XXVIII: Abundant living goodness

There is still abundant living goodness
in the frigid heavens and under-deeps,
in the ranging wilds in their winter-peace
where tree-columned woodland halls
are filled with the music of laughing streams
that sparkle and dance despite the chill,
where hopes for a bright and blessed spring
are seen on the fingertips of thawing trees:
tiny leaf-buds still bundled tight
yet ready to shed their winter-coats,
to emerge and ripen in the golden light,
and to kindle an emerald-fire to gleam.

XXVII: The Crow-clergy

Five crow-clergy in their black vestments
were gathered in the cemetery in solemn assembly
around a few of the upright stones
whose etched words were nearly obliterated
by two centuries of weather-wear.

The sharpest-eyed monsignor among them,
a particularly large and dignified fellow,
took notice of my abrupt arrival
and, after studying me with grave reflection,
began to preach in a loud and rasping voice:

Ah! Ah! Poor mortal there!
Walking abroad in weather fair!
Treading on graves without a care!
Such a pity! Ah! Ah! Ah!

Know you not the morbid truth
that soon in such a grave forsooth,
your frame will dissolve to bone and tooth?
Such a pity! Ah! Ah! Ah!

Like leaves upon the autumn wind,
life hurries soon to its certain end!
But few who die have lived, my friend!
Such a pity! Ah! Ah! Ah!

Eternity awaits each departed leaf
and whether to joy or to bitter grief,
scant good is done in a life so brief!
Such a pity! Ah! Ah! Ah!

Then the homilist and his four companions,
heaving their immense black wings,
ascended from the graveside
together repeating a parting refrain:
Farewell and take heed! Ah! Ah! Ah!

XXVI: Dream-foxes

Dream-foxes ever elude the hoary hunter
who now, with a baying troupe of hounds,
pursues the will-o'-wisp wanderings
of a certain sleek vixen.

Her curious and piercing eyes
glint in pensive observation
from behind ancient twisted oaks,
whose myriad mighty arms
of a sudden weave tightly together,
hemming in the hunter and his hounds.

Horns! Horns! Horns blowing!
Horns blaring shrill in the woods!
A hundred companion hunters riding!
Riding with hounds to the coverts!

The demure fox turns her brush-tail
and hastens away into the brown shadows,
fleeing under limbs and dying leaves,
in cold and wretched weather,
until hunting horns are heard no more.

XXV: Honeyed Thoughts

Honeyed thoughts cloy the mind
with the richness of their sweet savour
steeped in nectar-wines of inspiration
mulled with clove and cinnamon
and fragrant sun-soaked breezes
infused with the perfume of wildflowers:
lavender and white yarrow,
wild rose and sage,
all the munificence of the meadow,
the felicity of the wild and burgeoning world,
heaped blithely upon a weary mortal mind.

XXIV: Winter Trees

There is not one clinging leaf remaining
in all of this wild and rugged wood
and the wind speaks with only a vacant whisper
without foliage to stir into song.

This entire stark assembly
of gloomy oaks and elms
awaits the glad growth of springtime
to clothe their bare brown bones.

Until then, they make no attempt
to hide their skeletal silhouettes
which, in the uppermost heights,
reach with tiny brittle fingers,
like exposed fibrous roots
sprawling up, grasping at the air,
hungering in vain for vital nourishment
as if the trees were planted upside-down,
their verdant crowns hidden away
in dark and frigid soils
until that mirthful season
when a million joyous leaf-banners
will be unfurled in this place again.

XXII: Dusk

All of the fragile leaves
have long since fallen from these trees
and now – now a gentle wave of wind
follows the sloping earth
down to the surface of the river,
the blushing bride of the diminishing sky,
while a slow-burning kaleidoscope sunset
scatters gilded red and orange light-splinters
beyond the cityscape, beyond the nape of the land,
to escape the emerging shadows of the night.

XXI: A dove falling from a clear blue sky

You flew so far and stupendously high

into the infinite and blissful sky
with white wings fluttering in golden sunlight
and small eyes vibrant and sparkling bright.

Can one indeed survive the resplendent vision
of the heavens and earth in splendid collision
at the coruscating horizon, while soaring in flight
to fly faster and farther to a more blessëd height?

O! Did you cross into the starry expanse
to greet Boötes and Orion, and venture on perchance
before swooning in ecstasy and tumbling down fast
until the wide earth received you perishing at last?

XX: Old Jack

Old Jack was a cross-eyed and crooked-legged
hook-nosed gent who daily begged
for his bread while holding a flask of gin
which he often poured into his toothless grin.

The polished and proper passers-by
never lowered to him a caring eye
for their nostrils gave them sufficient vision
that the old chap was worthy of their derision.

Until a little gold-haired girl,
a dainty thing in lace and pearl,
came skipping by one Sunday in June
right past Jack who was whistling a tune.

Releasing the hand of her mother dear,
she ran back to him without a fear.
She had a nickel she had thought to bring
for the offering basket at Christ the King.

She placed the coin upon Jack's knee,
and smiled at him quite cheerfully.
"I like your whistling," said she to the man,
then back to her mother's side she ran.

As on they walked, the girl smiled back again
and Old Jack beamed with his toothless grin.

XIX: The Well-Intentioned Mr. Foxen

Wherein two children encounter a friendly fox who provides them with some confusing and impractical advice.

"Let's move on from here," said Jonah Craven the Crow,
"this fellow will be of no help, don't you know?"

Mr. Craven had expressed his skeptical thoughts
while perched on the shoulder of young Antonio Potts,
whose little sister Lydia stood by him quite meek
wiping a small tear from her tender white cheek.

Mr. Frederic A. Foxen, striking a very dignified pose,
peered at the children down his long spectacled nose.
He had listened to their tale of getting lost in Deep Wood
and his heart moved with real pity for them where they stood.
He tugged down on his waistcoat, straightened his tie,
and proclaimed with an important gleam in his eye:

A fortuitous meeting!
Fortuitous indeed!
Listen carefully, my sweet ones,
for my words, if you heed,
will elucidate
an efficacious
solution
to your
need!

