New Years Eve, 2022

Putting the old year to rest, settling itself into history

and memories, some to be forgotten, recalled,

bittersweet, that which was giving way to that

which will be in this new year coming, counting

down like the end of a time fast approaching,

a ball dropping, or the start of some race beginning,

a commencing – and GO!  Face it full speed ahead,

pacing ourselves for the long race, a steeplechase

of obstacles, of changes in front of us, or blind-sided,

some rash endeavor or one carefully planned, a roadmap

of detours, stops, and starts, starting over; and what shall

we become but another year older, another year wiser, or just

another year added to our lives or taken; and how shall we

we spend it? Squander it, the old one day at a time that never

really happens, or save it up for later, but saving it, though,

for whom, or for what in the new year soon to replace

the old, put to rest, settling into history and memory, that

which was:  5 – 4 – 3 – 2 – 1, GO! 

On an Ocean's Edge

On Christmas Eve, somewhere, quiet,

he took himself to an ocean’s edge

bathed in starlight, and star lit, listened

again to the Christmas story carried

on the wind’s hush and soft waves, on earth

Peace, Goodwill to all peoples, the Hope

of all humanity, a savior born. 

A Christmas Poem (2022)

Contrary to Clement Moore, t’was not sugarplums dancing in my head

the night before Christmas, for images of dancing sugarplum fairies,

vis-à-vis the Nutcracker, was not a pleasant sight, giant mice, sword

fights, and a broken nutcracker soldier come to life. No, t’was Gram’s

gingerbread cookies carried me off to bed that Christmas Eve, soft and rich,

one for each hand, climbing the stairs to bed, a bribe, anything to get me

to go to bed, to go to sleep, lest Santa not come, a child’s fear and threat.

But a confession, I feigned sleep, too much sugar for an eager and anxious,

impatient, child of 7 at bedtime, Christmas Eve, fearing St. Nick passing us by

or discovering myself on the naughty list, my brother’s warning, he

had seen the list. I just knew I’d find a lump of coal nestled in the toe

of my stocking, a public acknowledgement to everyone, what comes

of sneaking cookies before dinner, or hiding sisters’ dolls, or worse, a lie

told to mothers, claiming an illness to stay home from school, a bold lie I told,

this the cause of my name on the naughty list, highlighted, double-starred,

this lump of coal my public shame. Through tears and sobs, I would watch

the others open their presents and me without any, not a single wrapped box

or bag bearing my name under the tree, no socks, no underwear, no ugly

sweater, nothing, no electric train set, underlined, at the top of my Christmas list.

Secretly, though, I did try to stay awake, get away with something, just

long enough to hear reindeer hooves on the roof and the jingle of sleigh bells,

hear the struggles of Santa coming down our little chimney, catching

a glimpse of him, all dressed in red, padding off to the bathroom, too old

to wet my bed in the excitement of reindeer pawing on our roof, sleigh bells;

Santa would understand, wouldn’t he? Or seeing me, repack his bag

and leave, leaving us without Christmas, the cardinal holiday rule broken,

the milk and cookies and sugar for reindeer left on the table, untouched.

They’d know who to blame, who it was that didn’t go to sleep, not inviting me

to Christmas next year, if ever again, sending me away for Christmases to come.

But sleep came, eventually, tears and visions of tutu’d gingerbread men dancing

in my head and two crumbling in my clenched hands, uneaten,

a mumbled apology, and a trail of dried tears running down my cheeks.

 

Morning arrived, early, the other children waking me, the stockings

heaping where they had been carefully, lovingly hung, even mine,

not hanging flat, no large lump of coal to weigh it down, but full, overflowing,

candy canes and gum drops, socks and toys and treats. Santa had come, again,

and I had missed him, all dressed in red, the chimney, the reindeer, not even

a trip to the bathroom, and no wet bed; I was on the nice list after all. My pleading

and promises had worked, some guilt and tears added to help with my sincerity.

