The Dance

Outside my window,

hidden behind the curtains,

the shadows danced

silently,

shadow and moonlight

partnered

dancing to music

only they could hear,

music of their own making

carried on the late night air.

 

And I,

hearing my own song sung,

my own music played,

joined them, silently,

            partnered with shadow, too,

swirling, twirling,

turning, a slow waltz,

dancing,

carried down a long path

to home

and back again.

Starlight Dawning

- 2 Haiku and a Bridge - 

The night sky dawns, hushed;

stars punctuating darkness,

calling out, “Truth! Truth!”

 

But there are some who fear the night

and the darkness and the stars punctuating

that dark expanse with starlight shining through,

carrying the wisdom of the ages and its truth,

truths carried age to age in the constellations

and the stories and the gods, and afraid, they hide

themselves inside, away from the darkness, hide

behind the artificial light of ignorance and fear,

and they do not listen, do not see, do not hear

the still small voices of the ages, the sages

of time calling out, “Truth! Truth!”

whispered to those too afraid to hear.

 

Truth called out, softly

spoken, rising, crescendoed,

in starlight dawning.

[Untitled]

The lake this morning was satin,

shimmering in muted sunlight,

a fashion statement of grace and elegance

in this slow waltz of nature waking

in the grand ballroom of morning. 

The Tall Ships

A summer’s day, and a cool breeze

billowing the sails visible now

on the distant horizon, silent

and swift, a reminder, perhaps,

of a time of commerce and leisure,

the trade winds of another era,

another time, gone now, but

for a small instant, an instance

celebrated, relived in a collective memory

of time and yearning and pageantry,

the spirit of the sea uplifted.

Merida

Before Disney, there was no Merida, no fairy tale,

no myth, no folklore, just Scotland and its own legends,

monsters and unicorns, shapeshifters, the wee-folk, witches,

and the willow-o’-the wisps luring us off our course;

but there was a mother and a strong-willed daughter,

argumentative, vying for power, clashing

with tradition, desiring her independence.  And so,

Merida was born, dropped into Scotland, DunBroch,

refusing to marry the prince who would win her hand,

arrows shot, the best marksman winning, she besting

them all in this Disney tale of breaking with convention,

no prince to rescue her, for she must rescue herself, setting free

her mother, too – trapped inside herself – from the bear she had become:

 

a new princess, a modern princess, breaking the mold

set by Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty, rescued,

a modern woman, bravely, now, setting herself free.

River Town

In a river town, we, too, are carried by the currents,

strong currents coursing to the sea, wending their way

from the mountains through inland towns, great fields,

and large tracts of forests perhaps uninhabited,

perhaps unexplored, an expanse of fir and pine

and oak and elm, birch and poplar, green to gold,

to rejoin the oceans, vast and powerful, a great unknown,

a destination fated somehow, inescapable, a joining,

a resting place we seek to return to,

and we, in a river town, are called, pulled

by the currents of that river running through us,

currents carrying us to the sea,

currents carrying us home.

We are all Gardens

We are all gardens:

Bright flowers blossoming ‘midst

a sea of green leaves;

 

fertile soils feed us,

hold us firm, deeply rooted,

fenced against the wind;

 

the summer rains come,

soft droplets gently falling,

a cleansing, made pure;

 

Beauty, hidden in

earth, budding outward, to bloom,

to blossom, restored.

 

We are all gardens:

Bright flowers, deeply rooted,

cleansed, restored, renewed.

Windmills

Some days, most days,

the windmills are just windmills,

their giant sails turning to grind wheat

to flour to make our daily bread,

nourishing the bodies of mankind and industry;

 

but then, there are those days

when the windmills, enchanted, raise

their giant arms for combat, to face down

the hard-fought battle of an old man’s dreams

set free by age and rage and Rosinante

carries us forward, enchanted ourselves,

against a madness of men accepting life’s as it is,

bleak and unbearable, men’s murderous ways to man,

and dreaming now our impossible dreams, tilting

at those windmills, shattering the mirror of reality

that would blind us to what should be, to who we are,

but knights-errant seeking truth, righting wrongs,

a gauntlet tossed and the challenge

bravely taken, a banner unfurled.