Antonio and Lydia's brows both furrowed at this obfuscation.

The fox continued on without one hint of trepidation:

From Henceforth, little Sixpence?
To Thenceforth, bold Eightpence?
From Hence onward to Thither?
Therefore: to Thence from Hither!

Wince fifth along a further sixth fence
which will take a bleary princess and a weary weary prince
out to minced and withered heather
in knotted and cloudy weather!

Antonio glanced over questioningly at his wide-eyed sister
but saw that she was as confused as he by this fine-dressed mister.

He then said softly to Mr. Foxen the Grand:
"I'm afraid, good Sir, that we don't understand."

"What did I tell you? Let us go!"
said an increasingly impatient Crow.

"Let me more word myself plainly,"
said the gentlefox, quite insanely.

He then spoke forth a stirring oration,
which was quite wise in his own estimation:

See!
Hither Dither, you are Hither
and being Hither, you cannot go Thither.
(Not directly, to speak correctly.)
But!
If you Ponder, and head Yonder,
arriving Yonder, you would then be Thither.
And being Thither, Hither would be Thither
and then Thither would Hither surely be -
but Yonder would ever be Yonder, do you see?

A profound silence fell upon that part of the wood,
but the fox thought that surely he had been understood.

"Of course they do not See!" squawked Mr. Craven, becoming quite intense.
"Nor do they Hear, Smell, Touch or Taste your words for they are full of Non-Sense!"

The fox, quickly straightening up, spoke indeed plainer this time
but in his exasperation and duress he made no attempt to rhyme:

You do not Belong here.
You do not Beshort here either.
In fact, you should not Be here at all!
You cannot go Forward, you cannot stay Here -
you must go Back, children, go Back!

"At last, I think I understand you now!"
said Antonio with an unfurrowed brow.
"Just point out the way to go Back to me."

"Child, I haven't the slightest idea of that," said he.

XVIII: The gossipmonger holds his tongue

Jacob chuckled like an undertaker enjoying a secret joke,
a wry insight into an otherwise tragic circumstance
and who, being unable or unwilling to fully cloister away
such privileged and weighty information
when among the unenlightened persons there present,
chuckles to himself, and smiles in amusement, at them.

XVII: The Sovereign of the Night

Twilight brings a certain air
of florescent violet brilliance fair
as brittle diamond sparks appear
in ancient assemblies bright and clear.
And when the moon rises like the sun
to rule the darkness when day is done,
like a smiling king over a blessëd land
with a flaming sceptor in his hand,
the stars all kneel and dim their light
to honor the Sovereign of the Night.

XVI: cheeky little cannibals

Some vagrant dropped the remainder
of their KFC meal in the open road
and now it has attracted
a frenzied score of hungry sparrows.

They are busy picking clean the bones
of their chicken kindred.
But know they not
the taste of bird-flesh?

See the little sprites feasting freely
upon deep-fried fowl carcasses
seasoned with eleven herbs and spices,
pausing only when an approaching automobile
causes them to swiftly scatter.

But just as swiftly, they all rush back
to their cheerful and lively repast
- such cheeky little cannibals.

XIII: Old woman at the bus stop

Old woman at the bus stop
sitting sullen and alone,
what gloomy destinations
overwhelm the horizons
of such barren bleary eyes?

In a flimsy weather-worn coat,
oversized on your frail frame,
and with a dirty blue knit cap
pulled down too far
over your stringy grey hair,
you crane your thin neck out,
searching the oncoming traffic
in silent anticipation,
hoping for the hissing bus,
while tightly gripping
the dingy duffle bag
sitting at your weary feet.

Disappointed, you are then
back to vacantly watching
the ceaseless boisterous traffic
on Broadway at noontime,
passing you by like a river,
rumbling and rushing away.

XII: The Pursuit of the Phinëal

This started off as a poem but it quickly became a vignette with a life of its own.

A girl in a crimson cloak ran through the forest clutching a bundled infant. She was pursued by a pack of wolves, their long tongues lolling out over vicious fangs.

The girl stumbled and fell. The wolves closed around, their eager eyes intent on their helpless prey. The girl huddled with the infant against a sprawling oak tree, and appeared to be whispering words rapidly to herself.

The largest of the wolves, a black sinister beast, growled low with dark pleasure as he approached. His snarling companions moved aside to let him draw nearer to the children. Jaina could smell his ghastly breath, but she continued, with head down, to pour forth her fervent invocations.

The black wolf raised his head proudly and spoke: "At last - the Phinëal of the World!"

Jaina looked up with sudden boldness into his evil yellow eyes: "Begone, foul devil - we have powerful friends!"

"Oh yes - and where are they now, my dear?" he said, grinning.

He moved his hideous fanged mouth down to snatch away the bundled babe from her arms.

The infant stirred and began to cry.

A jolt of terror passed through the lesser wolves and they backed away.

"Fools!" said Gurn the Black, for indeed it was he: chief lieutenant to Vorhist, the Scourge of Mankind. "Victory is ours this day!" His companions raised their snouts and began to howl with glee.

The haughty and fierce demeanor of Gurn as he savored the prize within his grasp was terrifying to behold.

But his expression quickly changed to that of terror when the immense oak tree behind the children was quickened to life. A cavernous maw suddenly opened in the truck and let forth a tremendous roar!

Some of the wolves immediately yelped and turned to flee, but they were caught up by thick oak-arms and hammered brutally to the hard earth.

Gurn, having recovered quickly from his surprise, stood resolute with a few of his bold comrades, and growled ferociously.

The oak opened two large furious eyes which held Gurn's gaze fast in spite of himself.

An expression of true fear passed onto Gurn's face and he was as if frozen, spellbound.

Jaina shut her eyes and pressed the infant close to her, as the forest was filled with a tumultuous noise of rushing tree limbs, twisting, yelping, breaking, howling, tearing, pounding - then silence.

