the forest meadow calls to me
in all its sweet wildness
in all its raw simplicity
so i heed the summons
let’s dance amidst the butterflies
let’s soak up the last of summer’s sun
perhaps you hear the thunder roll
and wonder at the storm resplendent
but please my love don’t tremble
i’ll do my best to keep you warm
we sit on a log at the end of years
fingers interlaced we talk of this and that
perhaps you’ll turn to me and smile
rain on canopy above goes rat-tat-tat
today you’re soaked in autumn’s tears
tomorrow perhaps you’ll turn to me and laugh
Tag: creative
Lighthouse
Attend to that light upon the horizon, my friend or else-
you know the tales of course
crashing upon rocks and cries of the doomed
fire below and fire above
and on high the keening wail of angels
so what say you so what?
Attend to that light is all I ask
Trust the keeper and keep a firm hand
Dawn comes but not for all
Attend my friend, attend.
Path Meditations
Why do all my songs of late so often mention that pilgrim path? I like to think of the forest green and beautiful and then that path that winds ever on and on through the thick of the trees and brush to end up on that far shore that calls my name. The path imagery is an old one and indeed one that has been used often throughout the past ages. One thinks of life as a journey from birth to the far unknown and there is no more natural metaphor than that of a path. So I suppose I could say that I am not being particularly original with my creative prose and poetry when I so often go back to that ancient well. Yet sometimes the tried and true is best. There is no confusion when I talk of the pilgrim on the path and the trials and travails that may beset him as he walks on. There is a nodding of the head and an echoing in the heart. We all have walked on paths through the forest before – or at least most of us have, I daresay – and we are all of necessity making our way through life as a pilgrim who comes from dust and will end as dust. So of course. One could use other metaphors of course, and I often have. I like to imagine one sailing on a ship towards that far horizon and that eternal shore. Of course, this is only another angle of the same pilgrimage. We are still going from one place to another, from one time to another. Only the setting and scenery change.
So at the end of the day, as I reflect on the fact that I perhaps use this imagery of a path too often to express the longings of my heart, I come to the realization that I don’t really mind this. I do not believe I am exposing my creative vacuousness. Instead, I believe I am expressing a simple faith. I know I have been created from nothing and though on this earth I may also appear to be progressing towards eventual nothingness, I have a hope that this is not entirely so. Instead, I look forward to the resurrection of the body, a resurrection that is prefigured by the resurrection of Jesus Christ himself, who even now stands in heaven above and advocates for me his little brother. I have a hope and faith that someday I will in my own body stand before my God and with my own eyes gaze upon his glory. This is my song, my salvation!
And so? Perhaps my writing may start with a path, but it is not a path in isolation. There is a destination and a place where the walking stops and perhaps a fire on the beach to welcome me to my eternal rest as I prepare to feast with my Lord God at that wedding supper. I do not walk without purpose. And I do not walk alone.
Potter’s Wheel
morning light is sometimes like water trickling down the side of the brick
not quite enough to make a difference
yet beautiful in the way it teases the solidity of the earth
and there is a hello goodbye quality to it if you understand
nighttime stillness broken with the mumble of a tired greeting
spoken by the girl in her bright red hoodie
eyes spark in recognition of the immortal soul that passes
and drip drip drip falls the light from heaven
upon my upturned face and i drink it up
Needle and Thread
The storm comes. The woman sits on her perch at the top of the waterfall and pulls her arms around herself as the wind sweeps down as herald of what is to come. Small flashes of lightning briefly appear here and there across the sky as the purple grey clouds come closer. What shall she do? She doesn’t quite mind getting wet. Indeed, the water rushing below her provides a constant fine mist that has been keeping her cool this hot summer afternoon. But the clouds do not look very friendly anymore. Her heart races as a crackle-pop-boom sounds across the sky. She really ought to run off. The cabin was a quarter-mile down the path and if she ran now she might just make it. But her poem. Her notebook page was half-filled and her writing had run away from her thoughts just barely keeping pace with her heart. The writing sprawled from coherent to slightly chaotic but there was a sense of the real about it. And now? The clouds are almost upon her. The sky is a slightly slickly shade of green. She blinks once and inscribes a couplet upon her heart. She jumps up and off the rock and off down the grassy path she runs. A drop falls. Her poem will keep even if the drenching rains fall. The pages of her notebook might not. She runs with all her might, holding her notebook under her shirt even as her clothes begin to soak through. But there is the light twinkling. There is the porch and there is the open door. She laughs as the thunder shakes the earth.
