December 29.13
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Thoughts Late in the Year
Congested with illness, I sit outside.
Mild winter sunlight warms a tired face.
Weary with weakness, I deeply breathe
the fresh December air.
The chill night shadows of dis-ease
tighten my lungs,
leave a painful slowness in my bones.
Our dear ones came to be with us a few days
and now are gone back again to their lives
very far away.
We near the end of yet another year, recalling
joy-filled faces of light, spoken words
of healing love.
Soft winds sigh, and sigh the tall dark pines.
The fountain splashes, sparkles breaking ice.
A few white clouds left from rain in the night
drift across the deep blue Mind of love.
As always, crows are arguing about something,
sounding like television, or politicians.
Harsh crow-words shatter the winter quiet
like shards of a holy vase—dropped, or care-lessly
tossed, forever broken.
On a bare winter twig, a Whitethroat Sparrow rings
his tiny bell—a few notes inexpressibly sweet
with hope, ineffably true—given freely
in the blue December light.
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–Quilla
Like Roses…..Love
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Like roses, real Love
draws from roots grown deep
in darkness, dirt, in broken rocks
flood and drought
opens its petals
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“…but the greatest of these, is Love….”
—1 Corinthians chapter thirteen, verse 13
—“My grace is sufficient for you,
for Power is perfected in weakness”
–2 Corinthians chapter twelve, verse 9
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December 30.12
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For Stephan
In the quiet wake of Christ’s
celebratory birth-lights—our wound-up chimes,
canned carols—His love packed away
in boxes, yet another year. . .
We exchanged gifts the day after.
Hearty sweetbreads, thin laughter, strong tea.
Later, we rode down to the railroad tracks, shining
in light rain, the winter river rolling past.
A few old Southern boxcars parked there
years ago, rusting. Garish strokes
of graffiti mock the long retirement,
the sad and useless beauty, fading.
Your first Christmas alone.
Your wife, my daughter, chose to go on
without you. We walk the rails, together
the freight of our separate griefs, alone.
We stand and watch the river, rolling brown
and full of winter rain, a frothy tide of waves
breaking back upon itself, resisting
the dark and seaward body of the flow.
We stand before the great turbulence—
future quickly comes, passes on downstream.
The old train cars stand empty, very still.
You took a few pictures, the broken couplings.
The rain-wet shining rails
stretch out far before us—diminishing
a long slow curve, the unseen distances
saying everything we could not say.
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–Quilla
Oasis…..(you’ve crossed long years). . .
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Oasis
(A poem for Communion, for Eucharist;
a ‘Medicine’ poem of surrender, of restoration—
for you, for me; in three parts. –Quilla)
1. Loss
Looking back from here—a rugged waste
of lost terrain stretches out behind you.
You’ve crossed long years
of desperate miles, made-up faces,
wandered empty desert places,
weathered the dry flood
of broken rocks and broken faith,
faded smiles, the fallen petals of roses.
Your favorite clothes, and your heart
are torn by long thorns,
now deep-stained the rust of blood.
Your neglected springs have gone, turned
to mouthfuls of bitter dust. Your soul drinks
and breathes the unrelenting siroccos
of human and satanic wind.
Those high-blown scarps of sand
keep screaming beguiling lies at you.
You walk outside the tent, look, and listen:
but wind erased all traces of the trail.
So you’ve learned to hole up in the shadows,
blame others, back against the wall
licking your righteous wounds
til falls the dreadful veil of dark.
2. Oasis
But here, a small sunlit stream comes to you,
bends before you now: the bright green lace
of water licks the broken stones.
In this place, the stream widens out for you
under the cool palm shadows of truth;
with easy grace, the peace of fragrant lilies
pours into a quiet pool.
It is time for you to stop.
Sit down here, take off your dusty shoes,
let Someone wash and kiss
your bleeding feet.
Allow your self: to feel the deeper coolness
wanting to soothe your fugitive, weary soul.
There is no other time.
Let your self receive, rejoice at last.
Allow your heart to grieve, to weep
the salty oil of past, and present sorrow.
Feel what you must feel, then let it flow
into the perfect stream.
No longer hide, or be busy, tough, religious
or even “spiritual”—to impress yourself,
your friends, or God himself.
Give up on all of that. In its stead, stay here
before Him, wait, and be still.
Let hurt go, watch it rise like wreathes
of smoke, like hungry flames
at last burned out of you.
Allow yourself to praise: express the deepest
thankfulness, for all of it.
Let your precious bitterness dissolve,
wash away like yellow fungus, crusted
layers on your hard and tender heart,
let it wash into the quiet, fathomless pool.
It is poured out here, for you.
3. Surrender
This holy war. Fierce battles,
so much blood, and time, already lost.
But Someone you ignored
walked up the rocky hill
and poured your empty goblet
red and full.
The fragrant living Bread
of His being is broken open, waiting for you
to feed: hundreds of pages, furious love, scribed
in the hovering shadows of doves.
Eat and drink—this risen Bread,
this crushed and holy Wine.
All of it. Stand completely healed
in the luminescence of forgiving love.
Savor the alien flavor, delicate scent,
the subtle radiance of halos, spun
with unnamed colors of holiness.
You can begin to hear the songs of birds
and feel the open sky.
Give thanks. It is given, for you.
Yes. It is for you.
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“Your lovingkindness O LORD, extends
to the heavens, your faithfulness
reaches to the skies.
Your righteousness is like the mountains
of God; your judgments are like a great deep.