She slowly opened her eyes. On the ground there was a multitude of scattered leaves and piles of fur and bone. The tree had straightened back up, and the limbs were gently swaying in the light breeze. She turned to see the tree-face, but it was gone.

She let out a sigh of relief and sat up. She looked down at her little brother, who now appeared as calm and contented as ever.

"Well, Ilanu, that was close - too close." The infant smiled up at her.

Jaina heard a soft clink behind her and turned to see a hinged door opening in the tree.

She backed up to see a small very wrinkled old man, about three feet tall, emerge. He was dressed in woven oak leaves and had small vines plaited in his grey hair and beard. He looked up at the children with bright brown eyes and then at what was left of the wolves. He chuckled to himself and said, “well, that’s that!”

He then looked again at Jaina and Ilanu with sudden solemnity. "You had better come inside now,” he said. “The Enemy has suffered a small setback here, but he will soon strike again - and much heavier this time, for we have injured his pride - we must hurry!"

The door closed behind them as they entered the tree. Any trace of the door vanished, as a deep rumbling could be heard far in the distance.

XI: The Farmhouse

There is a wheelbarrow in the yard
full of withered marigolds.
The dry wind is sighing
from across the barren cornfield.
The besieged sun in the grey sky
provides only a meager warmth
and from somewhere miles away
a passing locomotive engine
sends out a long mournful note
as it pursues its errand southward.
A house with crooked shutters
and cracked and curling paint
peers, through smudged windows,
at bands of blackbirds out in the field.
Brown leaves slide across the porch
under a dusty wicker rocking chair
which creaks back and forth
in the silent breathings of the air.

X: Snowfall

Soft morning snowflakes,
like tiny winter-sylphs,
descended from the low-lying
grey heavens in slow downy flight
and caressed the stone cheeks
of Mr. Nathaniel E. Thornton,
who stood, with blank eyes,
proudly atop the monument
of his grand patrimony
in the old and venerable
cold and cavernous
cemetery at Cave Hill.

The snow formed
a delicate white cap
upon Mr. Thornton's stately head
and settled on the dark and bare arms
of all the trees serenely standing
in reverence about him.
The evergreen firs were wearing
white winter-coats by mid-morning,
and kept vigil above the sleeping residents
who were dreaming cold winter-dreams.
The air was hushed
but for the wind whispering
through the trees,
like the discourse
of a few restless spirits
wandering among the oaks and elms,
obelisks and headstones
in the cemetery at Cave Hill.

IX: The moon at daybreak

The frozen silver moon
still has the full strong wind
as it sails the blue sky-waters
over a wide and gentle realm.

But it is melting away in the heat
of the brilliant morning-flower
blooming golden out beyond
the slumbering green hills.

VIII: Shoreline

Waves of salt tears
are washing billions
of miniscule
crystal shards,
while bizarre
porcelain cups
and bowls
cast up from
deep and dark
merfolk realms
are presented
as gifts
to the rippled shore
by warm
and delicate
water fingers.

At times,
a blind and battered
jelly-creature
is stranded in a wet
sandy crater
still hungering
for its briny food
while white sea angels
with long wings
are tossed about by
unrelenting
salt-laced airs.

They fight
valiantly against
the bitter wind,
and cry as if
for some
lost loved one,
despairing of
finding them
in the expanse
of the wide and
raging sea.

VII: A Second Chance at Desperation

Having furnished the fuel for your own funeral pyre,
you prepare to recline upon the furious fire.
You struggle for courage as the flames fly higher -
it’s all that you can do.

But the plentiful rains will suffice
to redeem your life at half the price.
Risking it all, you roll the dice -
it’s all that you can do.

VI: An Evening Walk

The wet streets were shining
under the gas lamps.
Cold air was blowing
under a mist-cloaked moon.

Along the sidewalk,
Albert stepped with leisure,
having nowhere to go.
With the rain finally ended,
he folded his black umbrella
and wielded it casually as a cane.

He moved in and out
of elm-shadows shifting in the wind,
and passed by quiet shops,
their eyelids closed for the night.

He encountered
several solitary strangers
walking towards him.
He nodded politely,
but their solemn faces,
still as bas-reliefs
in the half-light,
showed not a flicker of fondness
as they passed him by
without any hint of greeting.

The man may as well have been
composed of pure spirit,
rather than his own warm flesh,
for all the acknowledgment
he received of his corporeal presence.

He entered into a more vibrant district,
more brightly lit, and with a wide view of the sky
in which white wisps of clouds
chased swiftly across a blind void.

Revelers abounded in the streets,
comradery the keynote,
enjoyment of good company
the evening's occupation.

But that lively neighborhood
was shrouded by a growing fog
in Albert's dim and weary eyes.

He passed through
the midst of the people,
like a vapid ghost,
unnoticed and unknown.

He heard their conversations
and their shared laughter.
He felt the collective warmth
of their gathered humanity.

And finding a vacant side street,
he escaped into its shadows
as a cold rain began to fall again.

V: Still Wondering

I am still wondering,
after all these years,
why the sight of a sparrow
hopping inside of a bush
thrilled my heart
nearly to tears.

Why, when larger joys
failed to touch me,
would something so small
pierce me through with bliss?

O fair-fellow,
with bright eyes
and a bit of twig in your beak,
did you see me peering at you
through the windshield of my Honda Accord
parked in a Burger King parking lot,
caught up in a sudden unspeakable delight?

The noises of the highway,
the rush of the world,
were hushed for a moment,
hushed for a moment.

Then,
with a tiny flutter-rush,
you were gone.

IV: Wheeler Avenue

Rows of white houses sit, like frowning old men
who, having nothing more to say to one another,
proceed to drowse away the remnants of a grey afternoon
in the breezes of a mild and timid winter.
The trees loiter in the yards, with crooked arms raised,
trying to remember their leaves
which, like long-forgotten dreams,
have been lost forever in the wind.

