answer.

The messages received

slowly, they sift through the
hourglass.

I tip it over and over again.

What is changing?

Thoughts no longer wrap themselves
around my mind.

If anything
—a blanket, a comforter, 
a crocheted afghan wraps around my heart.

I need the warmth to allow the
‘beating,’ to find its soft
charted rhythm.

The pen rests now on a page.
I hear the sound of silence
splashing all over my Soul…not ink,

but You, blotting the messages
in between each line…

so much unwritten.

Perhaps, that is where you dwell?

Vessel

When I lay me down,
when the sails of my ‘vessel’
—the vessel I am
tucked in,

I relive the patterns…
I see the ‘wakes’ lingering…
I recall the choppy waters.

The waves that rocked me
side to side
are caught in ‘helpless’ abandon
—carried by wind
—guided by the sun
—spoken to by albatross
whose wings lift me to soar.

Often, I don’t know where I’m
going…I know not who I am.
Still, at day’s end,
the moon a solitary curl overhead
—I tuck myself in
this simple vessel I am
and
 You are at my side.

---

Holding Hands with Time

Does time really change things?
Or do we change as time ticks on by?

Do seasons really change?
Or does change turn the season’s 
landscape from a blanket
of fluffy white snowflakes
to tiny green buds
exploding into colors like the ones
found on an artist’s pallet
only to fade
waiting for the clock to strike
mid-night?

Does time begin again?

Sitting quietly, holding time by its hands
or is time grasping my hands?

For a first, sitting mesmerized, I see the
curl of every joint moving over the
paper like a wave following
its natural progression.

These words written as time plays forward.
They, too, have become natural.

Really?

Here, holding hands with time,
my fingers strum the strings
of a guitar…a G chord, then a C…

they etch a drawing unraveling on
a blank page—time seems to have
forgotten.

But, has it?

I am holding hands with time.
Was it always this simple?

What seemed so painfilled…
why, those moments sealed time
long enough to ache.  The love
I thought I knew,
now, holding hands with time.

Love is more than mere thought—
it is beyond a feeling—

it is love

found in a pair of hands
touching time
trusting in between
each second
when time stops

—a hand will grasp
mine and…

Monet’s Brush

It was night,

and a sea of clouds
hung like a marina of vessels
bedded down, held in place.

Yet, it would not be so.

The wind struck a tune.
It gave a sequence of trumpeted ‘blasts’
until each anchored cloud
gave way.

And, drawing back,
there she hung,
nothing could out shine her—

the moon’s purpose
not to compete.

Instead, the curl of her essence
blessed the night.

The stars, like boats,
launched themselves

painting night’s ocean
with a brush as fine
as Monet’s.

Thank you for walking with my ‘words’ through the vast country side of Switzerland.
My wings are preparing for another flight, a NEW Pilgrimage.
I will connect when I land again on home shores.
Till then…
‘Ring the Bell that still can ring,
there is a crack, a crack in everything—that’s how the LIGHT gets in.’ 
                                                                                                                                                            Leonard Cohen

 

Switzerland 2022

July 19^th, 2022

It doesn’t have to be the Alps.
It could be the flutter of a
butterfly’s wings decorating
an array of pastel colored
wildflowers
Or
the continuous flow
of the water fountain in town
after town where
—the children splash & play
—the adults dip their hands in
lifting the cool refreshing
drops to their brows

AND

The Pilgrim, pausing,
refills a water bottle.

The sound of the Steeple bells
announce a new hour
while ‘clanging’ bells chime through the
endless minutes in a day
draped around cows grazing
throughout the hillside…

such peace.

July 20^th, 2022

“You are part of the Great Oneness
and what you do affects the whole…

You are a voice in the chorus,
a string on the Beloved’s guitar.
When you change your note,
you change the whole chord.

                           ~~~Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Closure

Over mountains.
Dancing above clouds.
Step after step after step…

Final destination—
a lake of glass.
Its ‘blue’ shades dip
into the sky.

My mind ‘jumped’ in…
No longer was I
one single drop in this sea.

I am the sea in every drop.

 

Switzerland 2022
July 17^th, 2022

Wallbach Gorge

A storm found its way
into the gorge
—it left an aftermath
of damage.

What does this mean?

Simply…YOU create your
own path.

