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.

When You're Six

********** For Brayden **********

When you’re six and almost seven,

the lake is as big as the ocean

and the big fish are just waiting to be caught

and the island to be explored, a wild place,

and we can walk the trail to Georgia

and be home in time for dinner,

one more time out in the canoe,

and a swim across to the distant shore,

plain as day on the other side, not that far

when you’re six and almost seven

and the Pokémons, come to life, are hiding

in the grass and rocks and skittering

across the lake to battle, their powers

evolving because that’s what they do

and why don’t I know all these things,

all these things I used to know, long ago,

the details lost now in growing older, growing up,

familiarity tainting my perceptions of life

when you’re no longer six nor almost seven. 

Grief

When the watershed of our grief

floods again, and we stand there weakened

and powerless, alone once more and afraid

--  a sad movie or song, a picture pulled from hiding,

from where we’d put it for when we needed it,

ready for it, or the thoughts of their leaving us,

even at no known reason at all, just feeling it,

out of nowhere, a quiet time perhaps when they visit --

there’s nothing we can do but let it wash over us,

let the tears flow and the great sobs unleash

themselves; it’s okay, really, for in our weakened

state, alone and afraid, the memories return,

those pleasant moments of love, soft murmurings

and gentle hugs pulled tighter when we needed them,

remembering the joyous times and the little things

that let us know that we are loved, for even now,

hugged by our grief, alone and afraid, the watershed

of our grief overflowing, still we are loved. 

In the Beginning

The big book of God says that, in the beginning

was the Word, and the Word was with God,

and the Word was God, but “God” was not the Word;

so I asked what that Word might be, what spoken

word, "lego," its concept, its idea, "logos"?

That word was “love,” an all-encompassing word,

far reaching, for God is Love, the big book tells us,

commands us even, to love, "agape" love,

great affection, loving our neighbors as ourselves

and fulfilling the laws of Moses, those ten commandments,

those “thou shall nots” and more, and there no greater

commandment than that, God’s commandment to love.

Yet do we? really? at what cost? what reward?