Santa had yet again snuck in, no wet spot of snow on the floor, the carpet

dry by the fireplace, no hoof prints on the roofs, and under the tree

all the evidence I needed to keep believing in Santa Claus, in old Saint Nick,

believing still in the magic of a Christmas Eve, the night before Christmas,

and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, just me, eager and

anxious and 7 years old and wanting to see him for myself, just to be sure.

Even now, this year, much, much older, I still believe, still watching,

eager and anxious, impatient, still listening for sleigh bells and

reindeer hooves, visions of gingerbread cookies dancing, off

to sleep lest Santa not come and finding myself on the naughty list. 

Holiday Forecast

The forecast calls for more

of the same, gray skies and

rain, unseasonable weather

this year, fa-la-la-la-la!

But it is the Holiday season,

whatever Holy Day you choose

to observe, to celebrate, sharing

the traditions, the customs and

food and music with friends,

with family; the blue skies and

sunshine of the celebration,

though, are always in season,

always seasonable. 

Nature Lives Here Where We Live

Nature lives here, up north, where we live,

crossing the highways and byways and back

country roads we call our own, carved out

in our wanderings, or creating their own trails

through the trees and underbrush, the open fields

grown tall in summer or buried deep in snow,

trails crossing over our yards, passing through,

or perhaps openly grazing on our lawns

and gardens, warmed by the sun, or resting

in moonlight, highlighted against the darkness:

the fox and her kits, an early morning forage,

an evening’s stroll; the deer, a small group, white

tails high, bounding on spindly legs, spooked

and fleeing; the otter fresh from a swim, or a beaver

pausing; a coyote or wolf, rare, more heard than seen,

watchful and cautious; squirrels, red and grey or flying,

tree to tree scurrying, the mice and the rodents who live here,

warm and safe underground; birds by the score, the chickadee

and nuthatch, wren and finch and robin, the larger jays,

doves, woodpeckers, great and small, pounding for grubs

and seed, an eagle circling overhead, and a summer mallard

and her brood of ducklings newly hatched; the loons, diving,

call out on a summer’s eve, and a flock of turkeys

around Thanksgiving, flaunt themselves as survivors;

and the moose we thought we heard last night crossing our yard.

 

And this we have learned; this world is not ours

to do with as we wish, taking what we want

and leaving behind destruction and ruin, waste and

abuse, nor theirs alone, but a world shared, a communal

wilderness, a more diverse community of lives, mammal

and bird, reptile and fish, amphibia; perhaps, though,

it is they, nature’s wild ones, who have the greater birthright,  

a freedom we lack in our civilized lives, fighting ourselves

to lay claim to that which we cannot take, cannot call our own.

Pied Beauty

-- Based on a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins --
(November 2022)

Pied beauty draws us to the rising sun

            and its setting, reds and rose and golds

                        swirled together in an autumn’s blue sky,

 

and swirling, too, together, us, rising and

            setting, piéd race and creed and color,

                        origins, creating one humanity. 

2 AM

2 am and the dog wants out, a constant whining

I can’t ignore, and right now, I don’t like him very much,

forcing me from the warmth of my bed, the floor

cold under my bare feet. But I throw on a robe and slippers

and we go, me grumbling, him, excited, barking, spinning,

a short trek through a chilly room to the door and out into the dark.

He dashes off into the shadows, following a smell, investigating,

leaving me, alone, staring up into a late autumn sky, a brilliant

darkness - blue, black? - punctuated by the stars, constellated,

earth’s mythology arranged before me, a star map to eternity –

brightest Regulus, the lion’s heart, Leo, harbinger of spring;

and Procyon’s eastern anchor of winter’s triangle; Sirius’ Dog Star

glowing, watching, guarding, bright, and Cancer’s Crab, Hercules’

distraction; and Betelgeuse, Orion’s hand, his 3-starred belt and stance,

Orion beginning his winter journey across the sky, pausing here;

Puppis rising, the stern of the argonauts, Argo Navis, Jason’s ship,

searching still a Golden Fleece; and a heavenly host of faint stars

beyond, among, barely seen, or not seen at all,

visible only in their absence.