How precious is your lovingkindness, O God.
“And the children of men take refuge
in the shadow of Your wings.
They drink their fill of the abundance
of Your house, and You give them to drink
from the river of Your delights.
For with You is the fountain of Life,
and in Your light, we see light.”
–Psalm 36: 5-9
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It’s about your Wings . . . (This is for you)……(Revised)
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Enter softly, cautious
but expectant: open
the deeply echoing night-vaults
of your most secret heart.
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It is from these locked rooms
your very dreams and fears emerge.
Now let the ancient runes of truth
thrown from a tall white moon,
fall like candle beams, like words
across your stony path.
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Like storybook forests, voices
come alluring you with crumbs,
laughing and lurking—
innocent Gretel, and the witch.
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To which will you listen?
If you did not know: were not aware
or simply forgot: the Spirit
Who is holy, longs for you within
the shadows, the curve of light on things.
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He loves for you to love the love He’s given:
taste of warm bread, the songs of birds, soft wings
and wind, scent of autumn smoke,
the weathered handle in your hand.
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He waits for you: to exit your small room
by the Door that is not closed.
Outside, beyond your little walls,
He will carefully open
your long, white uplifting pinions
designed with perfect grace, for flight
as you open them to Him.
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But first, let His timeless Words—
those old lanterns, flickering brightly
before your faltering steps
along this rocky path of night—
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First, bow down, and let them speak
healing sentences
to your badly broken wings.
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You must let the radiance of holy words
like sunlit heavenly birds, translucent—
let them loose, let them enter
that guarded ravaged fortress,
your dark and tender heart.
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Let the ancient words of Truth
tear down the stones, like walls
or cairns, you’ve been piling up
against your truest Self.
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Real beauty is waiting for you: to awake
to rise, to speak certain wise words
restoring love, and faith, to yourself,
to others. But Listen:
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You will know as they are spoken,
they are Life for you, opened wide
and new, like wings, like gates of morning light,
shining rivers of mercy flowing out
for you, for everyone.
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–Quilla
“Abide in Me, and I in you.
As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself
unless it abides in the vine,
so neither can you, unless
you abide in Me.”
–John, chapter fifteen, verse four
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–Quilla
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Images of Late September
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Beginnings
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Barn door, perspective
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Sunscape on blue waters
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Autumn morning mist, Beaver Lake
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Bicycle shadows
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September morning sun, wild grass
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Butterfly and shadow, stone
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Bottomland farm, goldenrods, morning mist
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Horsebarn windows and stalls
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Dreamscape
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Dead grasses
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Late, in the colorful story of steel. . . . (closeup of a rusted wheel)
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Autumn roses, morning mist
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Stacked rock wall, spider web
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Begonias in September
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Weeping cedar, hydrangeas, boulder
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Inner depths of brokenness
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Roots and stone
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“September Mountains”, by Jonas Girard
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The last word
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What Can One Say?
What can one say—after all that’s gone, and come before this somber autumn day?
Sweet woodsmoke curls again above the frost. Fragrant scarves unfurl from the chimney
the warm feminine scent of shelter, of touch and cherished recollections—are these
all but lost?
^
Please say to me what one can say—when it seems the only birds left are crows, snarling beyond
the closed windows, harsh black caws in the oaks all day, that winter talk in the darkened woods.
When just a few tough leaves of summer linger, like closed scarlet hands, like claws of frozen blood?
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What can one say—when what we fear is far too much to feel, much less, to talk about. But tell me
anyway: this time of year when we know that we are older, fragile and infirm, wandering further apart;
and a colder wind starts moaning again through the naked woods of each November heart?
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What can one say—when gazing straight into the mouth of the storm-darkened North
through stripped birch trees, their thin, sere limbs shaking down the last gold leaves?
And silver balalaika tunes come quivering into our midnight rooms, weeping the agonies
of arguments and war, the tender vanquished joy of human love?
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—Please tell me, while we’re waiting here with opened hands, another winter stalking down
the tundra sky with fear, the grey howls of hungry wolves tearing across the humbled land;
and we can’t help but see what’s been shattered, burned and damned, what can one truly say?
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—Only this, but surely this with certain faith: out of the rubble, ravage, greed and death, the untold wastes:
One has risen, a Star at dawn among these fluttering candle flames, these broken reeds, redeeming what’s been
lost. His radiance is gleaming pure, above and beyond all time.
So find His beauty in His truth: a perfect Love that burns in the smoking fragments, the fleeting faces,
in all the moments that shine.
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At the Edges (for Stephan)
At the Edges
For Stephan
Just as we feel drawn, as small children
bare feet, out to the very edges
of the land, licked by the sea, to watch with fear
and open wonder, ocean waves
endlessly crashing,
coming at last to wash our little toes
and ankle bones with salty foam,
our shallow footprints in the sand,
Just so, when as adults
we’ve gotten weathered enough,
frightened enough and finally brave enough
to willingly approach, and see:
the broken shells, the jagged ravaged edges
of our beautiful selves, fallen away
like castles in the tide
and wonder: how? and why? —
—it’s then we first begin to see, to feel
the wide beginnings of God, His near edges
running toward us, kissing us like the sea,
the soft salt wind.
And much amazed, we find
if only we allow it
eternal mercy, breaking over us
again, again, again
gentle lapping waves, and foam.
It’s then we start to glimpse
the far and deep horizons
of our need:
a patient, fierce, redeeming love,
somewhere we call home.
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Ruach 333, by Quilla 