III: contents of a cardboard box

a rusty nail, a broken bell
a little rubber Orca whale
tangled strings, cicada wings
two hot-pink plastic rings
a rubber band, shells and sand
a lead soldier with a missing hand
acorn caps, a pouch that snaps
a Disneyland brochure with maps
a jaybird feather, a strip of leather
two broken stones that fit together
Cootie lips, big paper clips
some stale Ruffles potato chips
a bouncy ball, a tiny doll
three old keys and that's about all

II: The Full Octave of Time

With a casual stride,
the full octave of time
takes hold of ambition
with its myriad tendrils -
binding hands and feet
and cerebral genesis
that would fain be
gamboling along like a child,
gambling it all like a fool.

I: Penultimate Augury

Grey limbs of trees
stone walls, weaving out
grasses stiff and refusing to sway
clots of birds, drifting around
quaffing a drink,
lingering in assembly,
then moving on
risking it all, venturing out.

Be not blind, watch
those simple beings, their flight
hear their speech, twittering
then screeching, wailing
hitting the winds now,
over the waters and away.

Unfold your polite hands,
rub an eye with a finger
only to break the searing eye contact.

Look to the window again:
the wraith staring back,
does he frighten you?
the ghastly visage,
the thin image,
look beyond and through him -
he is gone.

Joy

One of my early attempts to express the inexpressible.

There are some things
in this world
that break my heart
not from the sorrow
but from the joy they bring
and for brief moments
I sense
that the deepest longings
of my whole being and life
have been touched.
But as swiftly as it comes
it is gone,
like a sweet fragrance
riding on the breeze
tarries only long enough
to awaken awareness.
It is a joy so deep, so rich
and so satisfying
that to think it something
I will one day possess
seems wistful and foolish.
And yet it is simple,
like the innocence of childhood.
It costs nothing,
at least nothing
this world could offer.
It is not found
in this world at all
though sometimes
a musical sound
or a picture
or a child’s voice
or the sparkle of sun on water
or the sweet fragrance of a flower
or the brilliant starry sky
of the quiet of twilight
or the soft roar of the ocean
reflect small glimpses
of a greater joy.
I know that the object
of my desire
is not to be found
in any of these things.
I know because I have looked:
Under closer examination
the reflections
which once brought joy,
lose their luster.
Only memories remain,
and these quickly fade.
It is becoming
more and more
apparent to me
that I have
longings,
desires,
hungers
and thirst
that this world
and all it contains
could never hope
to satisfy.
Coarse imitations abound,
but they would only
leave me empty.
Though some things
in this world
sometimes give a glimpse
of ultimate joy,
they are not in themselves
what bring joy.
It seems that they only
point towards
something greater
which abides not
in this world.

Lullaby

Quiet be all you oaks and maples;
pines and fir-trees whisper.
Crickets and toads, sing now your lullabies
with the warbling larks still stirring about.

Moths with lace wings, flutter you softly
in the light of the ancient array of stars
brightening and sparkling around the silver moon
serenely sailing across the night-seas.

Be hushed while weary minds drift away,
far away with the breathings of the night.

The Star Child [Chapter One]

The star child descended at twilight
upon the serene and lonely mound
which of old had brooded there, and light
crowned that place without a sound.

Two cousins, who ventured out
to gather sticks for evening fire,
beheld the glow and gave a shout
then stumbled there with one desire:

To find the cause of light so fair
upon the hilltop shining there.

Elaina and Johan arriving thence
were of a sudden moved with fear
at the light that, pulsing, made them wince
but strangely beckoned and drew them near.

Each shielding eyes with quaking hand
and moving close, they discerned within
the blue translucent burning-brand
a figure small and white and thin.

A child it was, with tender face
yet illumined with an ancient grace.

“Be not alarmed, my little dears,”
said he with lilting music-voice,
“draw close and lay aside your fears,
you are the company of my choice.

“Come near and receive the gift that I
have come to bring to you this night.”
And with gentleness they could not defy,
he motioned them close with hand so slight.

Then close they crept, stooping low
to receive what they did not know.

When the Muses Breathe

It is striking
when the Muses breathe
through the forests
of the mind:
Thoughts stir like leaves
and fly wildly and away ~

Hearth-fire

Among rolling hill-country by gentle shores,
on a hushed winter-tide as twilight faded,
new snowflakes quietly descended in downy array.
Around the low clouds, a fragile moon-sliver smiled fair,
with some glinting companion stars, down upon a manor-hall
with door standing open to welcome expected guests,
to draw them close to a fire in full bloom upon the hearth
and to usher them into the sweet savour of a meal just ready.

The guests were each bidden to a large table full of goodly fare,
amid radiant faces, a company sweet with laughter and mirth.
During the feasting, with clinking plates and glasses glinting in the candlelight,
ladies in fair dresses and gentlemen in high collars and neck-ties
engaged in delightful and witty conversations
while bright-eyed and overdressed children
giggled at the old domestic dog with kind eyes
who had wandered away from his hearthstone bed,
tempted out of warm weary slumber to the savory repast.

The chamber was all ablaze with golden light,
from hearth and sconce, candle and lamp,
all flaming together to bless the home with an ambient warmth.
The cheeks of those present were ruddy in the friendly glow,
while eyes glinted brightly in the engagement of easy companionship
and all complimented the host on the sumptuous and splendid dinner.
.
Near the close of the meal, someone brought out a fiddle fair
and lilting music filled the hall and lightened the hearts of all the revelers.
An older gentleman deigned to lift his croaking voice to the familiar song
and soon many were moved to sing along in sweet chorus
and so they passed the evening in rousing merriment,
in dancing round after the furniture was pushed aside,
clapping to reels in a festive air,
laughing free in friendly company,
and long shadows leapt across the walls behind
as dancers passed before the wildly blazing hearth.
Courting youths with sideways glances
caught furtive smiles and sparkling eyes,
while bundled babes in maternal arms
beamed and brightened at that late hour,
hearkening amazed at the sparkling lights,
from the hearth-fire and lamplights blazing, dancing
in the midst of so many folk partaking in simple delight.