            And I wonder,

is this expanse why he pulled me out,

some canine sense of my needs and desires,

pulled me out into the night sky to see

my soul laid bare among the stars, splendent

in these dark skies of an autumn’s early morn,

2 am, to align myself to earth’s mythology,

a universe spread out before me,

weaving me into eternity. 

Kokopelli's Flute

Kokopelli’s flute turns the wind to music,

blows softly in the dry Southwestern heat

and too, the moist air of New England’s clime,

wooing us with its magic and bringing

with it, life, creation’s greatest gift. 

               

For Grayson … and all the little boys out there

What goes through the mind of a toddler,

that little boy running across the yard on speedy

little legs, arms flapping to keep his balance,

his little round head abobbin’, eyes straight ahead,

staring out and around and seeing everything, alert

to each stick and stone and flower’s stubble?

What keeps him from falling over save my guiding

hands reaching out to him, needlessly really, him

coming up short to stoop and pick up a single dried leaf,

a flag held high in the breeze, or a standard to bear?

His race beginning again, a new direction, a new goal,

he totes a fistful of sticks to wave about and stones to toss 

into the lake or just a puddle of water, his laughter light 

at the ripples they make, or, sticks pounding on the grass,

he beats as on a drum, a rhythm only he can hear, only he 

can feel, the drum beat of his own heart loud in his chest.

What goes on in the mind of a toddler? I’ve forgotten, 

so long since it was me, running the fields of childhood,

the dry leaves of autumn crackling under my own feet

shuffling, leaves kicked up or tossed in the way of little boys

discovering who they are, curious creatures, discovering 

themselves. And what can we learn by watching them grow?

Only, as they, who we have become and the life we shared.

Tears for Humanity

Deep within me, somewhere, drifting off

into an afternoon nap much needed, I heard

a short cry, distinct and clear in my dozing,

like a secret whispered into my ear.

It was not the feeble cry of a newborn baby

gasping for air in his weakened lungs,

struggling now in this new world of light and touch,

a helplessness, so dependent, so in need;

nor the gulping sob and wailing for a lover lost,

the grief and pain released in our tears, knowing

we can’t go on, knowing we must, but unsure how,

so we cry, turning our faces away from the world;

not even that silent weeping we keep to ourselves

in the lonely moments of our living, our faces

wet and eyes streaming, reddened, tears shed alone

in darkness, confused and hopeless, hopeful, too;

but it was a short crying that I heard, distinct and clear,

somewhere close, somewhere deep within me.

Perhaps it was my own voice, crying

for a world in distress, seemingly lost,

and for the anger, shame, and fear we face together,

all hope lost in the tears we shed for humanity. 

On the Birth of a First Great-Grandson

In nature,

life goes on, finds a way,

out with the old,

in with the new, heh?

And humanity, the same, goes on,

perpetuating itself, advancing

mankind, life and time more

perfect, finer, fitter, evolving

as nature demands, and so

the generations pass, out with the old,

and the new — sons and grandsons,

great-grandsons and daughters —

replaces us, the aging, wise, imperfect

humanity. A new future begins now

again, a future left in good hands, building

on us and our fathers and grandfathers,

the greats before them, becoming us,

the sons and grandsons, the great-

grandsons born, becoming you,

humanity finding its way, going on. 

October Morning

A cold October morning,

the temperatures creeping

down below freezing and warming

ever so slowly, despite the sun,

and the trees bearing their brilliant

garb of reds and golds and yellow,

a delight to my eyes peeking open

from beneath a quilt pulled up snug,

warm beneath these layers, they remind me

of the changing seasons, the winter months

ahead approaching fast, symbolizing death,

and the protections we take against it,

quilted parkers and warm coats, woolen

hats and mittens, scarves tight

around our necks and faces, shutting out

the cold and wind, looking forward with expectations

of spring to hold us over, rebirth and renewal

in the face of death’s reminder

this cold October morning, wrapped

in the cycle of seasons changing.