One never ‘leaves’ the path…
life’s lessons have opened
doorways and NEW doorways
as a result of a whirlwind
of changes throwing ‘everything’
out of proportion!

Mid-wife, are you here?
Naturally, you always are.

You’re the voice
reminding me
of the loving place the womb IS!
Inside…we’re warm, held,
comforted, nourished…unconscious of
time, the months developing, stretching,
forming and growing

UNTIL

the space NO longer conducive to dwell.
Does every fiber of life hold out until
those final moments and, like a
storm, break through the gorge of
the uterus delivering life—
a new opportunity to expand
and encounter the path that
AWAITS?

This day, a new path before us.

Conscious, mindful, and aware of
the unknown, we step
filled with gratitude.

There are guides keeping watch over us
—they have been with us
all along.

So Grateful.

July 18^th, 2022

“Every moment in our life is a new
departure, an end and a beginning,
a joining of the threads and a
parting.”

                                            Yehudi Menuhin                    
                                                    (1916-1999)

Very fine threads
have placed themselves
on the path trod each day.
The threads have also been
encountered in a variety of
colors.

A look back
—what a carpet ride it has been.
Yes, a magical carpet ride
with today and tomorrow
extending their finest
strands.

Already, I can feel pieces of
SELF becoming frayed…
—my steps move with ease
—my limbs strong and agile.
My eyes hold the
dazzlement and wonder
in and through everything
AND
the Soul
still mindful that this doorway
is drawing to a close.
I will not have a reservation or
hesitation to lift the latch
a final time and close this
chapter of a life, my life’s
Never-ending story.

I know tears shall spill into the
lake, the final place of rest
from which I depart.

This pilgrimage holds many encounters,
reflections that shall return me home.
Lessons will reveal themselves.
Choices made will give way
to how my ‘senses’
—such faithful guides
took me across a countryside
traveling like the rising sun each day
lifting this body in the East
and stepping West to each day’s
setting.

Thank you

Amen

 

Switzerland 2022

Dearest Mid-wife,

I greet you with warmth, kindness,
tender affection and ALWAYS gratitude.
When first my pen touched these pages,
‘YOU were.’
Lines ‘mentioned’ your presence.
You were the ‘ink’ flowing from the
tool allowing consonants and vowels
to open doorways.

As each day rose like the sun,
it closed with the stars.
I did not specify You in
a literal sense, and still,
‘YOU were.’
Weeks have passed.
I write this piece for YOU.

The journey westward is moving away from
the high passes
—movement into the meadows and
valleys lay ahead.

Wildflowers, clanging cow bells,
and dancing butterflies
ruffling the fur coats of marmots,
bathe in the light of new dawnings.
Some-thing NEW has begun
in me!  What does this mean?

Honestly, I cannot say
what I have witnessed!

My ‘soles’ allowed me
to cross over the terrain.

Evergreens…the towering pines
reaching skyward nestled below
the mountains that dwell in
the sky.
That glorious dome above my head
—how the blue sky filled with
cotton ball clouds creates patterns on
the ground and ignites the vibrancy
of color stretching on and on.
When the purple shades of dusk
appear and shadows bring out
the watchers of night,
I have sat waiting, watching for
that first star.

Mid-wife I thank you that
‘YOU are.’

 

To what might I liken this pilgrimage?
The immediate ‘image’ coming to
mind is a playground.

Why, might you ask?

Well, let’s first play on a slide.
Before the SWOOSH down,
there is the climb—
one step followed by another.
At times, both feet step on the
same landing…
other times it’s left foot first,
right foot ascending past the left.
The climb is filled with effort.
One holds the sides or, better yet,
‘poles’ to keep a ‘balance.’
The views from the TOP
have taken away my breath
time and again.
The ‘slide’ down…slow and steady.
Before you know it, you’ve
reached the bottom and you are sitting
in a bed of wildflowers.

The second adventure in the playground
…the swing.
For countless moments, I have felt as if
my feet never touched the ground.
Soft breezes pushed me forward.
I lifted my arms soaring with the hawks
overhead.
When my feet finally touched the gravel
path, I lurched toward the ropes.

The third playful item on these ‘grounds’…ropes!
On the ropes you never feel,
‘I have this!’
Each step, exactly where it is meant
to be AND each step filled with
purpose and hidden anticipation.