Yellow

I like yellow flowers,

spring’s daffodils trumpeting

and the upturned bell of a tulip,

dandelions even, a yellow paintbrush

and butter cups, newly arrived,

yellow reflecting back the sun

on a cloudy day, the gift of light, of life

and hope for an old world seeking peace,

seeking enlightenment and finding answers

in a yellow flower reflecting back ourselves.

In a Corner of the Imagination

Mouse sits on her front porch beneath the oak tree,

reading, waiting for us, her teacups and cakes close by,

and a fresh pot of tea ready to share when we drop in

to catch up on The Glen’s news or to hear a story told,

a tale of the woodland creatures living there,

lives we imagine, lives we’d like to live

tucked safely into this corner of our imaginations,

a reality to return to when the world grows cold

and angry, madness abounding, and feeling alone,

needing time away, we return to The Glen, a spot of tea

and cake and a story, a tale told by Mouse or Rabbit,

The Glen come to life while the world turns ever onward.

A Return to Eden

When does consciousness begin, this knowing

who and what we are, the why even of self-awareness?

 

With egg and sperm and cells dividing, becoming us,

our limbs and organs, heart and brain forming in a womb,

connected, a new life’s beginning, growing

into ourselves, shaped and molded, scolded,

and there in that warm sea floating, discovering fingers

and toes, a face with nose and mouth and eyes that couldn’t see,

inhabiting a place, a space of muffled noise and light?

 

Or at our birth, expelled on a tidal wave into light, blinded,

our lungs flooded with air and breath, the screams we made,

first sounds, carried into a cold world, disconnected,

on our own to figure things out, inside a body, a physical form

we cannot control, dependent on others, cuddling us,

coddling us, cudgeling our brains, searching.

 

Or is this familiarity, this knowing, this recognition

already there, a consciousness long before conception,

the who, the what, the why of being, and born, rememb’ing it,

or giving in, giving up what we knew before this new experience,

this inherent awareness, forgetting it all, perhaps, in becoming

what they would have us become, or do, or be, losing ourselves?

 

And what happens when that consciousness, innate, doesn’t match

the reality given us, trying to survive, to please someone, to exist

in that which we are not, expectations we cannot meet, not our own,

but thrust upon us in behaviors and colors and attitudes,

platitudes, our very being called out, gender itself, why we cannot

cry, cannot feel openly what we feel, feminine or masculine but by body

shape and size, or is it, rather, by a consciousness, a knowing who and what

we were long before we were born, our dreams and visions, consciously

aware that we are here now, have existence, as well an understanding

of somewhere else, beyond time and place, before the egg and sperm

and cells dividing, before life begins, a golden sunlight without form

forming us for no other reason than to become us, a body to house us,

to live in, purposeful, perchance to advance this world, this humanity,

this life into which we have arrived, naked and blind and screaming,

to share the who and the what, the why, with skills and gifts and talents

beyond others’ expectations, conceiving, achieving perfection,

bringing together this inherent consciousness with the world

of now, a return to Eden from which we came, before creation.

God's Gold

God’s gold on earth, reflected,

won’t buy you anything,

not fame nor fortune, nor a trip

around the world, but perhaps,

an hour of peace watching the Goldfinches

and Grosbeaks at your feeder, the memory

of a yellow parakeet in a wire cage

next to gram’s rocking chair

at the old farm where she lived.

Night Terrors

(A Poem for Hilary)

You were the child of the night terrors,

not regularly, but often enough to scare me

with your uncontrolled, unstoppable crying,

terrorizing screams in the night, as if possessed

by something haunting you, this unexplained alarm.

So we’d wander the house, you and me, a tiny,

unconsolable body carried in my arms, looking

behind the curtains and inside the closets and corners

of the room, seeking light there, assuring ourselves

no one, no thing was hiding in the darkness,

a dance we did those nights to a music only we

could hear, holding tight to each other until it stopped

and your head flopped onto my shoulder,

your soft snores quiet in my ear, consoled.

