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: writing
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.
Extra Time
Hello friends! Quick post before I move into some reading time here. It’s Saturday evening and finally but finally it’s time to rest. To be sure, it’s been a good day, just quite…errands filled. Took the car in for an oil change first thing, then stopped and saw the guys for a few minutes at breakfast taco place. Following that, back home to see Dani awake! We went for a little grocery store run to pick up all the necessary items for next few days…then back home for taco breakfast. Then? Cooking time! Prepped my green bean and potato salad for church potluck tomorrow. I’m actually super psyched for that one, it’s a new recipe and it should be yummy (red potatoes, fresh green beans, sliced red onions, oil, vinegar, spices & cherry tomatoes). That done, Dani and I decided a rare Saturday gym visit was in order. Drove down to the gym and conquered an upper body session, then up to car shop to pick up Dani’s car (its last hurrah to her great sorrow). Once back home, we drove out again to get some Target time! Wandered the aisles there, ending up not buying anything and then home again, where I have spent the last good bit prepping burritos for tonight’s dinner. Finally, shower and now finally couch and rest. And watching the rest of the Norway/England game. On England! And I am amused, after writing all that, I do feel justified with a nice long reading time. My body is tired, my mind is tired…it will feel good to sink into a book and enjoy some sweet rest time that my Father has given me. I did want to write more and write something deep and encouraging, but perhaps this will just be a newsy update and that’s all and I really don’t have to write anything more, as much as I often feel the weight of all the whirling thoughts and feelings that cry out.
So now? Rest and but still maybe that rest can be found in writing a little something? We shall see. Peace and love, my friends. Peace and love.
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
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.
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
Something Weird 