Ocean-front Property
A stroll along the esplanade, sun-worship on the beach,
Dining on oysters, clams or cod, there’s pleasure fit for each
And every taste, along the shore, delights enough at sea,
That, whether you are rich or poor, seaside’s the place to be!
Breaking free of our bonds can send us soaring. Or it can make us crash hideously. Sometimes the same experiment or adventure can lead to both results, and sometimes that can happen in short shrift. Hubris leads, often enough, to overreaching and all manner of unrealistic expectations and lets us take stupid risks, if we get too caught up in our dreams or delusions to pay attention to their practical details.
Breaking free of all constraints has its challenges; it can be a long, laborious, and sometimes dangerous task.
Icarus, My Cousin
A bird, aloft on updrafts in the sun
Above the path, could see one tiny soul,
Alone as if in death, yet singly, whole,
Complete and full contented as that One—
For on that path, and in that blessed place,
He knew such deep delight, such peace and calm
From drawing in each breath of nature’s balm
With that sweet sun so gentle on his face—
It seemed that like the bird, he too could fly,
Could rise above the green enchanted wood,
Need only think it and, behold, he could
Leap up at will, suspended in the sky—
Yet, knowing he could not thus really do,
He suddenly wept, bitter now with rue—
So turns the heart of merely mortal man,
Full in one moment of outlandish joy;
The next, despairing like a little boy,
Because the joy’s imperfect, as it can
Be seen by clearer eyes to truly be;
So rose that wanderer up to the crest,
Where soon the path was free of trees, and best,
Clear-viewed down from the cliff there to the sea—
He bound upon his shoulders feathered wings,
Sleek as the bird’s, to take by force his flight
And steal the sky, but its great burning light,
The blazing sun, had no use for such things,
And cast him, melted, in the ocean swell,
Gravity’s slave, thrown back from heav’n to hell.
The world, powerful as it is, cannot fully contain me.
For myself, I will concede that I have been known to aim higher than my reach many a time, to think I am better or more skilled or more prepared for certain things than I really am. I have gotten knocked on my backside more than once; turned down, failed, fooled, exposed. There are fissures in the earth to prove the grandness of my fall. But what little I have accomplished was done mainly by dint of that same outsized expectation of my success, and without that I would hardly have moved since birth. So while I may grow and change as slowly as a tree breaking roots out of its paved prison cell, I will take my cue from that tree and keep expanding and hoping, and just see what I can do.
We all find our places of escape where we can. Having grown up in the Evergreen State and not far from both the vast forests of Mt. Rainier and the green refuge of the Olympic Peninsula’s rain forest, I have always found trees and wooded places a comfort and a place of safety and reassurance. No matter how deep the sorrow and pain, I have found strength returning to me and a gentling of the spirit poured on my woundedness in those times spent in the protective forest greenery. When I can spend time among the trees and relish their distinctive and individual beauties, I find myself rescued and my hope renewed.
To the Woodland
Cedar, bless me with your resinous breath,
And oak, stretch down those knotted arms to me
And close me in, so others cannot see
My sorrow as I stand so near to death—
I come here to the woodland for relief
Among the leafy shadows of the glade,
Hoping to leave my sadness where I’ve laid
It here, a monument in shade to grief—
Sweet birches, bend your green to veil my tears
And weep with all the willows, as I do;
Great trees, for graces have I come to you
Each time that I grew mournful through the years—
I come here to the woodland for relief
And leave a monument, in shade, to grief.
This mottled darkness will give way to sun
Anon, as time flows on, and so shall I;
The dead still sleep, no matter how I cry,
And I must live, or my own death’s begun—
And I’ve much yet to live, and purpose find
In bringing others light who, too, repine
That have no pine-groves filled with peace like mine
As balm and rescue for a troubled mind—
Who know not aspens’ kindly whispered care—
Should all seek peace and comfort in the wood,
These mercies surely better us, their good
And healing gifts send us renewed from there—
So we’ll go to the woodland for relief
And leave in shade, as we emerge, our grief.
Remember this…
Long-Awaited Benison
The sweetest sound the human ear has heard
Was not a waterfall or splashing brook
To thirsty thoughts; nor thirsty mind, a book
Read out; nor singer’s voice, nor whistling bird
In spring’s cool song; it wasn’t kittens’ purr
Or baby’s comfortably cooing charms
When resting safely in his mother’s arms
—Though it might then seem wildly sweet to her—
It wasn’t the “I love you” of romance,
Nor was the sweetest sound of clinking gold,
—Though to its owner, that cannot grow old—
But rather, barring mystic happenstance,
The miracle of sound most truly sweet
Was Mama’s voice announcing, “Come and eat!”
Being complex doesn’t in any way guarantee that I’m special. But not being special doesn’t prove I’m meaningless, either. I have my uses.
Verily, I Say
When various volumes on vellum were writ,
Vertiginous verses were vastly unfit
For virginal minds and ventricular ease,
So veer off from viewing such verbiage, please!
Just try to keep in mind what all that flowery talk can lead to, my friend.
Boon Companions
When shadow steals across my eyes, when chill sits in my soul, when cries
Of hopelessness and bitter cold would turn me hard, regretful, old,
I turn my memory to when I cradled happiness, and then
Remember that what shaped me so was love, the kind I came to know
From those great luminaries whose wisdom it was to seek and choose,
From the remotest needful place, pursuit of happiness and grace,
Who told in kindly, teaching voice that peace and joy are bought by choice,
That when the frozen dark descends, we’ll find our light
among our friends.
Inssssssinuations
Don’t worry, Dear; take no alarm—
I’m just designed this way!
If my appearance threatens harm,
Don’t suffer such dismay!
You sense I’m glaring hate, perhaps?
Just something in my eye
That irritates me between naps—
Not meant to make you cry!
This whiplash tail so menacing
Waves only out of habit—
It really doesn’t mean a thing,
You silly rabbit—grab it!
Fear not my hiss or venom’s kiss:
They’re breath and smiling, merely—
There is no threat in all of this—
I would embrace you dearly!
Ignore my hard, ignoble sneer—
It’s just coincidental
That my dentition’s pinking shear
Does not appear more gentle!
So snuggle up among my curves
And let me hug you closely
And cuddle you to soothe your nerves—
You have misjudged me grossly!
To the Astonishment of Angels
Where in the wilderness of life an adumbration points the way
From our benighted place, our strife and sorrows, to the sun of day,
A banner flares out on the breath of some great strength to give reprieve
To wearied lung and heart, from death to lift us to where we believe
Once more that goodness lies within, that kindness is courageous love,
That generosity’s akin to calling stars down from above
And handing them to needy souls to light their way to higher ground,
And that small songs pierce blazing holes in prison walls with their mere sound—
Here in the bitter night and cold, when such a beacon lights a spark
To guide us forward, as of old, let us rise up and leave the dark
And carry all our fellows, too, to those bright, grand palatial places
Where in the wilderness the true angelic joy renews its graces.
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—
Art-Colored Glasses 