If I met you today,
for the first time
again,
would that first spark
be the same
as that long ago feeling
in a bar
in the foothills of Colorado?
Would I be as bold,
and you as cool
in the midst of another rowdy crowd?
Would our kiss
be that kiss
when the room held its breath
in awe of the lightning
crackling along the ceiling,
sending sparks cascading
into our white hair.
The Choice
Counting back to that first glance, seconds and minutes,
hours and years, the desire and candor of bodies,
when our days became charged with the pace of lives lived.
Years of longing renounce the yearning to another,
no longer young. The clamor of middle years
leaves satisfaction and knowledge in its place,
a quietness whose heft outweighs the struggles.
Wisdom is as wisdom does, patience is its own reward,
love never fails, never. And this is the choice,
made and kept, to choose you now and at each sunrise.
Until the day comes that my hand is not recognizable to you
And my laughter is silenced by your unknowing eyes.
— This always seems to be a poem people come back to from time to time. And Valentine’s Day would seem to be a good time to re-post.
As the old year slinks away into the night,
I will throw my shoes at its shadow.
Shaking the dusty months from my clothes,
I will wear my cap and shirt inside out
So the old minutes and seconds can’t cling
Like a bad smell.
I will salt the earth where the previous days
Stretched on and on,
Assuring they will not
Follow me into the new year.
When the New Years Eve bonfire is burning,
I will gather the bitter herbs
And walk counter clock wise into the previous moments,
Casting the hated bouquet into the flame
Leaving its acrid taste behind
With the smell of its grief and sorrow.
Only then will I wreath my head with four leaf clovers,
Fill my pockets with new pennies
And my trunks with rabbit’s feet and horseshoes
And walk bravely into the coming year
Head held high and with cheerful optimism
I will greet the new day.
*** It is with a bit of trepidation I enter the new year, but I am putting on a brave face and holding my chin up and saying ‘Happy New Year to us all! May 2017 be a year of goodness and mercy for us all.’
The clouds stand still in the early winter sky
As if a breathless wind held them close
Looking to see if you withdraw your hand
I reach for you and always find you
There
Red maple leaves scattered across the path
Dried bits of life once vibrant
I search your eyes to see if our love
Has dried to dust
And I always find it
There
Winters chill settles deep into the landscape
Sharp frost rings the rattling grass
I lean in for protection against the cold
Longing for your warm embrace
And I find it
There
Always
our breath mingles
creating tiny snowflakes
that rise in the north wind
delicate ice crystals
float with sparks
from the solstice fire
bright little boats on a celestial sea
rising embers sailing across the deep blue
ocean of stars
sparkling bright in the first winter night
hold my hand
we will fall into the snow together
leaving angel wings behind
She waits
for the word to come down
her train is leaving soon –
ticket purchased
and held tightly
in her beautiful hands.
(parchment pale hands,
thin and strong,
that once held such powerful music.
And in all the keys,
she played our lives
so that we were formed
by the sound of her heart)
She waits for the bells to toll
and for the band to start –
she is easy in the going
and longing
for the gentle rocking of the rails.
… My mother caught her train yesterday morning and arrived in heaven as the angel band played a loving welcome. She was easy in the going and for that we are eternally grateful.
Our Lenten season continues.
Daily rituals of sacrifice and penance are observed
as we struggle with the mysteries of life.
This life filled with –
well, with those things life is filled with –
things that we love and suffer-
faces of loved ones, song, sun and moon,
food and warmth, the aching of need
and want.
We hold fast to breath
and heartbeat, far past the time our legs
and body have become undone.
I repent of all the sins I have committed
against her.
Just as each child is guilty and must be forgiven,
I also forgive her
for all those common sins that mothers commit
against their children
out of habit
or frustration
or love.
We both repent
and with ashes marked on our foreheads
continue on with her morning ablutions
and daily baptism of water
and life.
Up before wrensong,
the crescent moon and I whisper
so as not to wake the day.
She in her nightgown and I in mine,
we sit on the porch
in the cool air of early dawn.
And she listens.
I tell her of my fears-
numbering my inadequacies,
trembling in my regret,
tears flow freely
as the early morning dew.
With her sweet comforting smile,
she tells of her birth –
new moon to slim crescent,
waxing to full, rounded glory
only to wane past gibbous
into the palest slip of light
to be welcomed into the dark womb
of restful night.
Waxing and waning,
we each sigh
at the dawning sun.
*** A repost of a poem written several years ago.
benedícimus te
maybe she’s like any
body
walking the sidewalks
or dusty roads
or the narrow places
pushing a baby carriage
filled with
dreams
or broken dolls
or aluminum cans
she picked up on busy streets
where no one saw her
as they pushed
past the rushing wings
of sparrows
and angels
as she made her way
to the manger
*** This was written to remind myself to be aware of those around me and to always look for the extraordinary in the ordinary.
thecourseofourseasons 