A good friend

spoke with anger

of another friend,

words slightly violent in nature.

(In my mind I cried out

"But that is my friend

you are talking about!")

I held my peace

and listened to my friend.

Because people are evil, she said,

A small sad laugh, bowed her head.

I couldn't quite follow, though I saw her path,

The dark passes where she'd been led.

But for the love

I would follow, I would.

Because of the love,

The world tips to the good.

Though I die, though I ache,

I vow to try to live awake

To the power of love.

May it overtake.

Sometimes I have the sense to keep still.

I find myself wanting to answer,

but stay in the silence of listening.

Her pain is too large to console,

so I stay by her side and attend.

No words can make this better.

And later alone

with my pain

in the dark

I wonder

Does God sometimes have the sense to keep still?

Stones Stay

Stones stay.

Trees fall,

Winds blow away.

Rocks remain, stones stay.

Friends fade, faces vanish,

All white turns to grey.

All black turns its back,

But stones stay.

My words will disappear,

Every word that you say,

All we remember is doomed to disintegrate.

Stones stay.

Stars fall,

Moons roll away.

My heart, turned to stone, may stay.

What I Took

Ah, yesterday I took I took a lovely soaking bath,

a walk, a look, a breath,

a glass of wine, a needed break,

a book from off a shelf;

a picture, time to smell a rose,

a hike, a moment, a nap.

At night I took me to my bed to rest from all the taking,

to ready me to take on life again upon awaking.

A Walk in Fall

And shall I die

And leave this world?

And pass away?

(I walk on leaves,

The woods pass by)

And shall I pass

From here to where?

(Leaves fall from trees

That used to wear

Green garments now discarded)

And shall I someday see?

This world and I have parted.

I am not threatened by

young hawthorns;

I will take their gentle stab wounds

or walk around.

It is the very force of life

that seeks to pierce my skin,

the first shrub in this clearing,

leading taller trees in.

Coyote tunnels under fences

do not make me feel defensive.

Not farmers only,

we are stewards of this land

where once the creatures flourished.

I have a field that beavers flood.

And so I go and break their dams,

undo their architecture,

well researched mudded spans

that created wetland farther

where I thought to field the land.

I return to open,

they return to heal the deed.

This battle there are some days

I would willingly concede.

While yet this steward lives

there will be hawthorns and coyotes.

(The beavers are negotiating

against bills I have to pay.)

There may yet be concession
 and wet lands where now lies hay.

Reading books

Sometimes you read a glorious sentence

That lands like a heavy thing

In slow motion with a cloud of dust

As it hits the floor of your mind.

An exceeding heavy thing

That you relish the thought of having discovered

And you walk around it enjoying the magnificent

Every corner of it.

Then you underline it

And turn the page

A richer woman.

Indoor Tree

Outdoor tree, but not like other trees

Indoor tree

Why

You lose leaves

I open for you

The blind

Light coming

No forest floor

You stand in

I stand in

Loose leaves

Dear migraine,

Sometimes I have you

Sometimes I fake you

Because it is easier

For people to take you

As reason for staying at home all alone

Than the fact I'm depressed

And cannot face goin'

Out publicly having to put on a face

When all I prefer is my solitude place.

Dishonesty's easier

And maybe more kind

If they only think headache

And not ache of the mind.

 

Wash the suffering, oh,

Off my skin.

But let it trickle down deep within

Through my clay

My heart of stone,

To soften me and change my groan

Of pain in me

To heartfelt moan

Of sympathy

For all who suffer, all who hurt.

Trickle down pain until a mighty love

Takes root within my soil, my dirt,

My loam, my soul, and let it grow,

Watered by all I come to know.

Immersed

In a world unrehearsed

Look for the best

Expect the worst

I weep for the nameless

The knownless it seems.

God created gravity

But regrets it in her dreams

Of slow falling sparrows

In feathered tragic streams.

But keeps her eyes open

And takes it all in.

It pours out in tears.

I still think Love will win.

