Precious Asylum

Balanced in your open palms
my light burns.
You hold me in precious asylum
for the world to see, not me
but the light, your light.
Infused in me, we are one.

In the gentle curve of my two hands
pressed tightly together,
I hold you in resolute sanctuary.
My paradigm enfolding us
one into the other, we are ablaze.

This path we illuminate, intertwined,
unable to be sieved apart,
we travel as lovers impassioned.
An offering of one soul kindled
enflaming the world.

Sweet Peas, Part 2

In March I promised myself I would finally plant sweet peas. I wasn’t going to let anything deter me. 10464083_10203233205662896_3100015098842395032_nWell, 10464083_10203233205662896_3100015098842395032_neverything did and they didn’t get planted.

Along about the first few weeks in June I saw an interesting little volunteer popping up. It looked just like sweet peas. I moved a trellis to have something for it to climb. Then I remembered. A few years, that’s maybe five or six, I gathered some seeds from Vickie’s, my sister-in-law, garden off of her sweet pea plants. They grow wild there, year after year.

Just like Janice, my mother-in-law, iris, I set them aside for the summer and said I would plant them in the spring. (I’ve moved the iris from house to another, from one bed to another, and they grow like crazy. Do you want some?) But I didn’t plant the sweet peas. That fall I decided to throw them in some soil, “Just to see what might happen.” Nothing. For five or six years, nothing happened.

This june they sprouted. I guess my moms, who have been gone now and are dearly missed, got tired of my promises and took things into their own hands. If you follow my pictures of my garden, you know how prolific the iris are.

Now, I have sweet peas. Thank you, Mom.

.

.

.

Here is the poem I wrote earlier this year. Silly me.

Lent and Sweetpeas

I’m going to grow sweet peas this spring
I won’t allow the busyness of the day to interrupt
I won’t let the excuse of sultry spring sun
and red clay soil divert me from my plans

I can’t remember now
and being there is no one to ask
when I was young
seven
or maybe it was eight
my mother
planted sweet peas in the backyard for my birthday

Were they to be in bloom by my birthday
or did she plant on my birthday
always a few days either side of Mother’s Day

Edging a small patch of grass squared by
Gus’ gas station
my father’s television repair shop
Interstate 70
and Washington Street
she knelt on red clay soil
already sprayed for bugs and weeds
my father’s madness

She planted
I now understand
maybe to forget
mostly to make something pretty
almost certainly to give me hope

To my surprise
surely not her’s
they grew
ruffly pink flowers on twisting stems
twining their way around a chain link fence bordered by
cement
and asphalt
gravel
and thirsty bistre grass still in winter slumber

This year
I’m going to plant sweet peas
in my clay soiled garden
in spring
with hope

My Silly Cold Toes

It is almost the end of June
our nightly storm has passed
a regular visitor this summer

barefoot I venture out

my toes splash in tiny pools
here and there

cool, almost cold air teases my cheek
reminds me the storm
has only just passed

I take a deep breath
rain scent lingers, delights my nose

a merry little breeze
shakes raindrops from leaves
plops onto my outstretched palms
a trickster’s game
an attempt to convince
the unaware to be aware
of storms brewing above

I am smarter than that
to fall for such foolery
the storm is gone for now

I am a child again

I tap one foot, then the other
rain splatters
I search for bigger and bigger puddles
to entertain my toes
my silly cold toes

the locust tree shakes
in laughter at my antics
I am wet
how can leaves so small
captivate so many raindrops

I listen to the rumble now far
what was once overhead
consuming the night has passed

I am a child again
surrendered to wonder
drenched and enraptured

Fathom

When she finally took the step
she thought nothing of it. No bridge DSCN4862
to keep her aloft. There was no
rope or hand to hold her tight.

She had to take the step. The climb
was arduous. Dark nights, cold.
Voices echoing behind in the canyon,
taunting, losing their hold over her.

Up top silence was as wide as the sky
while noise slumbered deep inside.
Not to awaken it, she softly breathed in
the beryl blue stillness enfolding her.

She searched. She lifted each layer,
peeled back one after another,
trails of faded petals marked her
journey, but she wouldn’t let go.

When the layers were no more,
no petals left to drop, it was there
she was forced in the nothingness
to divine the Antiphon left bare.