As the night hours passed amid the augmented mirth,
there came at whiles a discernible dwindling,
as one by one a farewell glass was drunk,
and parting embraces were exchanged at the door.
The guests each departed with warmth of heart,
as the horses made-ready drew up the carriages
with shining lanterns upon each side.

The last hand was waved from the threshold.
The last light away down the road was gone,
and then the family drew inside.
The door was bolted against the burgeoning cold.
Sleeping children were carried to bed.
Lamps were turned down,
candles were snuffed.
A single candlelight was taken up the stairs,
to the beckoning bed chamber.
The last good-night,
a kiss, then sleep -
to meet with peaceful winter dreaming
as the soft snowfall continued though the night.

And fading red the embers glowed
upon the hearth in manor-hall.

Tears into Joy

Tears contained within the eyes
are reserved for moments such as these ~
The heavings of a hundred sighs
are held inside for this fitting time ~
The placing of the hands over the face
alone and in silence, is meant
for such grave matters, for such resounding grief ~
The arching of the shoulders, down
in solemn manner, is shown
when heavy and weary seasons come ~

And come they do, but not often,
maybe once in a life, in a slow tide
steady and rolling, quiet and deepening
dark and oppressive, then crashing and drowning ~
O in the waters rising, no sound, no light!
O in the silence and darkness, how breathing falters!

Yet behold above, a Hope, a single Star gleaming
faintly noticed, and yet growing brighter
filling the sky, and bringing Music!
O Brilliant Song of Deepest Hopes Fulfilled!
Darkness has not conquered,
nor deafening silence prevailed!

O Trustful Patience, through you Light and Joy return!
The hands from face are lifted, and the tears glisten
in eyes opening, gazing upward
enchanted by tidings unforeseen!
With sighs of Love, the body arises
strong with Hope emerging anew!
O tears of Gladness, flow you sweetly
and with serenity fill the World!

I woke up today to a glorious Monday

I woke up today
to a glorious Monday,
with holy water falling
to bless my poor anxious head.
The traffic was slow and serene,
prompting me to recollect
how oddly frantic these people are,
scrambling to arrive
at a job they despise,
surrounding themselves
with people who have not
their happiness in mind.
But tomorrow will be bright and clear,
the traffic will flow freely along,
and my mind will spin again
like all those wheels,
rolling here and there
with never a care, for me.

The Act of Standing by a Window and Staring Out

The act
of standing
by a window
and staring out,
alone
and in silence,
is such a
sad sad thing
when the day
is cold
and damp
and dreary,
when you’re
alone inside
with nose
on cold pane,
your breath
clouding the view
of life on the outside,
the stillness in the world.

Exile-hymn

O! for the homeward sailing!
O! for the Farther Shore!
O! for the exile-ending!
O! for the coming home!

O! for the Tall Ship
with white-sails and white-timbers
on the grey seas coming
with glittering foam on her brow,
quietly and gently
slipping through the waters,
shining in the golden sun
with full wind in her sails
to take me home.

O! the ever-watching
of the Farthest Edge
for a glimpse of that White Ship
coming at last to these weary shores.

O! ye waves crashing and rolling,
in thy tumbled voice
bring me rumour of her Arrival,
her Most Blessëd Arrival.

O! to set out from harbour
upon briny wave
with wind on my brow
with salt-spray and glittering-sparkle
and with gulls sending me off rejoicing,
calling with their sea-voices: “Farewell!”
Looking back as hither-shore fades:
Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!

O! to pass over the Western Seas
past the fair enchanted isles
through the Silver-Mists
and the Golden-Rain
to at last reach a sunlit shore
of green green lands...

O! for the homeward sailing!
O! for the Farther Shore!
O! for the exile-ending!
O! for the coming home!

On a Golden Evening

On a golden evening
approaching the seashore
where crashing waves
of old tumbled unceasingly
upon the sweeping sands,
the grey tides have now
fled further out and away,
have subdued their cascading rolls
that on a time used to dance and sparkle
like golden fire under sunlit skies ~
Behold the silence
of the exposed seabed
where various items
from the living ocean
now lay discarded and dead
on the bone-dry sands ~
The shorelines have shifted;
the shape of all lands
has now been changed ~
Fellow-folk who
once strolled these shores
with light step
and rosy cheek
now hobble stone-stiff
to gaze upon the remnants
of the fading seas of yesterday ~
The somber winter-frost has settled
upon the heads of those
who once held sway
and prominence
but who now look for comfort
in the light and laughter
of younger lives ~
Yet knowing that they themselves
are drifting away from
the vibrant shore
their feet affixed not as surely
upon these hither-lands,
where the new buds of spring
are even now blossoming,
they stoop their weary heads
under the weight of many years
and view all lands
as from a distant horizon
where sun is setting
and eyes are dimming ~
They manage a smile
and softly whisper
to all these things:
“goodbye” ~

Disturbed by Spring

Thoughts of one Mr. Edgar McMillan upon awakening on a fine May morning.

My dark room is disturbed:
the night of glorious storms
and joyful fury has passed,
leaving a bitter quietude.
But what now is this chitter-chatter?
Twittering birds outside mock me
with their sing-song silliness.
Begone, you tormenting imps!
Enraged, I thrust open the shades
and oh! the glaring sun explodes
in my eyes, and blinds me.
When right vision returns,
the morning-scene repulses me:
a rainbow is frowning at me
with sickening colored bands,
through urine-golden air.
I frown back, and turn away
to my happy bed, to peace.