This playground…a pilgrimage.
When it ends,
then it truly will have begun.

 

Switzerland 2022

July 15^th, 2022

29 peaks…

Stood together
and vastly apart.
Many held thousands upon thousands
of feet of snowpack.
From a distance beyond measure,
the rushing of a waterfall
followed by another
found a way into a river
moving with speeds almost as great as sound.
Many peaks revealed their sharp,
distinct natures.
EVERY one of the mountains held
the sun, the moon, and stars.  They
held the clouds sometimes ‘lifting’
their inner cages that set free
the birds filling the skies with
hovering angels.

29 Peaks
each climbing above 4,000 meters.
They have NO fitted gear to rise.
So, tell me…
WHO formed You?
Wait right there…Please!
I know there are scientific
meanings and theories revealing
the coming together of endless
elements.
I listen and have limited sense of
knowing all these recordings, facts, data
and measured time
AND

I know there are doorways of theological
truths, mystical revelations, transformational
encounters.
Scrolls have been written
hid-den in caves…
dates, times written on page after page
after page
a vast array of testaments

AND

the 29 Peaks stand
before ‘time.’
THEY are the Gospels that need no
Interpretations.
Standing, rising they move.  Oh, they MOVE.
They are NOT changed by explanations.
THEY need NO acceptance, fanfare
or awards for being.
THEY do NOT speak in words
instructing ‘anyone’ or ‘anything’
on how you, too, can arrive.
THEY ask NO fees
to support their daily
livelihood.
So, WHO formed YOU?

If you gave the secret out,
I’m already beginning to hear
the vast array of diverse opinions.

Standing within THIS community
of 29 peaks,
a silence speaks—
a HARMONY exists
before existence even began.

WHO formed YOU?
Who am I?
It is a distance to reach the
vertical climb of over 4,000 meters.

Sharing the same ‘ground’
…Thank you, Wondrous Earth.
I’m going to keep walking.

Switzerland 2022

July 14^th, 2022

The Body of a Mountain

Slabs of rock.
What appear to be plastered in
place, these towering peaks drizzled
with the abundance of snow
capping the mountain’s head.
So many times, in a single day,
the head ‘lost’ in the clouds.
What are its thoughts?

The face of the mountain
—How does it see?
—Can it hear?
—What does it smell?
—Does it taste?
Looking at the mountain,
I trust its ‘view’ never-ending,
and it waits to hear the morning’s
first songbird preparing the
altar it is.
It hears the sun, like a match lit.
A candle it becomes, manifesting
the mountain in ‘ordinary time.’
It smells the incense of heaven
from which it dwells
and tastes the melting particles of
ice.
Often it spills the chalice of
its essence creating an avalanche
to feed the unseen places in the
mountain’s body waiting, waiting, waiting.
The mountain’s shoulders
are broad and stately.
They are doorways from which ‘limbs’
stretch unfolding pathways for those
who place themselves in the mountain’s
hands.
There feels what seems an extended
invitation, ‘Come, come to this place…
rest awhile, be still.’
AND, from this tabernacle,
the mountain’s soul.
Although not visible, a pulse beats
—it is not marked in time
—the very ‘measure’ of its essence
unraveled when the first stars collided
and it LIVES in this ballad.
The mountain’s base camp
—its foot stool.
Wildflowers decorate the setting.
The mountain’s service never ends,
but its message becomes clearer and
clearer.
Its body groans just enough
for me to hear,
“Walk now in peace.”

 

 

Switzerland 2022
July 13^th, 2022

Jungfrau Summit

You stood expectant
waiting for the night’s watchman to
extinguish the last embers that dusk
consumed.
What was that?  An avalanche?  Your breath?
I saw you, indeed, I did!
Like drawing from a well, you pulled & pulled, yanking an invisible rope,
until alas you splashed the
Moon into a blanket of stars…a church bell announcing the arrival.
The illuminated sphere released itself from you, Jungfrau.  
She cut the umbilical cord.
First she painted your peak with her drizzling stardust. 
Making her wayward path to the west, she rolled across the peaks as if descending a stairway.
I wrapped myself in a quilted comforter, and listened to the moon’s lullaby.
When I opened my eyes, she had passed.  AND you, Jungfrau, you stood
and heard the words, ‘All is well, all is well.!  Thank you’