I took a one night sabbatical and drove the two hours from the farm where we live to the small town of Gimli on the shore of Lake Winnipeg, with a lovely sandy beach and a lake that goes out into the distant horizon.

Not far from mustard seed,

I wait on the beach.

Pilgrim to Gimli.

If it's nothing I seek

I think I have found it,

And a cold wind as well.

Far off the white caps

Draw near but don't tell.

All they contribute

Is dashing themselves.

Today I take communion with the world,

you broken, bruised, and lovely thing.

We are soon to part, and I will go

where my road leads, and forget what I know;

forget this wholeness, lose this peace.

But there will have been

there will have been

this little moment

when the world and I

shared communion.

That treetop.

That conifer treetop

points skyward

like a church spire

but more honest

and points higher.

Look a tree full in the bark,

see truth in its eyes.

It will not dissemble,

it stands

then it falls unremembered.

Against human teachings

on seeking the kingdom and earning freedom,

I would place the earth-rooted philosophy

and lofty serenity

of treedom.

A blues song in the morning

Today I drifted awake with a blues song forming in my head. A slow and low man's voice, head bent over his guitar, bass notes stepping down to the final line in the chorus...

Living alone

Evenings I sit all alone with a drink in my hand

Mornings I lie in bed waiting for the courage to stand

Years keep on passing like water through the fingers of my hand

Why is it life never goes just as you planned

I wander these rooms remembering what used to be

And I miss the missing face I so long to see

Why won't your ghost ever come to me

In this house of misery

Outside the sun shines and birds sing and gentle winds blow

People pass by with their busy lives and somewhere to go

Sometimes they stop in to see me and I tell them to go

Why is it life never goes as it should go

And I wander these rooms wanting what used to be

And still I keep missing the face I wish I could see

Why won't your ghost ever come to me

In this house of misery

I fixed the roof ten years after you were gone

Another ten years I put all the new windows on

They walk by and see the flowers that bloom on my lawn

Why is it life is alright and then one day it's gone

Why won't your ghost ever come to me

In this house of misery

Oh someday a quick crash and burn will be the end of me

And I'll burn to the ground

This house of misery

One day last week

I caught myself impatient

Washing lettuce from my garden.

Wanting to be finished,

On to something more exciting.

I halted in the moment.

What bubbled up was thank you.

Good God I have a garden

And fresh nutritious lettuce

I am not even feeling hunger for.

And water clean available

To wash my washing hands.

Today the sun is shining.

It is so much more than enough

As I stay here in this moment.

Upon the blind of my upstairs window

Shadows move,

Wind blown leafy branches

Like people passing by.

And I

Disturbed by motion

From the corners of my sight,

Look up but they are vanished strangers.

The wind has stilled.

So I go back to my reading.

In late afternoon my pyjamas surprise me

by my still wearing them.

Outside my black rainy window upstairs

which is letting in cold night breeze

the poplars' applause sounds welcoming, gentle, and

makes me want to go sleep under the trees.

Tomorrow in the secret woods I will
pitch my tent,

act calm all day, when everyone sees,

only to steal away when night is falling

so that I can go sleep under the trees.

Oaks will stand stoically, as though I'm not there;

Hawthorns will reach for me, prickly but pleased;

Poplars break into applause once again

to see me come out to sleep under the trees.

You are such a simple soul,

Uncomplicated.

I have hidden doorways,

Secret passages.

Your sun shines on everyone,

No shadows darken.

I have moonlight

Intermittent,

Some cloud cover.

Clear skies you, with nights as fitting.

I am overcast:
Weather all unknown but unremitting.

Scent of soil

I was driving on the highway when I remembered my walk in the woods three days previously, just after it rained. I had stooped down to examine a rock protruding from last year's leaves on the ground, and I dug a little at the edge of the rock to see if it would loosen enough for me to pick it up. It didn't. But for the rest of my walk, my fingers carried the scent of the moist rich earth, incredibly fecund, indescribable.

