waxing and waning

Crescent Moon and Venus 8-2012

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

Victorian Angels

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.

its not the weight but how you carry it

Its not the weight but how you carry it-
loaded onto your back
like a pack mule
or ahead of you
wheel barrowing down the lane.

No,
it’s more how you think and feel
and digest
all manner of thoughts and feelings-
how your tongue feels
as you voice
those longings and fears
or maybe how your lips part
when you sing
a love song.

Or maybe it’s just that everything we think is heavy
is just as light as a feather.
Rising balloons tied to a string
or tied to your heart
maybe you are light hearted
and drawn to whimsy and mirth
or maybe glum and in need of a digestif
or a good hearty pat on the back.

Maybe you are light on your feet,
dancing up a storm
or a jig or a pas de deux,
balancing between sky and earth.
Its all a balancing act, you know.

We are not merely players on a stage
but acrobats
and clowns
following the gypsy caravan
with all our worldly goods
tucked into our backpacks
or pushed along in our barrows-
light hearted
or not

its all in how you carry it.

(revised)

the gulf between us

May morning

The scent of river and green
fills the space in my mind
where once you were only
a memory of a dream.
Years and myths
of what we were
and will become
are written in the runes left
by crow and sycamore.
My heart wends its way
to the gulf between us.
The marsh and saw grass,
sweet in its dance with the wind,
chiming bells of lilies cascade
across the river bed
of green moss and milk weed,
tumbling together
in the singing water.

Gulls wheel overhead
calling your name
again and again and again.

(revised)

sturm and drang

How can stillness move so fast
or the speed of a thing
retain its calm center?
I stand,
still as a held breath,
my body flying at 800 miles per hour
and yet the surface of the coffee in my mug
shows not a ripple.

Shadows of your thoughts
darken the room even before you enter it-
pushing all light away from you
or possibly
the gravitational force of your temper
sucks it in like the black holes
created in the brilliant light of an exploding star.

All this sturm and drang.

Its just space and time,
the universal quandary of quantum physics
of how to get along.

seven times seven

They wish to take some time,
if the room is still available,
for words and thoughts
to congeal-
the way left fallow.

Fields undone as last night’s argument.

Each shall return to the place of their beginning.
Manumission of the indentured souls
shall be relieved of their suffering.
Sewing not the ruptured,
sowing not the fields, emptied.

Fields undone as last night’s wrath.

The decisions to be made
will make each aware
of the secrets and courage which
brings justice to the birds
on the verge of the turned earth.

Fields undone as last night’s tears.

Shout jubilee!
All debts are forgiven,
all fields left fallow,
in the year of seven times seven.