Creation Story

Consider God, creator of all things, entrepreneur,

seizing an opportunity in a world without form and void

to grow a community garden, populating it with wildlife,

all kinds and varieties, animal, mineral, and vegetable, even man,

appointing him as gardener, zoo keeper, namer of everything,

Adam, and Eve, helper, wife, man and woman in His image created,

God incarnate, in human form, His spirit made mortal, arms

and legs, head and body, lungs and heart and brain, blood flowing,

breathing, thinking mankind, and Eve with him, not meant to be alone,

sustainers of all that is good and kind, perhaps too great a responsibility,

too great to accomplish, the stress of this new life created, God made,

perfect, humanity’s beginnings to be carried into a distant unknown

continuing, succumbing finally to the pressures of just living, the pressures

of this task undertaken, thrust upon them, alone and unprepared, discharged

and expelled, left to wander, disgraced, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, cursed. 

Thanatopsis

Early 60s, still young in the big scheme of things,

retired but feeling old, sometimes, life changing, no light

yet at the end of a tunnel, but some days I’m feeling 

the pull of age and mortality, so my wife and I figured

we’d help out the children, adults now and mortal themselves,

help them financially before that time comes, our time to go

toward the light, lately a distant prick growing brighter,

so we bought a headstone bearing our names, dates

of origin and the dash that is our lives, awaiting

that final date to be chiseled in, a simple marble stone

to remember us by, kept mowed and maintained 

by perpetual care included in the cost of dying.

And then we forgot about it once it was installed,

ready for occupancy, like a new home, forgotten

as we seldom think about our own passing, too early for that.

Later 60s, older, and starting to grapple with the effects

of the years behind us, new aches and pains, new

limitations, and a few pounds added around our middles,

a little more worn and weary and tired, eyes growing dim, sound

less clear, but this squirrel, trapped at last, must be released, 

relocated, and he’s earned himself a trip, a new home, a vacation, 

so off we went, he and I, a quick drive to a cemetery drop off

just up the road, too lazy to take him further away, as commanded;

and there it sat, unseen till now, this marble marker announcing my death, 

well-maintained, but weather-worn already, my name in perfect print.

Taken aback, I stopped; there was “1954” and the short dash

awaiting another number, a finality to this life I’m still living.

I’m not afraid of death and what comes next, whatever, hell even, 

if that’s my earnéd fate, good as I’ve tried to be, death welcomed

when I die, perhaps a reward for living, but to see my own name now

on a gravestone as if I’ve already gone, already taken that last walk

along a darkened tunnel toward a light glowing, unsure exactly what it is,

Heaven, Hell, something else, a light to lead me to that final rest,

something to light my way lest I fall, tripping in the unfamiliar 

darkness of death and limping into the grave with bruised knees and shins,

to see my own name carved there, seeing maybe my own end, it is unsettling 

and got me to thinking about my own life, my own mortality,

wondering if I’ve accomplished everything I set out to do, 

accomplished anything at all, left my mark on the world

and am deserving of this public spot, this monument, this grave

etched now for eternity, for the family to remember me by,

for some future explorer to find, an old moss-covered stone 

in the “old cemetery,” wondering who I was, what I had done, 

curious how I had died, knowing only a name, an origin, and an ending

connected by a dash, a short life lived in the expanse of the universe.

So I lay myself down where my coffin might be lowered at some 

future date, a few years, maybe next week, or 20-30 years from now,

or more, who can tell, just laying myself down to try it out, see how it fit,

imagining myself six feet under, a satin pillow under my head,

my arms crossed or resting on my stomach, hands joined, an image

of me napping on the couch, a Sunday afternoon nap, my eyes closed,

shutting out the light, total darkness, but snoring gently, a loud snort 

from time to time, startled; in this darkness, though, no one can shut out sound 

even in death, not the traffic headed north to the lake, or south, returning, 

nor the voices of well-wishers, tombstone hunters wandering among the stones

looking for old friends, or just the curious scouring the ages past, 

perhaps even an old man relocating a squirrel, a caged chattering loud

and the rustle of feet running into the brush, tiny feet across the dry leaves 

scurrying, which is why I came here today, my assigned task.

