March Twelfth
*
*
*
*
Spring
These bright afternoon hours, brisk winds
sing the towering pines, shining furls
of bristling torn green silk.
Down worn dark hollows, the sparkling creek flows.
Old maples in new blossom, glow scarlet fires,
shimmering cold spring light.
Crow shadows cross windy spaces
—those harsh calls rasp
our wintered spirits like rusted files.
We fling wide the doors, raise windows,
welcome new finch songs, windy yellow light
fresh as cool sliced lemons
the brisk air stirs our cold ashes and dust:
old pages, and the must of old thoughts
scatters across the rooms.
–Quilla
July 10.13
*
*
*
*
Your Choice…
The unwelcome fires burning in you
are secretly fed, with fuel
—your old dry broken sticks of thought,
innermost imaginings, cravings crackle
into words, actions
*
Your highest, holy will decides:
choose not to feed the fuel of thorns,
the raging fires die down.
*
So also, with the Godly fires:
feed them your favorite bouquets of dried flowers,
cherished folded letters, lost prayers,
forgotten words of praise, toss them all—
they burn warm colors of mercy flames,
the strong forgiving light of Love.
*
*
*
–Quilla
Words
This cold November day I’ve been reading, working and playing with words: raking them like
leaves, ancient and modern, withered and fresh, and listening to them—unique sounds, rippling
fathoms of meaning. Words are primal tools that work: they rush and scrape our thoughts together,
gather our ragged passions, then bundle them up only to blow away like pages, down the windy roads
of years.
Amazing!–how simple phrases have their way of coloring our personal landscapes forever, the way our
childhood disappears, lost in layers of fragrant, fallen years. The magic waters and rust of scribbled
syllables is entrusted to us—the very private lyrics of grief and joy. The music of words is rustling
and crisp, like leaves in autumn wind across continents and centuries.
^
Brittle fire-sticks scratching charcoal on cave walls. Or printer-jets spitting toner, matters little.
“But oh, what power” these symbols have—to speak what frightens, beguiles, entices us. The old
boundaries of piled stones are crumbling very slowly down, into wildflowers and ice, deep in the misty forest.
Skyscrapers suddenly tumble in terror to the street, the running crowds of human dust.
^
At dusk I put down the books and notebooks. The pen, the glasses place upon the silent page.
Look up, and through the naked trees a sliver of almond moon descends. The fading blue scroll
of sky unrolls, quietly asks for some response—please be sure to sign our guest register, and
write a few words about your stay, before you leave. . . .
^
Tree tops quiver gold with sunset light. Soft wind rises in their limbs, they thrum and sing.
A few leaves linger, whispering little yellow prayers to the approaching night. Dark leaves in me
shudder in the chill autumn air, soft petals of sorrow grieve and fall. And I’m struck dumb with fear,
with wonder, these silent words of praise.
^ ^ ^
Ruach 333, by Quilla 