Creation
I strive to be self sufficient in all things. But even to strive is to immediately admit defeat. Which I do. Cheerily of course. Does one rightly understand the playing field stretching out before us and see the lines marked in white? I turn away from this construction and turn my eyes to the west. There is a path that goes through the trees there and though I’m not quite sure of all the bends and dips, I do know that it ends up at the sea. I follow it and leave behind the clamorous braying of the faceless nameless horde. Perhaps I will meet a companion on the path, I know not. But if so, I will take her by the hand and we will talk of that which we see upon the way and at even-time we shall sit down underneath a gently leafing tree and pull out our supplies and feast a hearty dinner in that good fresh air. I’ll offer her an apple and she’ll give me a few of her carrots and we’ll both feast on sandwiches until our hunger has been whittled down. And then perhaps we’ll lean against the trunk of that same tree and talk of higher realities and the stars that glimmer above and the angels that we know have watched over us since we lay cosy in our mother’s wombs. Then perhaps a silence falls and we shall in our separate ponderings think on what is yet to come. There is something solid in considering the life that has been lived and the life that is yet to come. She may drop a line or two of poetry that bares her heart and in response I’ll bare mine. We are on the pilgrim road and it is good to feel the breeze that whispers through the boughs above. Soon we shall raise our heads and sniff and know the sea is nigh. Soon morning comes.
Hourglass
One strives for the sublime and hopes dearly
it is not only a dream or a mirage
perhaps the feelings stirred mean nothing
of what is real and what is not
a strong possibility one may say
especially considering the heart is fickle
in all things
yet does this mean that there is no solidity
on this rock on which i stand
the faint wistfulness i feel now
at the aroma of fresh-fallen rain
do i dream of the seaside for no purpose?
or is it true that the earth turns
in service
and that the stars sing in harmony
a truer song than i can yet fully understand
i tilt my head upwards and look and whisper praises
and shiver at the touch of autumn’s kiss
of course my dear one of course
now i know what true love is
Stanley Says
A quiet night ahead hurrah! It’s been raining on and off all day and while I’m grateful that we don’t need fear a drought anytime soon, I am a little bit tired of the constant wetness, I must confess. Someday soon perhaps the sun will show her face again. I have hopes! Now though I’m grateful for a night in which a hearty dinner shall be enjoyed and Dani and I can sit and be still and rest. So thankful for nights such as this. I would like to do some creative writing at some point, but my brain is starting to tick down and I don’t feel like my reserves have enough left to fire off the creative engines. Ah I sigh. I do feel that writing would do me ever so much good but I just don’t trust myself to write anything worthy. Of course, it’s not always about worthiness, true? I have had this thought before. Sometimes simply the stretching of one’s imagination and allowing oneself to run on down the path is enough, no matter the destination and no matter if the castle fades to mist a few hours down the line. So instead I think I will allow myself to enjoy a quiet night in which my mind settles more comfortably into this achingly wistful mood and my body relaxes on the couch in which I sit. I shall perhaps sip on something cold and let my eyes dance down a page of a favourite book. It is good to rest, is it not?
Thanksgiving
Around the table our voices raise as we sing before we pray. It’s a tradition that some may deride as old fashioned yet for us it stirs our souls and feels only right to worship as we start this feast that’s set before us. Our voices align in unity of purpose even with the voices that are dropped to sound in harmony. My eyes close as the last notes rise and fall and then resolve and then the amen sounds as is only proper when the doxology is sung. Then without even a word being said we raise our hands and join them together. I feel hers in mine and she squeezes slightly. And then my sister on the other side grabs mine and holds it lightly. And we bow our heads and then my father prays to the father of us all. There is thanks given and praise raised and of course mention made of each one of us that around that table stands and of the blessings that have rained down innumerable upon us. I sigh in my heart and let my own prayer rise silent but no less fervent to the invisible heights above where the risen one sits at the right hand of glory. The prayer goes on but only for a few more ticks of the clock, for of course while prayer is good, so is eating and to be sure it’s best to eat while the food is still hot. The amen sounds again and this time we turn to each other and smile and drop hands and pull our chairs back and sit with more or less commotion depending on who is sitting next to who. And then right when my fork is dug in and the perfect bite is about to be raised there’s a voice that pierces through. What about a toast she says? And though a part of me wants to just take a bite, I cannot say a word against so I take my glass of crimson red and raise it high and say my piece. Glory glory to our King. No matter what comes and no matter who goes, no matter the waves and no matter the storm, it is good for us to rest in the peace that comes with knowing our Lord. It is good for us to be here together in this place.
Eighteen Summers
condensation on the glass
smoke swirls up from the candle
and music hums in the air
and in this moment of all moments
my yearning grapples with my pain
and i shake in silent angst
droplets upon the page
nervous wipe them
before it stains
never mind just my tears
let them forever testify
to what i have felt this day
Something Weird 