It was comforting, the noises I imagined, the sounds of footfalls

soft above me and the sweet songs of birds sweetly sung, the evening

croak of frogs and toads, the call of the eagle and hawk circling,

the yip of a fox, a vixen for her kits, the low grunt of a coon

or skunk, snow falling, and the tears of the living left behind shed 

for one who has gone before, for life does go on, as does my own life this day.

Rising, I brush off the thoughts of death and dying and the seat

of my pants. We are far removed from the grave, this squirrel and I, 

so I took him home, let him go to be caught another day, for today, 

this day, we are alive, free to be, free to be home, free to be alive,

death defeated for another day, another time, settled.

We prostrate ourselves

before the altar, or down on our knees, head bowed,

penitent, hands clasped tight together, pleading perhaps,

at this shrine to a white deity hanging from a cross,

One we’ve created to justify, rationalize a rigid morality

of fear, a fear born of misunderstanding, of contrariety, of that

which is different from us, that which we cannot accept,

will not accept, fearing differences, fearing the changes

it might create awakening, and we raise our hands in praise,

Hallelujah, and profess our love, confess our sins

lest we fall prey to a lurking Satan’s wokefulness,

grieve our sinful nature, burying it, lost in God’s love,

and have our ticket punched to heaven’s pearly gates,

our New America Standard, a new King James, open

to the verses condemning this wicked world or the ones

lifting us up as better than, following those commandments,

setting us apart from the sinners around us, so bold

as to live these sins publicly, unforgivable,

glad that we are not like them, heaven-bound,

washed in the blood of the lamb, saved, sanctified,

and dutifully condemning sin and sinners alike to hell,

our good deeds, as our tithes, counted up, tallied,

our accounts growing, and the pockets, too,

of a religious right, fawning over them who would

establish a world religion, unmoving, these crusaders of ages

past returning, reforming, conforming, a new morality forced,

rigid and right, unreformed, and afraid of missing out,

left behind on the judgement day, reading the signs,

and fearing the end, the judgement, unprepared and afraid.

 

And their prayers fall not on deaf ears or blinded eyes,

but are heard through the tears of God

weeping for humanity,

                                       a Father’s tears for his children.

  

The Poetry of Autumn

The poetry of autumn begins

with the green of summer fading

into gold and rust and red,

backlit against a brilliant sky;

and with the warm air lingering cool,

a slight breeze and a hooded shirt

easily removed in rising temps,

easily restored with the waning sun;

and with the days slowing down,

late to rise and early to dusk, a new moon 

rising and the winter constellations 

beginning their journeys across the heavens.

The poetry of autumn begins with change

and ends with the barrenness of winter,

the silence of snow falling, filling 

us with the promise of spring returning.

An Owl Cries

An owl cries, flies

in the deep night, flight

lifting her great wings, sings

to the stars nocturnal, choral

calling to the new moon, attuned

to earth’s cycling seasons, reasons

for listening, reflecting, changing. 

The Last Time - Creative Non-Fiction (CNF)

            The last time I visited my brother … one of those infrequent, too infrequent, times, the result of modern adult children, adult sibling, going separate ways, pursuing other lives, jobs and careers, lifestyles, moving away from each other, from the family homestead out of necessity or desire or just the fortunes and happenstances life, of who we are, who we became, always promising to get together when we could, but those times were too infrequent and we joked about funerals becoming family reunions, like his funeral became, Mike taken from us too soon, leaving us too soon, feeling the pain, the hole created in our lives; all the sibling and spouses, children, grandchildren even, and the remaining aunts and uncles and cousins gathered to say goodbye and console each other and to remember, and we made promises anew that we knew we wouldn’t, couldn’t keep, after we said goodbye and returned to points too far to stay in touch as we promised, until the next funeral, just last year that we didn’t reunite at, what with COVID and fixed salaries and masks and restrictions – and now there are five of us!