So I pulled over off the road to write down the words before I forgot them.

(When I first frantically and in a most driven way typed these words into my iPhone notes thingy, I glanced at the first few words and the word "soil" stood written as "soul". I like that.)

Oh the soil

She is moist within

Ready for seed

For sun to shine and rain to soak in

To burst into life

To quicken with grow.

Though root stretch, leaf unfurl in slow

And patient measure,

Unfolding life,

Let all eyes take pleasure

In fresh and new and hope and green

All painted in

To this

The richest work I've ever seen.

 

Sunday morning

Prayer is a problem when pain abounds.

Eyes closed

I pondered the terrible face of fear.

My heart rose up, cried out,

"Send me..."

And I stopped.

Send me what?

Help? Strength? Peace?

I saw my need,

But not the answer.

I rested there in the not knowing,

But knowing I was known.

**********

One of the hymns that was sung at my church shortly after the prayer time when I wrestled thus, had a line that captured my imagination: "Mighty victim from the sky", from At The Lamb's High Feast (Unknown author, probably 6th Century (Ad regias Agni dapes); translated from Latin to English by Robert Campbell, 1849). The phrase "mighty victim" is fantastic, taking your mind in a strange new direction. "Mighty Victim From the Sky" sounds like the title of a work of science fiction, a super hero.
Who has the super strength required for victimhood? Who would want it? Upside down thinking, like Christ's.

White-breasted Nuthatch

New

Our spirits

Unaware are let go

Out into the cosmos.

Do the hands divine

Omnipotent

Ache, to let us go?

Yearn for our presence

Until our short flight is ended?

Watch the infinite horizon

Where our spirits fly in freedom

And in danger,

Never knowing of the hand

Outstretched awaiting?

Bring the day of glad returning

To the hand we lifted off from

Frail and fearful as we faced

The glory newness of existence,

How much more will be our joy

At reuniting 

Than our sorrows flight is over?

And what will we bring in praise?

Thoughts on Good Friday 4 a.m.

Impossible task:

Love each other

Is all he asked.

And what did he say?

Let forgiveness be your way?

But what if I'm wronged?!

What if I'm hurt,

And can't get along

With the one next door?

Unlikable chore.

Be kind in response

To enemies' taunts

Or attacks or demands.

Give with both hands,

As I have received forgiveness,

And been well blessed.

Do not put your life ahead of another.

Worrisome bother.

And when there is need

Be willing to die.

I doubt I will try.

Knowing my weakness,

My selfishness, pride.

Something will need to change

Deep inside.

Something like love.

Radical move.

Opening heart and mind and strength

To the depth and the width and the length

Of a love so complete it can answer all doubt,

All pain, all the sorrow this world is about.

Oh glorious goal.

Seek the way of love

And be still, my soul.

Igneous woman

Lava in my gut

Flames fill my veins

Steam on my breath

Vitriol when I vomit

I boil when I weep

Gentle puffs of smoke

When I'm asleep

Don't leave me, winter!

With your long cool nights of ease,

With your so efficient cooling me

In mere seconds when I need relief.

All your lovely melting snow

Trickling away between the fingers of this land.

I would hold on but I destroy you with the warmth of my grasping hand.

And chasing you: that hateful woman, busybody spring,

With her self important 'get things going', her little birds that sing

Of motivation, illusions of goals, a point to anything. 

Don't leave me, winter, let me turn and rest a little longer

Underneath your soggy blanket of white, before the searching sun gets stronger.

The soft falling snow is a thrill,

A feathery godsend of peace and goodwill.

And yet at its worst snow can kill.

Can cover until life is taken away in an ache and a dream and a chill.

But snow revelations are wondrous, serene

In their declaration of what stands between

our beginning and end in the things we have seen

And have looked at for longer than

Thinking about it would take the brain machine.

And spirit awakes, takes what the days show

And transports me to where no one can go

But we do with our minds that can overcome slow.

My last regrets may be I never could capture the sparkle of snow.