church without walls

Lacuna

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Watching the ocean
I had a place to be.

I wanted so very.
I wanted completely.

Ride, whitecaps,
tossing
uphill
downhill
everywhere.

Wind, decorate
today,
crazy
today.



The wind has been completely crazy today. While the sun shone so very warm, and I wanted to wear shorts and a tee-shirt for my bike ride. But the ocean wind cut through the trees, tossing leaves and eucalyptus bark everywhere. Since half of my ride is downhill, I have to make sure I’m windproof. But uphill, I don’t want to roast. I found a nice medium place to be, had a lovely ride, and am now watching the whitecaps decorate the ocean.

 

Fernweh

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I am pinned to the places I have been, mapped
and logged and archived;
even some dreamplaces I revisit, where I am known and
even somewhat famous.

But there is a bench, a beach,
and a line of peaks
engraved in my book,
though my lungs have not drawn
that rarified salt air.

These islands
and their thousand shades of grey and blue
are a chain that pulls me in,
partly DNA
mostly fernweh;
a place so strange and so familiar
that I can feel the lichen soft on my feet
hear the corncrake’s green rattle
smell the whisky-smoke.

I believe I shall find my initials
engraved on a bench
on the Isle of Harris,
and I’ll sit homebound there
til the wind blows me yon.

 

Photo: Willem Eelsing

Unquiet Easter

Do not go quiet into Easter Day.

Go with loud crashings and whoops.
Go with gulls a-screech
and plashing dolphins and
go as a chosen one into the sea.

Go with a man whom you trust to dip you down to the tide
and raise you again.

Hold hands in a circle,
and go with those people to the next part of your life.

This day is not meant for quiet,
but for mad tintinnabulation in the soul.
The bells that still can ring, ring for thee.

There is time for hushed thoughts and silent minding,
but now, in this unquiet Easter,
let the raucous world ring in a newness
that is as old as Perseus’ old, deep note.

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shelter

A sense of place in a time of loss

Photo by Octodrone Maxilla

Shelter me

says the millipede to the leaf
as the air goes cold in springtime

Oh, shelter me

says the leaf to the twig
as the breeze lifts her fellows ‘long the climb

Oh, oh shelter me

says the twig to the branch
as the storm becomes less than benign

Shelter, oh shelter me

says the branch to the tree
as it clings to the strong wooden spine

Shelter me, oh, shelter me

says the tree to the forest
as lightning’s child razes her shrine

Shelter me shelter me

says the smoke to the air
as the last ash drifts dusty and fine.

Shelter me

says the speck to the millipede
as it settles to ground

and becomes part of time.

 

 

storm

storm

It’s pretty well-worn imagery,
but the storms really do roll here.

Seemingly from two directions at once,
the scooping wind is a solid presence.

The trees do a stadium wave up and down the street.

The sky darkens, slowly, from the northwest.
Local dogs
have fled indoors,
birdflight is comically controlled
chaos.

The cloud lightning is a tease,
pulsing but seldom forking,
thunder sounding but never cracking.
Always, somehow, behind the trees
and never overhead.

Too soon, only remnants,
complaining and ragged
in the distance

and it’s a little lonesome
in this dripping, scented quiet,
just one lone dog somewhere,
remembering.

Hum

bee

When is a sound not a sound,
but a feeling?
When is a presence so still,
yet quivering with purpose?

I sat in a humming place,
only sensing
the flight and landing of the bees.

Between my ears, so much music
is battling for real estate —
so I invited the bees to fill the space
with their neutral, universal tone.

They ignore me
and simply do what they do;
I am pleasantly null
in their presence,

cleansed and ready
to attend to the next flower.

Spring Storm

The air is gravid with possibility today.
Clouds chase the humidity to ground, their grey
sending the neighborhood cats
home early.

Dogwoods light the woods from within,
paperwhite,
though not rare, somehow
barely there.

Cardinals arrow through the gathering branches,
against a brief punch-out of blue.

Tiny goblets of rain toast this day,
the sound and fury it will make,
indicating
everything.

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