            But the last time I visited my brother, there at the cemetery in Brunswick … where I try to visit as often as I can, a couple times a year at least, summer and fall, maybe spring, but never in winter, trying to find a grave under all the snow, though I’ve said I would, but it’s Maine and the snow is deep, but he’s among new friends, good company, right there next to Bowdoin’s athletic field where he can cheer on the lacrosse team - does he even like lacrosse? And he’s buried alongside other heroes, General Chamberlain of Civil War fame, for one, Maine’s native son, who besides a few tourists, history buffs, probably doesn’t get much family visiting him. I’ve never wandered by, not even sure where his grave is there among the older stones and obelisks intermingled with never stones, old family names, some nice shiny marble interspersed among the granites, worn with age and hard to read the chiseled names and dates, moss and lichen covered. Well-meaning on my part, to visit often, but some months I just don’t make it down, the long drive from here to there, the demands of life in later years, retirement.

            But the last time I visited my brother, there at the cemetery in Brunswick, among the other heroes … as always, I had brought some music to play for him, or rather to play for me, for my piece of mind, music I want to hear more than music he might choose to listen to, some classical pieces, some show tunes, movie tunes from movies I’m not sure he ever saw, except maybe the one from long ago, or perhaps he has forgotten it, but it’s one of my favorites from growing up, music from the annual, perennial movie, Peter Pan, the Mary Martin version, black and white now colorized, where Wendy asks the question I sometimes ask of Mike, where do you live, Peter, and Peter breaks into song, I have a place where dreams are born, and time is never planned, it’s not on any chart, you must find it with your heart, yes, Neverland, second star to the right and straight on till morning, where we dreamers go when we leave, so it’s Neverland and the newer John William’s Flight to Neverland, for us lost boys, music to accompany us there, from here standing alone in a cemetery in Brunswick to Neverland and home again, to remember the stories. And then some Hero songs, Fanfare for the Common Man, Mike a hero among us common men, and Amazing Grace sung by Celtic voices, no big church choir or even a less musical congregation making their joyful noise, I once was lost but now am, - no, I’m still lost sometimes, here alone at his grave, music streaming from my phone, louder than it should be, perhaps, but it makes me feel better, standing here, the tears streaming down my face, my sniffling covered by the music. And we end with Mike’s song, not the Dylan version he was listening to, but a version I like better, Forever Young, by The Tenors – after all, the music is for me – and may we stay forever young, he and I.

            But the last time I visited my brother, there at the cemetery in Brunswick, among the other heroes, music at the ready, Fanfare streaming from my phone, it began to rain, lightly, enough to spill onto my face even as the tears began to fall at the opening trumpets of the fanfare, no words, just trumpets, three notes, ta-ta-ta, three more notes, ta-ta-ta, and four more descending, ta – ta – ta – ta, in beautiful harmony, at peace now, here with Mike, once again. Cut now because it’s to Mike’s song before the rain comes too fast, too hard, just he and I, and that long pause just before the end, then softly, for both of us, may you stay forever young, brothers sharing a room, twin beds separated across a short space, even now separated by death, where I can still feel him, still feel safe, still comforted knowing he was there, feeling the strength, the courage, the wisdom of a big brother leaving too soon, leaving me alone.

            The last time I visited my brother, it began to rain, and our visit, too infrequent, was cut short …

Childhood

Where your greatest fear

was losing an elephant,

pink and gray and stuffed,

that first friend and all the memories

that you carry with you, stitched

and patched, faded and well-worn,

into this grown-up world of today,

bearing with you, my old friend, love. 