 

So I tucked you back into your little bed, secured

you under the blankets and returned the little bear

to his place in your arms, and took myself back

to my own room, lying awake under the covers,

my own night terrors continuing, wondering

if you were safe, if we were safe, you and I,

just as I do even now, wondering what terrors

you face still, wandering your own rooms,

looking behind curtains and doors, perhaps

inconsolable in the distance where you live.

God

If God is, always was, always

will be, does it really matter

how he appears, what form

he takes, where he dwells, who

even he is in these changed places

we ourselves now reside, varieties

of time and space, the cultures

and architectures and languages

assigned to describe and define and

identify? He is, always was, always

will be, a universal truth of some

existence beyond ourselves, greater than;

isn’t that really all that matters?

The Gift of Daffodils

We bought daffodils for the deer,

planting them with love along the edge

of the garden, around the old hostas,

in late fall, a spring surprise for them, yet

hardly a fit gift for deer who don’t like daffodils,

just the hostas and lilies and phlox in my garden,

bountiful meals. But my wife insisted

and the daffodils came up, yellow ones

bright against the green of our lawn, came up

and dropped their flowers, stalks and leaves

turned brown long before the hostas grew

and the deer returned to eat their fill,

our mornings filled with the nibbled stalks

of hostas, lilies, and phlox growing tall.

[Untitled]

And the Archangel Michael blew loud

the trumpet of God, to raise first the dead in the end times;

and the children of Israel encircling Jericho, seven days,

the rams’ horns blaring and the walls came tumbling down.

But I have no such Biblical aspirations, content to play my old horn,

a joyful noise from youthful days, some old songs and hymns,

something new, not played well, but well enough, perhaps,

to calm my own savage breast in these days of chaos and trouble,

restless and weary, finding again the peace of music still playing

in a heart and soul in need of soothing, in need of peace.

Surviving

We survived the Cold War, the arms race,

enough to wipe out both sides, us and them,

huddled under our desks, tucked into little balls,

scant protection for what we knew of war;

 

we survived Vietnam, mostly, the war brought

live into our living rooms in black and white,

the protests and folk songs decrying the war,

the man, the establishment, us against them,

the walkouts, the sit-ins, and the soldiers

returning home, disgraced, demonized, broken;

 

we survived 9/11, the towers falling, death

and destruction on US soil, downtown NYC,

arm in arm united against foreign aggression,

unfamiliar terrain and the bombs and blasts

tearing us apart, us – again – vs them –

 again - a new war, a forever war.

 

And now we wonder, afraid, them against us,

a new enemy, a people attacked fighting for their lives,

self-protection, fighting back, surviving an undeclared war,

one man and his image, his greed, power hungry,

driving us back into war, back into ruin,

a country, a people, a constitution, ignored.

 

But we will survive, we always do, rising up,

united again against this new foe, not a desert country,

but the men who would take us there, a formidable

enemy, for we face our own government, face ourselves,

our safety nets now torn and broken, we the people

divided, but this, too, we will survive, and perhaps,

just maybe, be made stronger in our persistence, surviving.

Today

Today of this year, this time

of dissent and division and darkness,

we seek the Peace of democracy,

a Constitution that binds us

not just to these United States,

but to each other and to humanity,

the global community once but a dream.

Poetry Revealed

“Maybe when the world seems to be ending, it needs poets.”

 -Mohammad Hanif’-

 

Poetry reveals what lies

deep in our souls, our spirits,

who we are, our selves laid bare,

and perhaps the fear of discovery,

the anxiety, the despair of knowing, 

blocks our own understanding

of the words on the page,

the rhymes and the rhythms,

the metaphors we fail to see,

the poetry that is us. 

The Children's Dreams

Overseas, a child dies,

her blue bear stuffed and cast asunder,

collateral damage in a useless war

of words and weapons;

and here, too, a child dies,

more slowly over time, collaterally,

while the fat get fatter, the rich, richer,

her dreams abandoned, lost in poverty and ignorance -

the children dream perhaps of hope,

of love, perhaps of peace.