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.

No Borders Here

Each word defines
a distance
between us-
but also
builds
a bridge
spanning that gulf

I
am just
another side
another word
to mean you

My country
is my soul,
but in my land
and sky
you and I
have no borders

Photo taken in Hocking Hills, OH- near Old Man’s Cave

Incandescent Nectar

Incandescent Nectar of Life,
conscious of Itself through our senses,
breathing our breath; and which,
with our caring awareness of one another,
breathes Life full with Love.

Here only, forever Now is,
which, breaking with by and by
becomes again the Full Emptiness,
where the billows of ruminating Dust
show in relief the shadow of Time,
and a brief glimpse
through Fate’s curtain
into who we are.

This sums up my mystical take on life. It’s a “glimpse” of where we came from, where we are, and where we’re going.

This poem is also featured on my new Zaadz profile: GarnetDavid. Stop by and say hello. Peace.

Another Year

This poem was written by my grandfather on my father’s side, the Welsh side. He was a coal miner in Wales until the age of 21, when he asked his beloved to marry him, then shipped off to the land of opportunity. The year was 1921.

He forged an impressive career in the US, working his way up the ranks of a fairly large shipping business in Philadelphia. He eventually became chief engineer. He was a wizard at building things. He often made toys for me and my sister. During the last decade of his life, he was king of the retirement community’s workshop; he had to instruct others in the use of the lathe, a complex and delicate wood cutting instrument. I still have numerous finely lathed lamps around my house.

He often wrote beautiful, poem like notes to us. This poem was probably written in the early 1980’s. He was a gentle, upstanding American citizen. He died in 1985.

Another year has reached an end.
‘Tis Christmas time in gray December
With thoughts of giving, as we spend,
of bad times past we rare remember.

Throughout the world a spell is cast
And thoughts of love and peace takes hold.
As we hear again as in the the past
The greatest story ever told.

True, greed and hate will still abound.
In hardened hearts who have no creed.
They specialize the year around
Using God to state their greed.

But thanks to Him, a son was born,
And Father, son and Holy Ghost,
Though many laugh and many scorn
The spirit of God is worth the most.

The atom bomb, the power of man
To most of us, has caused much fear.
These threats of hate, since they began
Have plagued us all the year.

But bombs and threats have gone to pot.
The day of days is here again.
When the power of man is soon forgot
And the King of Kings, once more will reign.

The yearly log will close with cheer,
Another chapter in life’s great tome.
a merry Christmas and a Happy New Year
I hope you have one in your home.

Poseidon’s Game (poem for New Orleans)

Poseidon is the Greek god of the sea. Demeter is the goddess of agriculture. Here is a summary from Wikipedia– “Poseidon once pursued Demeter, in her archaic form as a mare-goddess. She resisted Poseidon, but she could not disguise her divinity among the horses of King Onkios. Poseidon became a stallion and covered her. Demeter was literally furious at the assault, but washed away her anger in the River Ladon.”

Poseidon came to reclaim,
to take back the land
meekly shielded by Demeter,
who deigned to presume she
could hide from him.

He ripped the tether,
unleashed the reins
of his terrible force.
The beast came to consume,
to blithely rape and fill
with its cold, slimy juice
the body of New Orleans.

Her muffled screams at first fell silent
amid the torrent of violence.
Stunned and weak, gurgling beneath
she writhed under her conquerer.
But now she cries insanely,
ripping her own flesh from its
battered bones, picking at tender wounds
with misguided rage empty of dignity.

Her bloated form, a grotesque buoy,
life raft of death, now languishes
sickly among the splintered grid.
Internal organs have bruised and burst,
arteries clog and crust, the pulse
is weak, seeking a miracle
to revive her.

What fruitless glory she has endured.
Poseidon’s thrust has vanquished her for now.
But she will heal, she will endure.
The excruciating task will occur.
Perhaps her agony will field
a new body, a new hope, a new form.
Will she tremble at the waves’ whisper?
Yes, but she will forget,
slowly she will forgive.
She will revive and regrow,
cleansed by the healing
green river Ladon.
The body is destroyed,
but the spirit will rekindle.

Meanwhile
Poseidon lies asleep, gorged
with wasted lust, dripping
blood and grime, smothering
the spoils of his conquest with rot,
oblivious of his own sodden force.

The South needs you. Please help with your donation to the Salvation Army.