Of Mortals

O creature of mould
with stars in your eyes
bright and open to heaven
yet not comprehending
heart-pangs and longings
for you know not what
and therefore
making mythos and legends,
fables and epics
of enchanted-lands,
realms of bliss and light
and a beauty all-lovely
beyond all telling,
of life aglow with innocence
and joy unbridled,
at times blending the human form
with flora and fauna,
and filling the world with gods
and elves and all the denizens of Faerie,
with talking beasts and trees,
betraying a haunting sense
of a separation from Nature,
a painful innocence-loss,
an echoing of an ancient wound,
and seeing in the myths and deities created
a magic-mirror reflecting back to earth-eyes
something of what could have existed ~
But at times, as through ever-slight fissures,
a glinting light leaps out:
in children at play laughing
clear and clean,
goodly company
of smiles and joy
and kindly faces,
friendly voices in conversation,
charming village cottages,
with twinkling home-fires
and candlelight in windows,
family warmth
and sweet embrace,
dancings and fair motions,
sparkling tears of joy,
a mother’s love,
fair maidens singing
with a heart-tenderness,
children in choir
making glad melody,
melancholy string-airs
beautiful beyond words,
books of holy wisdom
and epic tales
of knights in quest,
of chivalry and valour,
of mortals in converse
with speaking-beasts
and faerie-folk,
minstrelsy made
to match the longings
and soarings of human-heart,
in solitary voice plaintive,
and in chorus grand and glorious,
created beauty in art,
of paintings and sculptures,
carved woods and stones,
richly woven tapestries,
grand soaring architecture
with intricate carvings,
folk adorned with raiment fair,
and with gems and precious metals,
all to replace the fair covering of light-lost,
the parade of races and cultures,
the vast myriad of languages
and volumes of lore,
the colour and pageantry
of history marching onwards
in pursuit of something
lost from ancient times,
an exile-race wandering,
pursuing a faint memory,
a fading echo
down the halls of time ~

Night-song

I should be inside sleeping by now
but oh how the stars crown
those treetops with enchanted light,
with Ursa Major there
and Cassiopeia, I think that’s her,
over that way reclining fair.
The warm wind is soft tonight
and it’s quiet here.
But not so quiet,
with insect choruses
chanting that familiar
night-song of theirs
here to me.
It’s three o’clock in the morning -
no one knows I'm out here
in the backyard drinking wine
and contemplating the world.

Of Bird Songs

There is great wisdom
in bird songs,
a wine-sweetness
which pierces
heart depths
to the delight
of attentive ear
enlightening the eye
with melody
of fair light
resplendent
with innocent joy
and virtue
clear and bright ~

A Quarrel Over Breakfast

One fair autumn morning, when the sun filled all the wood with golden light and the last of the clinging leaves rattled in cool breezes, a chipmunk ventured out to find his breakfast. A sniff of the air and a couple flitting glances around convinced him that it was safe to move further out. With tail upright and head down, he inspected the ground for promising morsels.

“Fine morning, Chip,” said a rough voice from behind a tree. Out stepped Jack, the ragged old jackal.

Chip’s little heart fluttered. “Uh, hi Jack,” he said, trying to sound casual, “the morning is quite fine.” He knew Jack well, and knew not to trust his attempts at friendliness. He was notorious for playing with his prey, and never spoke to one of the little ones unless he fancied them for food.

Jack sauntered strategically between the chipmunk and his homey hole. As he began creeping towards Chip, a sultry voice whispered, “SSSilly Jackal, you crooked canine. SSSally you forth, the ‘munk is mine!”

It was slithering Cecilia, and the fur on both Jack and Chip’s backs quivered. She approached in an insidious arc and with sinister glee she showed the two mammals her particularly long and elegant fangs.

There was a pause as Jack considered seizing Chip in a flash and darting away. Cecilia leered at him as if she dared him to try.

Chip himself was as if frozen between the two pairs of hungry eyes. Jack had almost made up his mind to pounce when a sudden rustle rushed down deftly upon the chipmunk and like a swift wind was away.

Jack and Cecilia gaped, stunned, and heard a mocking voice trailing off through the woods: “Farewell, friends! Your hesitation has hurt you. The morning is wearing away and some of us are hungry!”

“Curse that falcon!” Jack said with real malice, “May his wings wither!”

“Felix is a fine fellow,” Cecilia said with a grin, “but he certainly knows how to spoil a fine breakfast.”

Jack and Cecilia stared blankly off into the woods, almost as if they hoped their eyes had the power to recall the thief. When it became clear that both bird and breakfast had flown far away, they both turned slowly back to glare at each other. There was a sort of unspoken blaming that took place between them then, while both tried to regain their swagger.

The silence was broken by a low growl. Jack put a paw to his belly and slowly moped away, mumbling something about needing to find something to eat.

Cecilia turned away as well, slithering over dry leaves. “SSSilly Jackal”, she said to herself, knowing as she did that chipmunks are a bit tart for her taste anyway.

The Canticle of Light

O Light! O Love!
     O Beauty Resplendent!
O Brilliance encompassing
     all things else!
O Refulgence Cascading!
     O Glittering Radiance!
O Bliss! O Hope!
     O Gladness Unforeseen!
O Great and Boundless Good!
     O Beauteous Nameless Joy!
O Serene and Golden Light
     from a clear and cloudless sky!
O Enchanted Blessedness!
     O Sight Most Fair!
O Sweetness! O Treasure!
     O Loveliness Beyond Telling!
O Lamp of Clear Wisdom!
     O Splendour Most Pure!
O Light! O Love!
     O Life! O God!

In a marvelous way the world is changed

In a marvelous way the world is changed
with nothing altered or rearranged.
The facts themselves remaining true,
each one gains a golden hue.
The fair, the foul, the good, the bad,
the mundane, the happy and the sad
all beheld in contemplative sight
become infused with a glorious light.
Each detail sharp and crisp and clear,
each illumined with a meaning dear
and all together in perfect peace
serenely move and never cease
around the core of Love unmade
shining through each with glory arrayed.
And rising upward one can see
what is past and what will be
and what is now seamlessly sewn
and in circling together is clearly shown
a Light, a Love infused throughout
and not one particle or thread left out
making up a glorious glorious world,
a manifestation of Love unfurled!

