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Poetry
Fatherhood and Mother Nature
Brother Oak and Sister Pine
I walk through a winter scape of hard and soft woods. The Oaks and Elms are defending
their place and holding space.
Barren, angular forms, tense and tight-celled inside. The old ones thick with
wisdom, trunks gnarled with knots, covering past wounds.
Their presence commands respect, and deep down they go, into the ground of truth. Deciduous,
discursive, defining the forest space.
And by their side, the warm green conifers with their rounded, softer shape, create beauty in the
barren space, and freshen up the place.
They receive the wind, allowing it inside them and it bends them low and vulnerable. Their
brown needles cling together forming a warm nest, to nurture the forest floor.
All the winter-while, the leaves of the Oaks blow far and wide scattering in winter, as do their
seeds in spring.
As I walk, I feel the forest coming together in me. The light with the shadow, the hard truths with
the softer mysteries, the immanent earth and the transcendent sky, and sister pine with brother
oak.
In the winter of my fatherhood I learn to walk with mother nature too.
Winter Fields
Earthen Waves in rolls and folds Crusty stalks and hedge rows
Trees naked, pencil sketched On the canvas sky
Grasses golden and glowing In the angled and thin winter light
Tweed-coated field wrap me up In a warm breasted embrace
The winter silence of the earth is alive in me. A fresh presence crunches under boot.
Long shadows, muted colors, winters humble-hidden service.
Field of Love, walking in me, sing out your Pascal mystery
Feast of Nature
Begin with crisp-water bite of sun-green cells. Swallowing the light captured in time and space
Then raise up a libation, and let the golden fields of grain flow into me. The Sun-grown grain
distilled down and absorbed into my cells.
It takes teeth to tear at the flesh of things, to get to the root, the elements. To taste the life, the
essence, and to know the life enfleshed, infused and passing through.
This feast is endless and fills all my senses. Each element of matter vibrating with its own voice.
As I listen I am fed, as I am aware I am satisfied.
Take wood for example, with its gorgeous grains, growing, standing, sheltering, shaping,
bending, breaking, dying, drying, burning,warming, falling into earth and rising again. Formed
and transformed from light above.
Pine needles, blue sky, textured bark of tree. Water on rocks. Single strand of grass.
Let us finish the feast with fruit. Sweet womb of hope surrounding the seed that must die.
Swallow the Juice, and the joy, foretaste of the resurrection.
Still your mind and inhale the wonder. Come to the table of awareness and feast on His presence.
Humility
Humble-Hummus, grounded and rooted in truth.
Breaking down into simple parts and dying.
Seeping into earth and emptying self.
Not in charge, not in control,
serving and sustaining life.
At peace in the lowest place.
Wind and Rocks
Written by a close friend who joined our family on our Tuscan Holiday–
A long, long trip, only to be at home again:
strikingly different locale, not with my everyday circle,
but still at home among friends as dear as family.
The heat of both midsummer and midday
more than compensated for by the constant refreshing breeze:
I am thankful for the wind, for the wind and the rocks.
The countless rocks!
walled cities and stone villas built right into the Tuscan hillsides;
massive churches built into and out of the very lives of ancient, heavenly-minded people?
each small town with a dozen of them.
The wind and the rocks?they both speak of the Deity:
He only is the sure foundation,
He only is the source of life and movement.
Day trips exploring timeworn edifices with timeless artwork;
good books drowsily read, and better conversations by poolside pursued,
with surprising segues and tangentialities, and genuine paradoxes?
Like the wind and the rocks:
the one strong and immovable, stable and utterly reliable;
the other free and constantly active, flexible and adaptable.
Like our dual need to be prepared, resourceful, proactive, and confident;
yet also always receptive and open to correction, waiting and trusting;
indeed, we must act in love, we must also wait in faith.
October
They wrestle through warm days and cool nights, October pleading with September to let go.
September can be hot tempered, heavy with fruit, and full of self-harvest. But underneath there is
fear, for the ground is depleted.
The October sky whispers truth in shades of blue and grey. Its okay to let go. All things must die
so they can rise anew.
September cannot see past itself to what October knows. That a fall can be a grace full of golden
depths.
October is not ashamed of its amber stalks and orange leaves. They are the prophetic colors of
glory ahead, not weakness past. The last green of self is never lost, only hidden, transforming
under the gold cloak of surendar.
Open Sky
A clear cobalt dome whispers wide open truth. Vast beyond grasp and full within. I surendar to
blue wonder and the stillness within.
Where can I run from the wide open spaces? Where can I hide? Unfathomable depths I find in all
direction. Nothing is ever hidden from His gaze or disconnected from His presence.
The blue is deep and translucent. The Infinite space echoes within that intimate place. A
creator-lover is playing with me, hiding out in the open space and in the nearest place.
How shall I greet this presence so other and so intimate. So known and so unknown. Love will be
my guide, and the ground from which I see.
