POETRY
After a Child's Nap
Oh, to wake up after an afternoon nap
as a young child,
something I am witnessing from my 18 month old grandson.
I pull him from his crib,
after he has cried a bit
into my arms and warm, he lets me know he is now ready
to hold court,
to administer and say all the things that need saying,
none of which I can understand…
First, from my arms, he points to a window and begins,
I think he is describing a tree across the street,
in colors, and describes the sky by it’s weight,
in such an artistic way, he expounds,
with voice inflection and tone.
The whimsical and melodic tone is infectious
in a way that no one could describe or copy.
I don’t understand yet I believe.
I believe as if my life depended upon it.
I don’t want him to stop … ever
He sounds like manna, a voice echoing from Eden,
Adams voice or Eve’s or a blend of the first voices.
A voice so soft yet knowing,
with a believability of mountains.
Oh, to understand what he is saying.
It all makes perfect sense to him, as he continues
an almost whispered voice
mouth and words bubbling out,
between lips that speak his truth.
His creativity bubbling as a fountain,
his tone like tiny awakened bells
splashed with rose water, and delicate
like a love song sung by lovers.
Like angels speaking a forgotten language,
more gesturing and pointing, pouring from his lips.
An experience of Art, or Jesus speaking his foreign language
and understanding there will be enough fishes and loaves.
All that beauty tumbling out of this child,
bringing my deafened ear to a place of reverence for innocence.
I want for those moments after he has risen,
remembering something the elders have forgotten.
His eyes opened to the world, his babbling brook of conversation,
spellbindingly beautiful,
understood by a feeling of being new again.
His voice singing his new life.
Bushmen Follow Lightning
The Bushmen, of the Kalahari, follow lightning.
They follow thunder and rain
knowing water is life
they mimic electricity with their speech.
Their electric clicking of speech follows the lightning,
attracts lightning, connects them with lightning
the announcer of things to come,
moving the tribe onward, in faith
in the search for water, for life.
Lightning, electricity, their god of survival
brings rain for their thirst.
The excitement for light in clouds
dark ominous clouds of wetness
their constant search for life
for sustenance and food.
They follow lightning because of the electricity.
Carrying water in ostrich eggs
they adapt like plants their bodies holding water
their ability to walk and exist for long periods of waiting
and searching, waiting for lightning.
Not separate from nature, they thrive on acceptance
allowing Nature to happen, the Bushmen
make magic with all the plants and animals,
make magic to tell their stories
blending their lives through the stories with nature
Their babies baptized to the stars,
mothers holding them to the sky, praying,
feeling their sacred connection with the stars,
announcing each baby blessed with stardust,
at home in the open.
This Stone Age tribe spoiled by the white man,
the gods of everything
the white man doesn’t depend, he takes and makes,
nothing left to chance.
The white man takes nature for his own,
not in relationship with nature.
The white man spoils the Bushman relationship with nature.
The Bushmen witness the abundance of food and water
in the land rover, these sailing ships of the desert,
holding all they need without asking nature,
without a thought of thanks.
Bushmen see the easy abundance and
the hole in the body of men where there is loss of soul.
They fold their huts to pressure from the white man
live in government housing away from their lightning and stars.
Blessed be the Bushmen who have their stories,
that are sweeter than honey,
that connects them, forever,
to the beginning of time.
Condor, Mountains, and the Girl
Flying in the Kinsa Cocha Mountains
with condor eyes and wings.
Hiking with eyes a glow
of wonder and beauty.
A young Quechan girl seeing me
hiking alone
approaches, we share water.
She drinks lightly, I gulp
She tells me her name is Flora
she is delicate as a new flower
and as hearty as the mountain sheep grazing nearby.
A life in these mountains being with them, a part of them,
being the same as them.
The condor, mountain, and this girl, named Flora.
This flying, these solid mountains, and this soft and hearty girl.
Condor, what can you tell me about these three feathers,
you dropped from the sky for me to find?
Kinsa Cocha, What can you tell me about the echoing sounds of weather
between your peaks?
Flora, what can you tell me about
your soft eyes that look at me.
All the while my heart is breaking
for all the beauty in your smile.
That day I saw the world for what it is and always,
a miracle of magic
only a breath away
to relive that place, that day
as a holy day of bliss
remembered in me
with the spirit of condor
the mountains
and the young girl.
Pond Farm
Arriving at the cabin midday
I unload and put away, thinking
of where I am, never staying overnight
flooded with thoughts as I settle in
the constant pattering and pelting rain
mixing with voices I hear.
Being in a new environment
the senses heightened
no familiar sounds to attach
listening for the propane truck, visitors
human and animal, I’m settling in
The voices will fade after a few days
of incessant chatter.
They will mix with the surroundings and be gone.
Now, there is a din of activity between
what I think is rain and what I think is wind
the spinning of pottery wheels
is a background for voices, speaking clay and design.
Asking questions, even a random sound of laughter.
Where is this all coming from
Do the trees hold these conversations?
the wise ones standing tall.
Do the held conversations percolate up from the wet soil?
Released by the rain and time,
or is all of this inside me
a memory released within
being here now.
The sun breaks open the room now with new light
nature wants to say something
I open the window to fresh air
To see and listen to the pottery barn speaking
It stands quietly now, breathing in and out as I do
waiting for a story
a communal story started by Marguerite
attended by many and refreshed season after season.
A shared space of exploration, creativity.
Today now the voices have subsided
my attention aroused, listens
for the next voice, the next peel of laughter
the next question about the pot sitting in front of me
now asking for completion.
I have arrived in this place to listen.
The birds are sending messages
they rarely repeat themselves
the engaged mind has a watchful heart.
Vision Wind
Oh, spirit of the wind,
blow away all my chaff.
Leave only the seed of my knowing.
Let this seed grow in my heart,
that is full, open, clear, and strong with possibilities.
Oh, spirit of the wind,
Blow away the critical voices from my speech.
Become the breath for my new voice,
Speaking wisdom without right or wrong.
Oh, spirit of the wind,
blow away the weakness in my legs,
so I can stand strong in the force of adversity
and strengthen my leadership, step by step.
Oh, spirit of the wind,
Blow away the grey clouds in my vision.
Allow me to perceive with the eyes of Eagle,
to bring focus and clarity into my thoughts and actions.
Oh, spirit of the wind,
blow away my separateness from all things,
let me understand the mystery
and the secrets of each day.
​
Captain, oh Captain,
The ship left port early morning
with a bright sky, few clouds,
Gulls anxious for adventure.
This first day belonging to all aboard,
a passage to believing in more
resurrection for the decade.
The sails filling with new air
full of strength, purpose, and resolve
leaving patterns of the old world.
The new world ahead
a new crew of ideas, passions, and possibilities,
no longer an anchor to the past
trusting the winds of movement
to explore another shore.
Captain, oh Captain
I trust the sea-worthy ship
countless years of experience
navigating treacherous waters of a restless mind.
There must be calm waters ahead.
There must be an island, a harbor
of serenity.
Captain, oh Captain
tell me there is such a place.
with quiet and solitude.
that will accept and hold
a weary anchor.