Everything is Going to be All Right

How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.

--Derek Mahon

Mindfulness

 

The present moment is

changing so fast that we

often do not notice its

existence at all. Every

moment of mind is like a

series of pictures passing

through a projector. Some

of the pictures come from

sense impressions. Others

come from memories of

past experiences or from

fantasies of the future.

Mindfulness helps us freeze

the frame so that we can

become aware of our

sensations and experiences

as they are, without the

distorting coloration of

socially conditioned

responses or habitual

reactions.

~ Bhante Henepola Gunaratana

the fox & the birch

 

when the fox wraps its busy tail

tight around its nose,

when the birch exfoliates its bark

to expose

the live-ness of inner rings,

this is warmth

this is preservation.

absorb the light.

photosynthesize away the night.

from woodlands' edge

to tree lines that hedge

natural boundaries,

we sit silent in dens & coves

and home sweet homes

stringing together a few words

like beads on a necklace.

these petitions adorn

our collar bones

and bid us to ask hard questions

and fortify ourselves

like Mother's sturdiest home,

the honeycomb.

each buzz, each paw-fall

each peeling tree

belongs to the song of ecology.

knit, we all are

to this ballad

of the fox & the birch.

a poem for debra

November 2020

rivercity street poet 

aka, Meredith Garrett, Chattanooga, TN

[Commissioned by Barbara Voss as a birthday gift]

Blessings for the Morning Light

The blessing of the morning light to you,

may it find you even in your invisible

appearances, may you be seen to have risen

from some other place you know and have known

in the darkness and that that carries all you need.

May you see what is hidden in you

as a place of hospitality and shadowed shelter,

may what is hidden in you become your gift to give,

may you hold that shadow to the light

and the silence of that shelter to the word of the light,

may you join every previous disappearance

with this new appearance, this new morning,

this being seen again, new and newly alive.

—David Whyte

Constantly Risking Absurdity (#15)

 

Constantly risking absurdity

                                             and death

            whenever he performs

                                        above the heads

                                                            of his audience

   the poet like an acrobat

                                 climbs on rime

                                          to a high wire of his own making

and balancing on eyebeams

                                     above a sea of faces

             paces his way

                               to the other side of day

    performing entrechats

                               and sleight-of-foot tricks

and other high theatrics

                               and all without mistaking

                     any thing

                               for what it may not be

       For he's the super realist

                                     who must perforce perceive

                   taut truth

                                 before the taking of each stance or step

in his supposed advance

                                  toward that still higher perch

where Beauty stands and waits

                                     with gravity

                                                to start her death-defying leap

      And he

             a little charleychaplin man

                                           who may or may not catch

               her fair eternal form

                                     spreadeagled in the empty air

                  of existence

--Lawrence  Ferlinghetti (who died today at 101 years of age)

Be Kind

 

Not merely because Henry James said there were but four rules of life— be kind be kind be kind be kind—but because it's good for the soul, and, what's more, for others, it may be that kindness is our best audition for a worthier world, and, despite the vagueness and uncertainty of its recompense, a bird may yet wander into a bush before our very houses, gratitude may not manifest itself in deeds entirely equal to our own, still there's weather arriving from every direction, the feasts of famine and feasts of plenty may yet prove to be one, so why not allow the little sacrificial squinches and squigulas to prevail? Why not inundate the particular world with minute particulars? Dust's certainly all our fate, so why not make it the happiest possible dust, a detritus of blessedness? Surely the hedgehog, furling and unfurling into its spiked little ball, knows something that, with gentle touch and unthreatening tone, can inure to our benefit, surely the wicked witches of our childhood have died and, from where they are buried, a great kindness has eclipsed their misdeeds. Yes, of course, in the end so much comes down to privilege and its various penumbras, but too much of our unruly animus has already been wasted on reprisals, too much of the unblessed air is filled with smoke from undignified fires. Oh friends, take whatever kindness you can find and be profligate in its expenditure: It will not drain your limited resources, I assure you, it will not leave you vulnerable and unfurled, with only your sweet little claws to defend yourselves, and your wet little noses, and your eyes to the ground, and your little feet.

--Michael Blumenthal

[Photo of Mary, who was profligate in the expenditure of kindness.]

Next Time Ask More Questions

 

Before jumping, remember
the span of time is long and gracious.

No one perches dangerously on any cliff
till you reply. Is there a pouch of rain

desperately thirsty people wait to drink from
when you say yes or no? I don’t think so.

Hold that thought. Hold everything.
When they say “crucial”—well, maybe for them?

Hold your horses and your minutes and
your Hong Kong dollar coins in your pocket,

you are not a corner or a critical turning page.
Wait. I’ll think about it.

This pressure you share is a misplaced hinge, a fantasy.
I am exactly where I wanted to be.

--Naomi Shihab Nye

As a Child Enters the World

[For Soren Markus, who was born today]

As I enter my new family,

May they be delighted

At how their kindness

Comes into blossom.

Unknown to me and them,

May I be exactly the one

To restore in their forlorn places

New vitality and promise.

May the hearts of others

Hear again the music

In the lost echoes

Of their neglected wonder.

If my destiny is sheltered,

May the grace of this privilege

Reach and bless the other infants

Who are destined for torn places.

If my destiny is bleak,

May I find in myself

A secret stillness

And tranquility

Beneath the turmoil.

May my eyes never lose sight

Of why I have come here,

That I never be claimed

By the falsity of fear

Or eat the bread of bitterness.

In everything I do, think,

Feel, and say,

May I allow the light

Of the world I am leaving

To shine through and carry me home.

~ John O'Donohue

Percy and Books

 

Percy does not like it when I read a book.
He puts his face over the top of it, and moans.
He rolls his eyes, sometimes he sneezes.
The sun is up, he says, and the wind is down.
The tide is out, and the neighbor’s dogs are playing.
But Percy, I say, Ideas! The elegance of language!
The insights, the funniness, the beautiful stories
that rise and fall and turn into strength, or courage.
Books? says Percy. I ate one once, and it was enough. Let’s go.

--Mary Oliver

[Trekker would also prefer outdoor play to reading.]

The Snow Man

 

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

--Wallace Stevens

Dog and Snow

Dog sees white. Arctic

light, the bright buzz in the brain

of pure crystal adrenaline. In a flash

he is out the door and across the street

looking for snowshoe hares, caribou, cats.

His wild ancestry ignited, Dog plunges

his nose into snow up to his eyes. He sees

his dreams. Master yells from the front porch

but Dog can’t hear him. Dog hears nothing

except the roar of the wind across the tundra, the ancient

existential cry of wolves, pure, devastating, hungry.

Time for crunchies. Taking many detours, Dog

returns to the porch. Let master think what he

wants. Freedom comes at a price.

--Paul S. Piper

[Snowshoeing with Trekker]