The River
Trillions of transparent trinities, arise from the deep and wash over me. Rapids wrestle over rock
and rim, as I try to hold it back, and harness it in. But I am powerless, pushed down, drown,
baptized in a billion bonds, broken open and set free. Like a vein in flesh, I am life in land,
giving rise to fern and flower, on bank and bend. My rocks are slowly ground down, smooth and
round, as time takes from me what I what I thought I was supposed to be. I have learned to love
what is being made of me, accepting my role, not as source or goal. I am a journey made of land,
cut away, growing deeper, and still, with less of me holding more thee. As I descend down into
the plain, others flow into me, and I in thee, as we grow closer to the sea. My broken parts flow
back down together, embraced in a fertile bed, where new bonds are born. There is no form left
of me, no resistance to thee, for I am now one with the sea
Morning by the Sea
Weathered wood, as white as the sand.
Wild-wet air whipping cotton and skin.
Sun light licking mornings mist
Sea pounds and sounds roll through me.
The Banks of the Wye
Long armed oaks, leaning, reaching
for something, beyond grasping.
The wind moves free on the river,
yet pauses at the bank, as if caught,
in some thought, and whispering why.
The Osprey glides above , then dives,
splashing down, grasping for something,
The sun climbs the far bank,
covers me in gold, and I swim
in the water and the fire of beauty.
There is no holding or grasping,
just breathing in and out,
Like the tide.
Encounter
Stone has a tone that echos in the bone.
Wood has a grain that tells in cells and smells.
Water has a feel that can refresh and heal.
Fire burns, time touches, tears teach,
And the one thing remains present in everything.
The Silent House
The entrance way is constricted, and cloaked, my own breath I breathe, and I?m choked
A single candle flickers in the hall, and my thoughts cast shadows on the wall
I move quickly past this scary host of haunting, taunting, self-ghosts.
The faint smell of embers in hearth, Gives courage to draw me further in.
The fire, just embers unattended, I draw near, a stranger, undefended.
The fire awakens, fed upon my breath, And then rises to the rhythm of my chest.
And the light rises into luminous depth, revealing no walls or boundaries.
I feel someone else here in this space, A palpable presence with no face.
A Wind of Being
As I walk in fields of thought, and feel the the crunch of earth below.
Something arrises out of the plain, a wind of being, without a name.
What embraces me, no hands can hold or eye can see.
It breathes into me, like the sea, eternal and free.
Sea of Love
White sails, hope unfurled, wind-whipped, slicing the sea.
Ocean spray, salt taste, stinging the face, a foretaste.
Bow bounding into blue mystery, riding high, and happy at the helm.
We are bound together on a high adventure, and joined with the sea, we become three.
The blue expanse, the unfathomable depths, I feel the sea beginning to rise in me.
Life preserver within reach, I could jump and float, but the blue depths keep drawing and calling.
I lean in, let go of helm, grasp the mast, and freely bind myself to thee, as we go into the sea.
The Park Bench
When a sacred space opens amidst the chaos and stress of life it is often unexpected and
triggered by something as simple as a deep breath, a fresh scent, or a babies smile.
It has the power to launch a wave of gratitude that moves into our inner city like a liberating
force clearing the streets of protestors and imposters.
It declares a temporary cease fire in the bombardment of doing and achieving, and invites us to
sit on the park bench of acceptance in the shade of our being.
A Sky-wondering Wind-hurling Day
Today is one of those days where the sky takes your breath away.
An armada of vapor giants are puffing out their white chests as they pass overhead.
They move swiftly, accepting their place in the unfathomable blue depths.
Everything within and without seems sharper and crisper, and able to respond.
The grasses bend and bring new colors, and the tree leaves flip over and flash silver.
There is a spark in the air that calls out the same within, and so I greet with gladness this Holy Wind.
The Shore of Serenity
A tide of gratitude envelopes me, every cell immersed in its presence.
A wave of acceptance washes over all that has become of me, and all that will be.
It feels like a glad dissolving, a disappearing into the Christ mystery.
As waves of fear recede, the self-less sand is carved up into new channels of grace.
And my loved ones, who keep my heart open and vulnerable, I release them into this wild sea of
hope, as I stand on the shore of serenity.
Farm Stand
There is the familiar sound of gravel under tire as I pull into the road-side stand. A few steps
under the burning July sun and then I am under the heavenly tent.
A table is piled high with green sheaths, slender, and still warm to touch, as if just dumped from
the farmers truck. The sweet corn with its small white kernels lies within, waiting for blanching,
butter, and salt.
Softball size peaches sit five to a basket. Their ripe smell radiating out, inviting the hand to hold
and lightly squeeze.
The tomatoes are also stacked in fives in straw baskets. They are all different shapes, like
individuals set free to be themselves.
And there is zucchini, summer squash, plumbs and blackberries. I touch the skin and flesh of
each, grounding my self, and connecting with my own roots.
I imagine all this juice sucked up from the soil and now residing in the cell structures within
these beautiful shapes. All this abundance, this transference of energy and life from field to flesh.
And then a moment of sadness, that summer?s harvest will not last, that this abundance comes in
a wave and is gone. I want to slow it down and spread it out, to preserve and control it. I am
afraid of the cold supermarket tomatoes on refrigerated trucks that will be invading soon.
What do we do with such waves of abundance? Build bigger barns for the future or just widen
our hearts for the moment?
