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.
Tag: muse
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.
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.
Upon the Brow
Hello friends! A quick little post this evening before I dive into a bit of reading. I have just started a re-read of Name of the Wind and oh I had forgotten how much I love it. I am delighted anew as I read the words dance across the page. Yes this series may never be finished but I’m ok with that – the beauty in this book alone is enough. So yes, reading time awaits. It’s been raining much of the day and so it’s been that grey kind of day that lingers in the bones and makes one linger in the moment and ponder what’s come before. I am happy though and even pleased that I got to write a bit earlier (scroll down). Don’t take any of it overly seriously – all the writings were just little pieces of imagination attempting to let my creativity do something worthwhile for once. Not entirely sure I succeeded with any of them, alas. Especially the poems were something dreadful now that I look at them in the harsh light after the fever has worn off. I don’t know what’s going on, poetry used to be my bread and butter and now it seems a bit drab and off and doesn’t flow as well as it used to. My prose is where I live these days and I suppose I’m grateful for that. But I’m tempted to focus on poetry more now just to see if I can reclaim the flame and dash off some lines that make me smile even after the fact. We shall see, we shall see. Anyway, I’ve talked far too much about writing and not even sure why I decided to write this piece at all. But I will let it live, I suppose. Thoughts on the page are a reflection of lightning in the mind and I am grateful to have these odd writings to look at after a time. Whenever James-of-the-future re-reads this, he will maybe be puzzled at the existence of these lines yet I urge him to think that in this moment I feel at peace and oh so very alive. It is these quiet moments where the candle crackles and the music floats across the room and I look to see my wife smiling to herself that I cannot deny the magic of this life that I somehow have been graciously given. It is good for us to be here.
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
To the Brim
she walks up to the lighthouse
as i in fear linger behind
dare i follow or speak a word?
or would it be folly to presume?
and so i watch her step up to the door
in a second she’s gone inside
and i tremble and look up to the stars
even as their beauty overwhelms me
my thoughts flee and i let out a sigh
no matter where this day ends up
no matter if my heart stays broken
i still am anchored by the oath i have given
and held tight by the love i have known
and i too am counted beautiful
and named even as the countless stars
so i name her now in my heart of hearts
and hurry up the path she trod
Adventure
The light fades in the western sky. I would love to see the stars this night but I know it is rather unlikely. Instead, I shall set my back against the sun-warmed rock and pull out my notebook and attempt to scribble something worthy of what I have seen this day. My whole life I have longed to witness the grand and beautiful and be a part of something bigger and greater than myself. I have longed to be living a story that could properly be called epic.
Yet as any seasoned reader knows, it’s a perilous thing to wish to live in the stories that so often thrill us. The highs are high yes. But oh the lows. The pain and the anxiety, the heart pounding in your throat and the bile rising as you fear you’ll lose all you ate that day. I do rather wish now to go back to my little town and enjoy a quiet evening by the fireside.
I saw death today. It’s the first time I’ve seen it up close in the raw and wild. And it was a friend. I will talk of her later, I don’t think I can bear to think further on her now. We started this quest together in joyous abandon, sure that it was our destiny and what had been writ for us in the stars. Now a bare few weeks into our adventuring, she is gone and I remain and there are no stars this night.
In Between
approach the lower doorway and
ask if all is as it seems
i find it slightly peculiar
how the light turns green now
just when i’m ready to sleep
do you also ascend in half steps
do you feel the sea breeze too?
feel my heart thrum thrum thrum
eyes open wider
the corridor stretches
is it almost time to dream?
A Mock Severity Demonstrated
See how the storms howl outside? Yes of course I’ll be safe, but let me open the door for a second, just a second I promise! And let me stick my head out to feel the spray of the rain on my face and feel the raw wind in all its glory. Too often the safety and security of our modern life aids in our forgetting the fragility of our frames. We are used to being master of all we survey. Stand for a moment as the thunder rolls and you will not feel as if you are much of a master at all. Perhaps it is good to feel small now and then. I close the door once more. Only a little wet, see? Now I don’t need to take a shower for the water falling from the heavens was sufficient to wash me clean. No I won’t shake myself on the mat. Throw me a towel and I’ll dry off and then let’s turn the oven on as we prepare for dinner. I like the natural beauty of the outdoors but I also crave simple comforts like dry clothes and hot food. Electricity is pretty nice too.
Something Weird 