She braved the step, undressed
her fear, found more than her
counterfeit view exposed.
She surrendered.

She surrendered from hurtling
voices and pain. From stuff she
built to keep her safe, explain
rules, make sense, find answers.

She surrendered to the deep calm
Peace that awaited her. Acquiescing
she could rest, be swathed in His care,
unravel all would be well…

I let go. I step from frenzy wrapping
my days. I trust and surrender to You
who are there. You who love me with
abandon. You who have always been.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

Understanding can come sometimes so quickly, it takes your breath away. The challenge was simple. If I am truly honest with myself and really look deeply, will I allow myself to see that tiny, small bit of insecurity I’ve held onto of what I fear as God? Or will I surrender to our Precious One and accept how much I am loved without condition?

Thank you, Fr. Scott Jenkins for continuing to gently challenge us with your vision on the Feast of Corpus Christi. You bring your family at a Church of the Holy Family, ECC into the light of our Beloved.

Kintsugi

It was a small crack that ran
up the side of the cup. It no
longer held matter completely,
it was no longer perfect.

The beauty of the cup was not
tarnished though. No. The
treasure was transformed.
You understood.

The crack was there to let in
light, you said. To illumine
splendor deep inside. You
could see it.

In Japan they fill cracks with gold.
Once damage is done, history is
fashioned. Filled with tenderness
it becomes precious anew.

You fill my brokenness with Your
grace mending it with Your light.
More beautiful than before I am
made whole once again.
.

.

.

 

Author’s Notes:

I wrote this last evening and didn’t get it posted. I was off to a Celtic retreat today. Sometimes Spirit shows up before you expect it.

Tango

Author’s Note:

Today a friend posted this song, I Don’t Think About You Anymore, But I Don’t Think About You Anyless by Hungry Ghosts, on her Facebook page. I was drawn to the simplicity of the tune, the accordion, and the absolute melancholy of the piece.

So I decided to play a bit and write something poetically melancholic. Seems like I need to get back to writing a little fiction.

Start the song and wait for the accordion to begin playing. Enjoy it for a bit and then read the poem out loud, of course, with a heavy heart. Enjoy.

Thank you, Christine for the fun!

 

Tango

At the table a long thin taper set askew in an empty bottle
illuminates what the slight moon cannot. Under stars beneath

tree’s umbrella music from accordion and violin swirl around
her head. Veiled in melancholy’s shroud she gazes at fireflies

fluttering about her adding their glow to the deep night’s sorrow.
The slide of feet tangled in tango scrape ever so gently in lover’s

embrace, one in which she will never again partake. If she listens,
ignoring the music, the dance, she can hear the river, the thief,

curdled with his blood. She drinks the last drop of the deep red wine
as she has each night, every night since he left. Placing coins on

the checkered cloth, she rises in time to the beat, not of the tango,
but her heart yearning for his touch. Stepping through the dancers,

breaking their hold, she crosses into the calling night. Letting the
shawl fall from her shoulders, then her hips, finally onto the ground,

cold rises from the rushing waters to caress her bare arms,
a reminder she will never again be warm. Sure in her steps, steps

taken each night in dream, she moves to the edge of the river near
the willow bent in shame unable to help. Removing first one, then

the other, slippers worn on her wedding day, she places her bare
feet on rocks smoothed from the flow, slick from his blood. One step

and then another, tangoing in whispered sighs with the whelm. Deeper
and deeper, her skirt catches the fluid brimming, pulling down with

grace. Over and around she moves to the now distant tango waiting,
watching for his hand. And in a breath, a gulp grasping at air, she

opens her eyes to the new day’s dawn. Pulling her feet from the bed,
she waltzes into white satin slippers ready for another day.

Iris and Fred Astair

Iris laughed in the wind today,10389674_10203046194067723_1093809327133319011_n
heads bobbing with rippling petals
sweet scent carried far away looking for
you since you were not near.

I want you to know I love to laugh,
to bob my head and ripple with joy
like purple iris in the wind reveling
in your cheer.

I want you to know I love to hear
your laughter rolling through
your office door making me smile
even though you didn’t know I heard.

I love to feel laughter furrow down to my
toes from silly puns and stories
and Fred Astaire who had a stand-in
for tap dancing.