times

…times we fall through
moldy, scratchy thatch
to stiff, pine planks,
losing memory, stones
and sonnets. forgetting.
—

There is a strange emptiness I often feel at the first day of cool stillness in Fall. Today is overcast. The wet air leaches warmth, persistent in its chill. Persistent and immobile. It is here to stay, moving in. Memories of languid, long, endless Summer days float just beyond reach. The reality of suffering in the South is no dream, however. Their’s is aching, palpable emptiness, loss. They have no luxury of daydreams.

Yet this calm chill comforts me, reminds me all things change. It is time to recharge, request a new sheet, a clean slate. Time to move on, shift gears. Let Summer memories become the dreams they now are. Let tragedy’s lessons sink in, brand their mark on memory.

The garden outside my window is still rich with green textures. The long, fragrant, golden trumpets of Brugmansia herald (and hope for) a few more sunny weeks to come. All is not lost. But never the same.

At work I am having to work closely with those in power and money, the trustees who support my orchestra, but also control it. I used to assume they were automatically corrupted by their power, but I’m beginning to see their genuine interest in my art, in the success of my orchestra, even though I may not always agree with them. They know things about money and success I cannot know from my position. They have experience we can use. Our orchestra needs them, whether we like it or not. It’s never black and white.

Thinking of events in the world, in the US, my country, I feel frisky with a new kind of hope. The suffering of millions in the South will not be in vain. Our eyes are open. We see the chilly, calculating responses of our current administration, which seems to be more of a power machine than human leadership. And we also see the fervent, human response, the support given by millions; human responses, neither conservative nor liberal, just human. We see each other’s hearts, that we are not so different as we thought. We see where we could go if we came together to solve problems.

Our enemies are not each other. They are the power systems which corrupt and mislead. We cannot afford to be mislead. We only have each other. We only have each other and one small planet.

The chilly air settles into my bones. It’s time for action, for change. Especially since I’m late for work.

power of words

After reading this poem by Antonia at Reluctant Painter, I wrote this:

the throat has no subtle strangulation
when met by rhythms such as those
beating hearts that slip off
the page into my porcelain soul

i take my leave
midst the course palpitations,
check my vigil at the door
and wisp myself away

on the words you leave me with
while going about your day
unconcerned with my fate,
my formidable challenge

Wind Chimes

Thoughts on time
in tones of blues
or orange, bright
pearls of sun
drip down these tubes,
while air slips through
their purple scales,
random chance, dares,
wishing only for harmony.

Wind chimes remind us of the persistent nature of change, and teach us to make music with lessons learned from impermanence.

Click here to hear the chimes of a “Balinese” scale hanging near my house.

I have several sets of medium to large chimes hanging around my garden. Their scales are neither happy nor sad, but mysterious and questioning. I never tire of hearing them. Their music ranges from one tone lingering across many seconds to a joyous cacophony of 30 bells clanging in response to active wind.

Rhythms of the Seasons

The rhythms of the season hypnotize us
as they go ’round and ’round and ’round,
faster each year as we age,
building to some distant, palpable climax
while receding from another, ancient past.

Faster they spin, compelling us to fill fleeting days
with meaningful events.
(love may deepen,
hate grow brittle,
poetry more necessary)

To and fro, light to dark, the pendulum swings
stupendously, irrevocable across the map, throbbing
in every molecule with its unabashed preponderance.

No sooner sweet Summer arrives
in her full sensual glory
and vapid dissipation,
then be the slightest incline, the longest day tipped,
we start the slow, poignant slide
to the depths of
Winter.
Thus we arrive again at this valley
of Yin,
whose darkness and gravity turns us inward
to our sweetest, softest, most delicate
center.

As if by sheer will (and hope and need)
we nudge the gyration
back toward light,
we indulge in glitter and compassion.
We reward love needed and given
with earnest countenance.
We search our souls for cheerful ways
to decorate the days.
We celebrate the counterpoints of our lives,
barely pausing to reflect
over the abyss which lies beneath
the fragile music we make.

This was one of Barbara’s favorite of my poems.

Mother me New

I broke it
bouncing
a basketball
down the stairs-
a priceless vase
shattered
to brittle bits bare
She yelled, but
didn’t kill me
I was impressed

How’d she do it?
Get us up, feed us,
send us off to school,
hold jobs both in music
and real estate, to boot!
She must have pined
for somewhere mellow
while managing house,
cat, dog, fish, hamsters
and who knows what else of!
respite delayed
for love infused

I never heard a complaint
At least I don’t remember
Only the image of
Platinum Glamor

As I matured
I turned out fine
but pushed her away-
forgetting the pampering
soft forgiving
comforting acceptance
which gave my core
the strength to forge new days,
sputter on my own fumes
But she was there-
fuel beneath the surface
of my confidence

I never heard a complaint
At least I don’t remember
Only the image of
Platinum Glamor

When I faltered
slipped through a crack
a feather cushion caught me
no reproach, just
“You’re back.”
comfort began
exactly where
I had ended it-
always there
bending, new

Now I’m where she
used to be
I’m happy to give back
learning to bend
ready to be her cushion-
yet learning,
still, from
her resilient
spirit burning
barely a complaint
from Platinum Glamor

But sometimes-
my heart-
falters-
when
she gazes
(agelessly)
through fading eyes.