Old Dogwood
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Mostly hidden now
in tall green thicket—overgrown
a thousand stalks of young bamboo,
a rough old dogwood tree
stands in deepening shadows, reaching
year after year, twisting
a long gnarled black limb, through
a green mesh of younger stems,
thirsting for the light
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–Quilla
Three September Poems . . . (and one Haiku thrown in). . .
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Feathers
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This morning I look down:
several wild, blue-grey feathers, fallen
scattered, close together on the ground
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September morning wind
like a wide soft wing, stirs their stillness
slightly, where they lie.
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Goldenrod
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Now the ragged edges of country roads,
groomed pastures and long-neglected fields
blow wild with intense wonders of pure yellow—
—delighting the descending sun,
the sweet, smoky incense
of warm September afternoons
bending slowly, burning brightly, glowing
softly, the old year’s blooms of Goldenrod .
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Cricket
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Late, this cool September night—
—windows open, the broken dark world sleeps.
A single cricket beneath the wall, sings
his strident wild mating music reaching, endlessly. . .
Almost as if the earth is not turning at all,
not turning away from the sun again, as if
time’s seeds are not ticking, nor death
nor blue autumn stars, clicking silently
rising again, over the thin bamboo
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(and one extra, that just “arrived” this morning:)
What Happened?
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A dear old friend
once so close to God,
now she prattles on, and on
about making “six figures”
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–Quilla
July 17.13
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Midsummer Night:
Fireflies rising
from dark fields, twinkle
among the stars
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Andromeda rises
in the east, sparkles
through bamboo leaves
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March 2.13
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First Day of March
Down the windy grey morning light
thin flakes of snow come spinning.
A day with no shadows.
The drab blowing land is all one
shadow, folded under
somber oceans of cloud.
I walk out to the woodshed—
six dried sticks of split locust,
enough wood for the day.
Pausing to stand still
a few long moments:
tiny stars of ice glitter my dark sleeves.
Listening. A thousand leaves of bamboo
scrape and sweep the shed roof tin.
The tall stems make soft music
with the wind, cryptic phrases
like someone whispering
the ancient Psalms.
Perhaps I should remain
long, and learn new songs.
Back indoors, a cup of hot tea
and the fire snapping, gives its thanks
for the fresh fuel—releasing
the suns of summers long past,
locked in rings of wood.
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–Quilla
January Fourteenth
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Starlight and Old Windchimes
Waiting ten minutes—the pizza to cook
I walk into the freezing darkness,
watch the timeless winter stars.
Centuries, this luminescence
radiates through blackest space,
now sparkles in the empty trees.
A faint breeze stirs, it wakes
the old bamboo chimes.
They mutter soft, like cold starlight.
The same crisp air moves the tall bamboo:
Thin leaves whisper something to Orion
softly, like the old wood-chimes.
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–Quilla
Pastoral
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Pastoral
Frederick Buechner’s hunger nourished me
through the long dark, a hundred winter nights.
Now a warm Spring dusk, blue haze
lays across the greening hills—old farmers
burning the ancestral fields again, as every year.
This day’s sun retreats into bare trees
with accolades of smoky gold.
Trilling from lowland creeks, Spring Peepers
(tiny frogs) ring out jubilations: amphibian throngs
like tocsin bells, swelling up from winter mud.
One Robin pours out his lyrical evening songs.
Black limbs glow the snow of wild plum blooms.
The rising moon flickers white as a lost shell
through the new leaves of tall bamboo.
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Closing the Books (for Stephan)
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Closing the Books
For Stephan
Sometimes we put down all the books, close them
even the holiest ones. We’re done with words
facts and thoughts awhile, drunk as we get on them
we rise and leave, walk deep into the silent woods.
It’s time we turn off the noisy gadgetry
and free ourselves: incessant man-chatter,
electric toys of silicon and plastic: stealing
our days in time, our very hearts!
Take that old stick leaning in the corner,
walk straight out the door.
You’ll find it very good—standing quiet
under old Sugar Maples, or tall bamboo, feeling
them sway with soft spring wind, whisper
the living green leaves.
Believe they are whispering to you.
Watch those high slow wisps of cirrus
sweep a fathomless mind of blue.
Walk far into the forest, the desert
alone. Maybe find a large grey stone.
Sit down, and let yourself be still.
Wait a long time, until you are truly there.
Then listen: to the One who IS.
He’s been waiting for you,
a thousand centuries.
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Please read Mark chapter one, verse thirty-five
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A winter moment
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A Winter Moment
Long hours indoors I went outside to stretch, and breathe
the sharp December air, watch the falling sky, remember where
and who I am: eternal spirit in a torn brown Oregon tee-shirt,
worn out moccasins, a pair of faded jeans.
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I was raising my arms and hands, my eyes
my longing heart, to a break of blue in the winter clouds.
These frail wings lifted over the tangled snowy marsh.
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I began to hear what I had not heard:
a neighbor’s distant tinkling chimes.
Wind faintly whispered the bamboo leaves.
I watched a large hawk soaring high and bright, silently
above the winter trees.
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A Yellow Summer Moon
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A Yellow Summer Moon
After the hot and difficult day in town, I sit in the dark
to rest and deeply breathe, to cleanse my mind.
A round yellow summer moon rises slowly
through warm haze, a kaleidoscope of black leaves.
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Tiny greenish lamps of fireflies float and glimmer
across the garden, the far meadows.
Beyond the western mountains, the sky flashes silently
shades of violet fire , approaching storm.
The darkness stridently sings —black electric music,
thousands of insect legs and wings.
We notice little, beyond the closed boundaries
of our desperately hungry selves.
We are such easy prey.
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A slight breeze begins to stir. Night is fragrant,
lingering sweetness of the day—scent of cut hay,
honeysuckle, fence-row thickets of wild rose.
Behind the empty wood-shed, the yellow moon
is splintered, perfect wholeness flickering
through silent leaves of the tall bamboo.
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For Mei Yao – ch’en
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For Mei Yao – ch’en
One thousand years ago, you wrote
beside a whirling stream, a deep ravine
an ancient temple amid windy bamboo
as you passed by the monastery at Pao-Ying .
That night, you scratched some words
with a quill beside a smoky lamp.
Somehow, your words were kept.
Nine centuries passed.
Came the year of our Lord, 1,963.
The brilliant Indian scholar
Amitendranath Tagore translated your words,
and those of eleven other poets from the Sung.
Ten years later Grossman published Tagore’s work.
Thirty more years passed, a new Millenia.
The year numbered 2,003.
A gifted Colorado writer was poking through
a used-book store in Denver—
a steel and glass city thrown up on the high plains.
In the dusty stacks, he found Tagore’s book
marked way down. He thought of me and picked it up,
paid two bucks and sent it along, with a kind note.
I’ve read your poems many times.
Now the year 2,010, this summer sun setting
I read your lucid words again.
Windy shadows sweep the page.
Like time, a stream still flows
through tall bamboo, whispering
poems into the deep ravines.
A warm breeze flutters the thin leaves.
Poems are still being born,
this fleeting golden light.
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By Yang Po-jun
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Denver windows
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Ruach 333, by Quilla 