One Day I Shall Write A Poem

One day I shall write a poem
About youth, age and folly—
And the incessant evolution
That marks our time on Earth.
Like birds blinded by the Sun,
We fly indecisively, seeking
Memories lost within the distant valley.

Though obsessed with dawn and evening,
We observe the unstoppable passing of
Life and death and life again,
Tapestry of flowers so intricate
We wonder if there is meaning
Pervading, whispering hidden subtleties,
Yet never does it fade or die.

Here I rest among April mornings,
Content to see tardy trees begin to green,
Still leafless for another week or so.
Before long May will warm them
So that every naked branch will soften,
Delight in budding groves where I roam
Confused, yet awake to all living dreams.

Standing on the summit of common pleasure,
I hear the stream singing, each liquid moment,
Pouring itself toward summer’s warmth,
Wild growth and fields marked by birch—
Large yew at the edge, resplendent with age.
If only I could make this place my home,
Years after I am gone and in my grave.

How many more Springs
Before an eternity of long winters…
Where I lie secluded and deep in slumber?
Blossoms of fruit, fragrant yet unformed,
Slowly ripen to yield themselves,
Passing from summer’s heat to
Sensations sweet when full promise comes.

There are such mysteries hidden,
Waiting in the weary world— sublime,
Felt within human heart yet unremembered,
Lost in the mind, mislaid in multitudes of empty rooms.
Still it is a blessing to be a living soul,
Fever of the world hanging upon each breath,
Slowly changing the world more than we can ever know.

Silent As An Empty Church

Leaving the safety of the road,
I walk out into desert,
Feet shuffling through sand.
There is only silence here,
Silent as an empty church.

Cliffs made from red sandstone
Look down upon my thirsty body.
Higher up is white limestone—
Where once an ocean flowed.
No more lapping sounds…
Only the scorching sighs of summer winds.

One day my own body
Will be like a dried river,
Bones petrified to stone,
Worn down, hobbling along in
Rivers of sandstone—speechless, broken.

Back in the days when rain fell,
Fish swam upstream among green rushes,
Flooding along deep valleys,
Finding their way to the sea.
Now their fossils lie under my feet.

How do we keep up
With all that’s gone before?
We cannot bring back water
From limestone made from dried bones,
Compressed now into mountains
Shimmering as diamonds in moonlight.

Does it help to close our eyes in prayer?
Will God summon water out of stone?
I fear my faith is worn down, exhausted,
Dry as dust in the stifling heat of noon.
When my bones are transformed to stone,
Will those who still speak pause to say “Amen”?

Glistening in the Dark

Strength is needed to endure,

To stare into the overbearing darkness.

I do not speak of the flaming sunset,

Nor the glory of morning full of hope.

I refer to the long cold of winter gloom

When presidents and potentates strive forth,

Chaos rules and truth cannot be told.

 

Most among us get depressed,

Cannot face the loss of light,

Eyes closed to even the North Star

That orients world of wonder

From thickness of the dark,

Foretelling of sickness and doom.

 

Stand solitary, give attention

To all the various signs and visions….

Focus eyes upon whatever sparks may gather.

They are barely visible, these glistenings.

Consult both fools and wise ones,

Those who hunt alone in the High Country.

 

Learn to lean into the wind that blows

Across oceans toward hidden leeward shore.

Study the emptiness of deep space,

Breath deeply of the cold air, stay awake—

Do not allow your eyes to close or dilate

Lest you miss the omen of the single star that glows.