Tasabrilathelinië [The Hymn of High Praises]

I wrote an extended piece several years ago after my soul and imagination caught fire from reading large amounts of the Psalms, the Song of Songs, St. John of the Cross, and J.R.R. Tolkien. It has the potential to be much longer and more expansive. I provide the opening stanzas here - follow the link below for the full piece:

Fairer is my Beloved than the heavens in their glory,
than the brilliant radiance at dawn,
enlightening the world with increasing splendour,
dazzling the eyes of all creatures under sky,
and sparkling on dewdrops lingering on blade and leaf ~

Fairer is my Beloved than the sunlight bright at noontime,
blazing with golden brilliance in the gem-blue sky
when all the world is alive with light and colour,
with birds dancing on the wind
and singing joyous among woven tree-branches:
sparrows and blue jays,
waxwings and warblers,
thrushes and whippoorwills,
wrens and doves cooing,
flush-breasted robins,
blackbirds with shining wings,
bright cardinals come darting,
hummingbirds flit about perfumed blooms nectar to seek,
along with bees and butterflies, fair companions in gardens fragrant ~

More lovely than flowers in their colourful array is my Beloved,
more than primroses and bluebells, cowslips and irises,
cornflowers, foxgloves, and daffodils nodding,
more than daisies and buttercups, violets and lilies,
roses and carnations, phlox-fair and larkspurs ~

Fairer still is my Beloved than the sun that marching westward
paints the billowy clouds rose-orange
and glows richly on the far horizon
until slipping away to sleep ~

Click here for the entire poem.

O World! O Life!

O World! O Life!
O Struggle! O Strife!
O precipice and fearful way!
O tangledness and thorny fray!
Behold the feet on shifting sands
and the eyes made blind by darkened lands!

O Caution! Caution! O Humble steps!
O Patience in the darkest hour!
O little hand awaiting the touch
of familiar grasp and cheerful warmth
taking you to places never known
which otherwise would have never been found!

O Trust! O Peace!
O Hope beyond hope!
O Quietude! O Rest!
O Courage and Faithfulness! O!

Reverie

At times
something is seen
but not seen
in the sunlight ~

At times
something is heard
but not heard
in the wind-whispering ~

Some voice calling, singing
clear and certain,
yet elusive and hidden ~

At times
wandering feet
venture out
into twilight evening,
single-star evening,
violet-canopy evening,
while silence speaks
loud in the soft air ~

(Boundless heavens,
solid earth,
trees swaying
and shaking between) ~

At times
in the darkness,
heart is thrilled
by soft music
and sweet fragrance,
drifting from afar
upon slight breezes,
with leaves quivering, whispering,
and with stars beyond the clouds
glimmering through the darkened heavens
to bless the darkened earth
with enchanted light ~

Voices singing fair
and children laughing,
birds of glad-song
light and love,
unblemished innocence
smiling faces,
sun on rippling waters
and green green grasses swaying
under trees of glittering leaves
and swelling fruit shining bright
in a kingdom-realm wide and fair
of golden hue and blissful joy ~

And mortal eyes sparkle bright
in the lights of myriad joys
just beyond sight undimming ~

little sparkling diamonds

little sparkling diamonds
are falling from your eyes ~
the sweet perfume of flowers
is exuded in your sighs ~
notes of fair voices singing
are mingled with your cries ~
while a sweeping tender pain
is bringing a gentle rain,
this weeping, this weeping
is making you wise ~

Light of Spring

(Lines inspired by one line from Shakespeare)

There is a place where wild thyme grows
where lavender and wildwood rose
thrive admixed with light of Spring
where soft breeze-breathings bring
a scented fragrance, where sweetly sing
bird-companions with shining-wing
who, perching high, with joy surround
the wooded-realm with cheerful-sound
where all the denizens of forest-kind
greet the golden sun they find
sparkling on dew-drops left behind
on green-leaf and on berry-rind
after night-curtain lifted away
and brilliant golden-star of day
blessed the morning’s pageantry
and displayed a splendid tapestry
of woven leaf and vine and blade
amidst the forest quiet-shade
of stone and stream, root and moss
of flowers-fair who gladly toss
and nod their heads in tender-breeze
under a canopy of swinging leaves
where glad-birds sing and wild thyme grows
and sweet and clear the Spring-light glows ~

Of Otters

Otter-fellow sleek-brown
swimmer-swift whiskered
frown and quick-eye
chasing fishes-tasty
in sparkling-waters
fine and bright ~
A joyful-day when
otter-kind find belly-full
at darking-time
in sleeping-bed
till morning-light
when fishes swim
in waters-bright ~

Big Ben

Big Ben paused at the wooden fence surrounding his pasture. The bright westerly sun made him squint as he gazed over the fields to where his cattle were grazing. A few were still lingering at the pond, which shone at dusk like a large round mirror lying golden bright in the grassy field. He thought of his wife and of the times she spent making those final touches to her hair in her hand mirror. She never knew how really beautiful he thought she was. Now she was gone.

He waved his hand through a swarm of gnats that had gathered around his eyes. He made certain the pasture gate was secured and then he turned his slow steps toward the house.

He was still not used to the silence that now resided in his home. It greeted him like a spectre when he opened the door. Strange the contrast was between the serene and open farmland outside and the stark grim enclosure where he spent his evenings. He reached out to the radio as to a lifeline. A voice, any voice would do. And tonight it would be The Detective Hour. Silver Fox, private eye, was on the trail of yet another murder suspect. He stared at his meal of leftover stew there in his bowl slowly growing cold. He abruptly reached to shut off the radio and walked over to the window. His strong jaw was clenching and unclenching. The pond reflected the delicate crescent moon in its glassy waters.

He found himself emerging from the interior stifling silence into the soft cool breathings of the night. All the world seemed hushed, but yet not silent. Reaching his ears like music were the night choruses of crickets and toads. He paused to listen, and to remember.

