In A Rising Wind


 I live my life in the in-between—

Between surf and shore,

Amid each rising and setting of the Sun,

As one dream bleeds into the next,

Arising from unconscious depths at night.

I walk through each season,

Knowing whatever lines are drawn

Between fall and winter, spring and summer,

Are not real, though my face stings

From snowflake to pounding rain to winds that blow,

Sand in eyes causing tears to flow.


And so is the journey of my life—

Stumbling upon every stone on the path,

Each stone precious though it may

Cause me to fall, losing balance.

Losing is a central chapter in the book,

Almost every achievement but a marker

Among many loses, each gathering

More than matched by scattering.

Yet still I love the world!


Each death bitterly stings as I turn away

Only to find the wind also shifts,

Pushes me, insistent in its urging,

Soundless voices that I daily question,

Wondering how I might reconcile each loss,

Perceive a road from true affections.


Only when I stop to look behind

Can I count deserted camp-sites,

Fires dwindling, ashes rising from hot coals

Still burning in memory against dark nights.

Those times I kneel to pray,

Hope to gather strength, to hear distant elders—

Perhaps whispers from the Nameless God….

Revel in moment of brief joy

Before the wheel turns yet again.


All I know is that I know I am not

What I once was… The crooked road

From which I have strayed,

Has a complexity that advances

Toward unseen horizon. Whether I am alone

Or there are angels hidden in mist or shadows—

I cannot say for certain. Though I blunder,

Stumble though each day, I still walk

Unsteadily with the given strength,

Trusting this winding path

Is where I need to go, each step

A step of slow transformation—

Though even Moon is covered by clouds,

My breath still full of longing for full Light.



They Turn the Wind to Whispers

"Headwinds" ---Fred Turpin's Poetry Blog

Old pinesThey make their stand together,
Huddled so they turn wind to whispers.
As fog creeps in, they seem to soak their feet,
Raise their skirts above bony knees,
Thin long legs more sturdy than they seem.

Always humble, never single do they speak,
But candid in their contribution to the glade.
This stand of pine was here before my birth.
I trust they’ll still be standing when I’m gone.
One language do they speak with needle tongues.

If you are running fast, you’ll miss their quiet grace.
Pause one morning in your hurried race;
Breathe deeply into your lungs the fragrance offered.
Be grateful for what they offer to the world.
Tell me what you think they whisper in full moon.

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The Threshold


Before I go to bed
the darkness of the night
turns a gentle shade of gray,
announcing dawn an hour away.

I dip into the sheets
just as the wren’s first trembling
bursts forth in song
from trees across the road.

I am at a threshold,
between wakefulness and sleep,
darkness and the dawn,
the stillness and the song.

This is the time
when dew forms on grass
but does not fall,
lingering for the sun.

The waters of the lake are still,
its luminescence hidden in fog
that hugs the waterline
and shrouds the world in silence.

This is the time
when the spirit of reproach
yields to the spirit of blessing
and the dead are given voice to speak.

This is the time
of silent necessary prayer,
when prostrate before the face of God,
even angels begin to weep.