Barns are for dry stuff, not this summer juice. The heart must learn to beat with the seasons,
filling in July and emptying in January. For now, we hold the cup of abundance lightly as we
drink its joy.
Sitting With Mom
My mother loves to sit in the shade of the grand oaks that line the river bank of her property. She
sits for hours while I come and go. These Oaks are so broad shouldered they can offer shade all
through the day.
The breeze moves in off the water and the oak leaves begin to sing. It is a gentle song full of
praise, moving up through limbs and down into the soul. And then it fades off as softly as it
came.
These Oaks are masters of time, endlessly patient, and accepting. They stand by like servants, as
we sit in their shade and listen to their song.
Rain Fall
I love rain that falls straight down, with no wind to push it around. Long heavy drops in gentle
free fall. The pains grey sky easing its suffering by just letting go, un-coerced.
As the barometer drops so to do my defenses. Something deep in me feels permission to open its
pores and everything becomes enchanted and connected.
I can feel the earth soaking up the cool grace of sky letting go. And yet there remains on the
broad leaf and hard surface, some beads of tension, still bound, waiting for the sun to return and
release them, to raise them up again.
And what about the water-cycle of the soul of man, governed by the will and this membrane of
separate self ? Perhaps a simple, porous yes, and we dissolve into one.
Jar of Gladness
I am transparent that you may see into me, and hold up both my sorrow and joy.
What resides here is sacred, not for the having but for the sharing and transforming.
I am a glad vessel, an experiencer, a witness, and a story teller full of pain and promise.
What I hold is not really mine, it is ours, and its purpose is well beyond my grasp.
But my gladness is as clear as the glass, and as sure as the light passing through.
Aspens
Standing together on a mountain of silence.
With dark eyes peering out from white parchment faces.
Limbs woven into slender cages,
holding the sky
Stripped bare, pure as snow and light as air.
Standing in white drifts and holding a weight glory.
Mourning Light
I rise and take up my mat of grief, pulling it over me like a heavy wool wrap.
My son draws near, standing in the shadowy membrane between memory and presence, to
remind me that Love never fails.
I turn and pull up the shades to face the mourning light, with all its pain, to be assured the night
has not overcome me.
I limp toward the kitchen with these torn ligaments of love, searching for a way back to
wholeness, but everything looks different now.
I pour coffee, break chocolate into chunks and sit with sadness in the mourning light.
A warm consolation seeps into my bones as I realize it is not just my mourning, its ours, and its
His.
All His wounded children are here, all His severed limbs, we sit together, one in hope, in the
same light, waiting to be healed into the one body of Christ.
Stained Glass
I look upon the broken shards, healed together and fused into beauty.
Waves of purple sadness and violet hope refracting through us.
Love?s colors being cracked open, distilled down, and poured all around.
And the saints gather to hold us up in this light that passes through.
We are suspended now in a tender embrace, still not knowing, and yet somehow assured that all
will be well.
?The light shines in (this) darkness, and the darkness cannot over come it?
Unbound
In a coffin of pecan wood, before the altar, he lays still.
His mother approaches and kisses his face and runs her fingers through his hair.
The older brother comes to weep over him, and younger to say what had been left un said.
The lid closes, and a communion of saints gather around us, and we are held by love.
His body goes to ground under Wye Oaks, to soon beside Grandparents.
But his spirit soars, unbound from shame, untouched by fear, and welcomed home.
The Table of Friendship
Written for my Irish friends
Like streams on the Mourne slopes, we merge round rock and turf, and descend together into still
waters.
Like migratory birds we return to this table of friendship, to tell our stories, to remind ourselves
of who we are. We are hard-wired to feast in this field together.
Time stills itself at the table of friendship as we bless our abundance and lift the cup our life. We
chew and swallow the presence that inhabits the space between laughter, joy and sorrow.
The lime dressing soaks into our green leaves and beetroots, as spirit is drawn into matter. We
are tossed together, refreshed by a foretaste of the merging feast that is our destiny.
We have come to a table where sacrifice lifts a glass to gratitude and sorrow reaches out to grasp
the plate of joy.
We come to a table where our ego-shells resolve into porous membranes that we might pass
beyond mere language into real presence.
And for all this feasting, still, only a glimpse of that broad heart-land that we are learning to
make our homeland.
The Altar
light streams
through stained glass
longings lit
colors flash
upon wood
onto stone
the interface
spirit and matter
shadow and light
sorrow and joy
on the Altar of sacrifice
we give thanks!
The Fronds
My friends the fronds
they sweep my heart away
as I listen to what they say.
Soft tails, gold and copper,
wave like souls set free.
My frondy friends wrap their arms around me,
whisper in my ear, if only I could hear.
I love theses wild grasses,
how they thrive in fierce fields,
with arms outstretched, hailing me with hope.
Red Oak
Living long, a long Wye, roots exposed by tide, limbs held out wide.
A reservoir of memories, rings to mark the grieving,the budding, the leaving.
And the years lean over, gather weight and force,longing to return to source.
Down in the Spring waters, Raised up after Fall, Split open for all.
Ah, smell the Red Oak! Now fully open in the sun, see ingrained a life well run.
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