He then approached his overturned wooden dory at the water’s edge and righted it. It made an audible splash which seemed to startle the toads into a moment of silence. His bare white feet stepped into the cool water and down into the soft muddy bottom. Bringing the boat behind him, he lowered down his hefty frame which caused the vessel to lunge towards the middle of the pond, heaving waves out ahead which shone white in the scattered moonlight. But Ben settled softly into peaceful repose, lying prone as if in an open casket, hands folded, gazing at the starry spectacle above.

The heavens seemed in motion as he drifted. How beautiful the stars are, he thought. Like sparkling teardrops suspended in the air, refusing to fall. And in such marvelous array. Ben understood how the ancients could see shapes in the stars they beheld every night. He thought of the nighttime faces he saw as a boy, gazing down at him from the smudged ceiling above his bed. Now he fancied he could make out Clara looking down at him with her sparkling eyes. The heavenly lights blended together as tears filled his own aged eyes. Too weary the days seemed now, and too lonely the nights. But there alone, and despite the hard bed he had made, Ben’s eyelids weighed heavy and he slipped away into slumber, nudged in his dreams by little waves through the night.

Ode to a deer

A doe lay sleeping in the grass
a lovely and enchanting lass
serenely heedless of all who pass
silent and peaceful, she.

Sleeping all the day and all the night
still there she lay at morning light
her beauties attracted hungry sight
her charms were for all to see.

As the gentle wind made whisper-sighs,
vultures wheeled in brilliant skies
crows in joy arrived, and flies
buzzed and flitted merrily.

At night many a roving beast
crept close for the abundant feast
each morsel savored to the least
by appetites eager and free.

An open cage of clean-white bone
in morning sunlight brightly shone
in grass beside the road alone
silent and peaceful, she.

Nocturne

A constellation of freckles, the fruit of twelve summers, lay across Sarah’s cheeks and nose and brought to mind carefree days spent out of doors. Her large blue eyes were as clear as the cloudless sky and still sparkled with that undimmed mirth and joy of life that commonly abides in the female child before the complexities of adulthood loom large on the horizon.

But that usual light in Sarah’s face was veiled by clouds this night. There was a paleness in her cheeks and her head hung low where she sat. Upon her eyelashes, the remnants of tears glinted in the firelight. She began again, softly pressing the piano keys down with her slender fingers. The gentle rolling notes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata filled the stifling air of the sitting room. She moved her head tenderly to one side as she concentrated all of her attention on bringing out the wordless melody that spoke so much. She finished the piece in the gentlest manner, lightly intoning the last notes and letting them fade away into silence before she lifted her foot from the pedal.

“Did you like that one, Grandfather?” she asked. The gentleman seated behind her continued to stare with blank eyes down and gave no hint of response. His grey visage seemed to droop down slightly from his skull, while his thin frame, all skeleton and skin, was insufficient to fill out his black suit, which draped shapelessly around him as he slumped in the armchair. The cravat he wore, which had been tied for him, was loose, allowing the wrinkled folds of skin on his neck to hang down freely upon his starched collar.

A woman’s hand touched his shoulder. “Uncle, she played that one for you, remember how Auntie loved it?” The old man stirred not at all. The stillness of a graveyard in winter hung about him. Josephine, whose pretty forehead was creased with concern, let her hand remain on his slumping shoulder. The candles in the room flickered with some slight stirring of the air. The two men standing back by the wall shifted uncomfortably, and one whispered briefly to the other. He nodded a response and both looked forward again with grave faces. Their wives nearby held bunched lace handkerchiefs up to their faces.

Josephine glanced towards Sarah, who was gazing with moist eyes at her grandfather.

“Perhaps another piece, love,” Josephine said. “How about Chopin, you like Chopin don’t you, Uncle?” The man maintained his vacant stare. Sarah nodded and turned slowly around. She placed her hands above the keys and paused. She noticed that her hands were quivering. She took a breath and tried to calm herself. Her black taffeta dress rustled as she shifted on the bench. Then she began.

She played Nocturne in E-flat major, and with the opening notes there was a faint flicker in her grandfather’s eyes. Sarah deftly brought out in the simple melancholy strain a lilting optimism that seemed to ease the heaviness in the room. With a quieted note here and a well-executed trill there, Sarah managed in that moment to make the piece seem fresh and newly heard, when in truth Grandmother Agnes had played it many times over the years upon that very piano.

The fragile old man leaned forward, tremulous hands clasped before him. “Oh!” he said, with a rough-throated voice. He continued to exert himself and, as it became clear that he wished to stand, Josephine and the two men moved in swiftly to assist him. As he was being gently lifted to his feet, Sarah paused in her playing to look back over her shoulder. Josephine whispered to her, “Keep playing dear, it’s lovely.”

With the attentive assistance afforded him, the widower took slow small steps across the room towards the open coffin of polished mahogany. It was flanked by two large arrangements of white and yellow roses, and several small vases of lilies and violets were set nearby. Joseph approached his wife. Her face radiated that quiet grace even now. But her mouth was stiff, never to smile again. He reached out for her, and laid a wrinkled and spotted hand over her delicate folded hands. The skin on them was very white in this light, and nearly transparent in its thinness. And cold. He lowered his head.

Sarah gently quitted the piano bench, leaving the song unfinished. She placed an arm tenderly around her grandfather, who was weeping his first tears since his beloved’s passing.

Out along the silver-stream

Out along the silver-stream
of rippling current crystal gleam,
water-grasses stand and sway
dancing in the light of day
to notes of trickling music-fair
amid the shimmer-sparkled air ~
where trees splay their finger-leaves
shaking them over shady-eaves ~
robins swell red-flush breasts
with task at hand to weave their nests
poised among the branches-high
waving between earth and sky ~
somewhere creatures of fur and pelt,
dressed in their coats of finest-felt
as befits every noble forest-beast,
with bright-eyes search for goodly-feast ~