Quiet Companion
In the cooler corners of my crooked little room
There gleams an iridescence that defies the chilly gloom,
The pale enchantment of an eye that never shuts in sleep
Or wavers in its glowing gaze, whose watch is wont to keep
A careful, mystic, present love that guards me from all harm
And teaches me her secrets when I curl beneath her arm
So I can rest in confidence with this companion, whose
Great beauty is to fill my soul, for that she is
my Muse.
Busy times with lots of semi-important Things to Do, many late nights, and heaps of social interaction make a naturally introverted person like me reminisce fondly about simpler, quieter times. I imagine myself reading pretty picture books, having a nice glass of milk with some stem ginger shortbread, and a nice hour or two curled up in a big comfortable chair by the window to quiet my spirit before bedtime. Then, maybe a sweetly sung lullaby to put me fully at ease for a good night’s deep sleep.
Sun & Shadow
My shadow and I are the best of friends—
I measure her height as the sunlight ends,
And the clouds that billowed from dawn to dusk
Float into the night on the roses’ musk—
My shadow will wait for me under a lamp
Through night, ’til the morning is dewed and damp—
For we play together yet all alone
Because my shadow and I are one—
So I will awake and sing and play
With my shadow companion the next fine day
This is a day designated by the Christian church for the remembrance of all the good, fine people who have lived, illuminated our lives, led the way for the rest of us, and now are also gone before us in death. Recollection, commemoration and admiration of those who have lived as great-hearted souls on the earth and set an example, large or small, of excellence for those of us who follow is, I think, a practice that anyone of any stripe, religious or not, can embrace; we are certainly all made better by such meditations, especially if and when we are made stronger by their guidance to follow in our honored loves’ radiant footsteps.
Spending a day in remembrance of loves lost is bound to be bittersweet, of course. When the bond has been close in life, it remains so in death, and however the pangs of loss may subside over time, on a day devoted to thoughtful recognition of our trusted and beloved friends, mentors and avatars of all things great and good, the pain can be as sharply new again as in the first sweep of sorrow. But if I am genuinely mindful and respectful of their gifts in life, I think that this can be transformational and healing and comforting, too.
Can I live as a reflection of my most-admired angels? It’s too tall an order for any ordinary mortal, I know. But that’s exactly why I think we have these living and loving models among us: to show that in community and mutual, loving support and with determined and patient growth on our own, greater things can happen than if we try to do significant and meaningful things independently. We are raised up by the waves of support around us. How can I not be grateful for that! This realization sweetens the day perceptibly. Do I wish that I could have my lost loves back again? Who would not! But I wouldn’t trade one tear, one iota of the hurt and anger and grief I’ve felt over any of their losses, to miss out on recognizing the beauty and joy and brilliance that they brought to this world in their too-short tenure here, and I know that some lights seem so bright in life that they can blind me at close range to what’s more easily discerned, when seen from this greater distance, as having the distinctive shape of an excellent soul.
I Sing for Love
I sing for love of singing, For music, sweet and strong
That carries me from joy to joy, Amending every wrong—
To hear clear voices ringing Across the dawn of day
Makes purest gold, without alloy, My every waking way—
As day approaches evening, A lullaby, at last,
Gives night delight, believing As I do that in the vast—
Infinite—constellation Of voices in the night,
I will find deep communion With the song that sets me right—
I sing for love of singing, For in the choir’s heart
Is all the song of blessing That I longed for from the start.
Reparations
While the quiet of the evening draws its curtain on the noise
Day had clamored ’til its leaving, I will lie in calm and poise,
Gently as a bed of lilies bends in summer’s kindest breeze,
As the cat turns, curling, ’til he’s found his pose of greatest ease;
While the dusk falls, silent, deeper into night, my eyelids close
Heavily…I’m soon a sleeper in the stillest of repose…
Midnight finds me softly dreaming, all the day’s loud clatter gone,
‘Til birds chatter at the streaming light of the approaching dawn
While I lie in silent dozing where no sound comes breaking through,
All that shouted ceases, closing restive lips—and spirits, too,
Slip like shades and never flutter more than deepest sleeping sends
To the surface from the utter place of healing and amends;
I will rest here in the solace and the silence so supreme
It can quiet every call as I lie still and, gently, dream…
Cadence at Evening
Slow as the settling of the sun
Upon the western shore and lees
Where nightingales call from the trees,
Watching the honeyed daylight run—
Slow as the shifting motes of time
That sift and spin in lamp-lit rays,
Fall lazily to dust and haze
And love, ineffably sublime—
Slow as the sleeping breath when dreams
Have ceased, and thought receded to
The farthest corners, shaded blue
To inky black, to flow in streams—
Slow as the silently locked door
Was, to admit all at the last
Where wonder waits that, long held fast,
Now pulls us inward evermore—
Slow as the parting of that night
Which closes day with one last kiss,
Night languorous with hymns like this,
Draws us toward slowly growing light—
Little is as desirable in day-to-day life as peace and quiet. Rest, respite, calm–I crave them. There’s so much invitation and welcome in the sweet marvels of time off, time out and down time that I never feel I have too much of, well, not-too-much.
But busyness is ever so much more common in our everyday existence in this century, certainly in this household. It’s no still life, to be sure; any silence found in this way of living is more of the deafening sort. But yes, it’s still life.
So I have to manufacture or steal my moments of rest and relaxation. Isn’t that how most of us end up finding our tiny increments of space and time and sanity anyway? I have to learn how to tune out the white noise, hide from the constant demands and burrow into hidden corners when and wherever I can, to choose deliberately to decompress and unwind. If I don’t make room for my own peace of mind, who’s going to give it to me? The world may rattle on around me at a furious and eardrum-shattering rate and all I know may change in the ten minutes I’ve stolen to renew myself, but I will return to those realities soon enough, and hadn’t I better do so in a fortified state than otherwise?
Better to sit down and tell myself soothing tales undergirded with lullabies, to draw myself a little old-fashioned still life arrangement in the calm unruffled grey of graphite, and breathe deeply without regard for the bustle and bash of the universe, if only for a moment or two.
Night into Day
In the sinking stillness of the evening,
After birds have ceased to flit and call,
Silence comes to rest as day is leaving
And dark draws down the shade where night will fall;
The smallest breath of wind stirs from its sleeping,
For after dusk another world takes flight,
A world with gleaming secrets in its keeping
That give the constellations dazzling light,
Fill up the moon with shining opalescence,
Fill up the heart with dreaming of the day
And how its powers overcome senescence
When sun returns to chase the night away.
Masked Olivia
The sleeping lady whose closed eyes
Conceal the wisdom of the wise
Contain the laughter children know
And barricade a world below
Keeps in closed eyelids cool release
And in her heart a realm of peace
Countdown to Dreaming
What sprightly sprites, by noon and night, what fairies of the air
Dance in my dreams? To me, it seems there’s always someone there
To twist and twirl, to whiz and whirl, to pirouette, jeté,
To bow and bend and to transcend mortality this way.
No one can see this dance but me, and only when I slumber,
When forty winks or nap, methinks, begins to unencumber
The dancing denizens of sleep, my own replacements for mere sheep,
And I must count them, lest my deep repose should lose their number.
Art-Colored Glasses 