The Epitome of Loneliness

I think the epitome of loneliness is God Himself,

a deity alone when the earth was without form, and void,

and darkness ruled, so lonely as to create, first,

seeking himself, light and dark, morning and evening,

dry land and the stars, plants and animals, signs and seasons,

days and years, a millennium beginning, and it was good,

but not enough, lonely still, something missing, amiss

amidst the beauty of this new art, so He next created

the birds and fish, fruitful and multiplying,

livestock and crawling things and all animals

of the earth, and it was good, yet, still incomplete,

lacking something, Himself, perhaps, someone like him

for company, to enjoy time with, someone to care for

in His loneliness, and theirs, something to complete Him

as the only one of His kind, this one deity alone

in the expanse called heaven, and so He created again,

in his own image, one from the other … and it was good.

These creations adorned His walls or were placed on the mantle

above His fireplace, stuck onto a shelf in His den,

slid between two others, gazed upon or read again,

performed over and over, emoting joy and sadness,

this creating of dreams and fictions brought to life,

bringing Him out from his loneliness, creating, thus, us. 

Summer Solstice

The Summer Solstice has come and gone

as we approach now the Autumn months, 

that longest daylight turning early to night

and the morning sleeping in under its covers

of darkness pulled tight, tucked under its chin,

quiescent in the lengthening of time slowed down;

and Winter’s Solstice following close upon us.

And so it is with our lives, our own Summer

Solstice behind us and the approach of Autumn,

resting in the lengthening of our lives, slowed down. 

Solitude

a blessing, so people say, and perhaps

it is, sometimes, this time spent

alone, in silence mostly, walking,

the sun warm on my face, a clear

stream flowing nearby, a soft burble

of water moving toward the lake,

the scent of pine and fir, early Christmas,

and I find myself, thus, sorting out my life,

the little pleasures of being here, now,

the pain, even, of the past returning;

but other times, this solitude turns

to loneliness, a longing to share

the sunshine and clear stream, pine and fir,

sharing myself, even, with another person:

solitude seeking out someone to share

this blessing with, twice blessed. 

A New Eden Imagined

There is a land, unseen, all green

and bright and fresh, always a warm sun

shining; perhaps it’s an image imagined

of an earlier garden, Eden’s earthly garden

before the fall and banishment, first sin,

where the children go now, the unborn children,

lost children, innocent and without voice,

whose mom’s loved, but couldn’t keep,

a hard choice, and maybe the wrong one,

but a choice made. And in that land,

green and bright and fresh, their voice is found,

a voice filled with laughter filling this Eden,

this garden where they are, an eternal childhood

for what they lost, would never experience,  

an eternal garden of delight, where runs a stream

over which there’s a bridge to cross, running,

racing, hand in hand, to the other side,

unencumbered by a life they never lived.

And here, the bright-eyed children in gowns of white

live on, all they will ever know, will ever need to know,

just themselves and the sound of their own laughter,

like the child standing by the bridge, a stick dragging

in the stream, perhaps it’s the one I sent away, the one

I couldn’t keep even before I knew them, held them,

smelled their hair or heard them laugh for I couldn’t give

them laughter, couldn’t guarantee them health, couldn’t

keep them safe in a world gone mad, couldn’t …

so I let them go, holding back only the echo of their laughter,

and the hushed whisper of their voice, softly heard

within my head, softly felt within my heart, softly

carried with me in the long years ahead, remembering

and loving this golden child returned to Eden’s Garden. 

Kayak

It’s rhythmic.

One – two – one – two

one – and – two – and – one

and – two, plunge – pull,

plunge – pull, gliding, again

and again, moving forward,

a pause but to turn ourselves,

a brief respite or a new direction

calling us, then one – and – two – and

– one – and – two, matching,

now, the rhythms of life itself,

our own heartbeats balanced

with the Earth’s rhythms beating,

moving us onward, pacing ourselves

to face the smooth water of a morning

or the choppy waves of a blustery

afternoon, but always, a rhythm, one

– and – two – and – one – two – one

– two, plunge – pull, gliding now,

skimming the water’s tensioned edge,

a wake cut and rejoined in passing,

our souls in harmony with the Earth,

moving us towards eternity,

moving us together,

one heartbeat.