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.

Building

I like to build things.
houses of irony,
wings out of emptiness,
wealth with freedom,
freedom from desire,
passionate power
through humble fire.

I like to take things apart-
ego trips which hide a hurt child,
logic, with its webs of words
love, acid test for the heart
which burns to a fresh core,
TV, legal heroin-
(poetry now for why and WOW!)
Trix Cereal, to eat the just the marshmallows,
orchid flowers next to moth wings
because they both can fly in dreams,
light and dark shadows
which creep across the wall,
a new heartbeat, ba- dum, for each scene-
(purple crayons, into reds and blues, and violets, too),
purses, full of stories and things you need,
the layers of flavor in a slice of aged cheese,
the fruit hidden in a sip of wine
made from five different grapes,
from five lands far and wide-

as I listen to this ancient music,
this Bach, chugging across
the tracks of time,
rolling over my gaucherie
with wheedling words
loose and natural,
down these rocks,
purposeful, watchful,
timed entropy.

I build sand castles to watch
as the wind blows them away.

The quilt in the photo is from the Civil War era. The pattern is called Lemoyne Star, miniaturized to crib quilt scale. It comes from Kalamazoo, MI.

What is a Kiss?

What is a kiss if not pure bliss?
Can it be spent or saved, as a coin
dropped in a slot machine, fruit
spinning dials deciding fortunes
outcome from emotion purloined?

Can a kiss be a kiss if not missed?
Where are the dreams of passion
lost in wine soaked hours spent rubbing
the lamp, waiting, hoping genie’s
magic will quell doubtful ration?

Isn’t a kiss the door to a garden
of roses, leading up to a house
with no blinds? Where is the porch
and the light switch to guide me?
Where is the mill of my arousal?

Technorati tags- kiss, doubt, poem

Rhythms of the Seasons

Enjoy! And best wishes for a joyous holiday to you all!

The rhythms of the seasons 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, past.
Faster they spin, compelling us to fill fragile 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 by the slightest incline,
the longest day tipped, we star 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 counterpoint of our lives,
barely pausing to reflect
over the abyss which lies beneath
the fragile music we make.

The photo is of a small section of a large, useless, tinkling, colorful machine. It was built over a period of 25 years or so, part by bit, by a man who made it just for fun, and for his children’s entertainment. Now it’s an obscure tourist attraction. It’s housed in a little hut, perhaps 20 ft by 15 ft in the middle of nowhere, next to his house, where his wife still lives. I think he was a farmer. He used found objects and toys and trash, whatever caught his eye. It all fits together in some way. When turned on, the whole thing whirs and clicks and clangs and flashes. Being in the middle of Bavaria, it was normal and appropriate to find a crucifix perched in the middle somewhere.

There is something comforting about this scene, which is almost alter-like. The colorful chaos and glitz surrounds the peaceful icon. Sorry it’s the wrong icon for the season, but I sort of like the twisted irony of it.

technorati tags- Christmas poems, Solstice poems, Yin and Yang

Let (Give)

I will be taking an indefinite hiatus from blogging. Most of my writing is relevant anytime, so please browse around, or do a search for a specific topic if you wish. There’s lots to dig into. I’ll be back. I just can’t say when. Let’s say I’m in a non-verbal phase of development in my life; acting on intention rather than processing.

Ineffable Present
careening, seething,
(gelatinous collision of
past and future)
Universe breathing.

Mute Mother
(whispering) (yes),
perilous fusion
resonating us.
There is no choice
but to give in
to terrifying

Bliss (consciousness).

Honor the seed, the flower,
the book, the hour
(and the subtle, singing space between)
Forgive as you go.
Let rest
all this.