White Scarlet

 

The way scalloped leaves are always ready to cup the dawn,

        and gather sunbeams,

The juxtaposition of white flowers against scarlet petals,

        poinsettia and violet, creates sanctuary.

The contemplative beauty of soft chanting: Ave Maria,

        Dana Nobis Pacem in the early morning,  

Helps my soul hold the sorrowful news of this awakening day;

       solemn contrast to the joy and promise

of Christmas morning, of my beloveds gathered.   I mourn with

       the suffering, those who have lost, are depressed, and

dying.  May the coming year illuminate all our paths as we open,

       and walk the way of compassion and fierce Love.

Solstice

 

Solstice 

Peace my friend,

Peace in the darkness,

as sun shortens its bright arch

and moon rules the day,

pull in, unplug; the time of gathering

has ceased. Huddle around fires of inner

reserves. Gather ‘round solstice flame,

bonfires of wood and soul, of authenticity,

and deeper connection. Face to face,

touchable, reliable. Friends, family, soul

companions. Burn what no longer serves,       

light your touch and go forth. Be a light

carrier. There are enough of us, my

friend; Light grows stronger in the

dark. Peace, my friend. All will be okay, in

time, in space where inner fires

burn. Fellow sensitives, old souls, advocates

raise your voice as the wise owl hoots. Yes,

know the coyote shadows stalking the

edges; know candle snuffers who haunt, some

with fears of their own making. Talking heads

churn and spit. Disconnect. Trust what lies

deep, hold onto what is true in you, what rises,

sets in sweet sky rhythm. Hope is new bricks made

from war rubble and ash. No, hope is light

carriers, building from ash, worry, fear, dis-ease.

Hope is truth sniffers, rubble sifters, those holding

hands around soul fires, beating back despair

by celebrating humanity: grief, agony, loss,

nothingness, darkness until creativity rises

like the new moon, like the coming of

the Light, like restoration, justice, strength

perseverance, triumph. Peace my

friend. Peace in the darkness,

as the sun shortens its bright arch

and moon rules the day. Trust the

coming LIGHT. 

...and the day begins, with the coming of the light

light and shadow throughout the day

until night falls again 

"A new dawn is rising; great will be the understanding of those who know Love. The darkness of ignorance will be overcome! The nations will be united in their diversity, living in harmony and with integrity - then will fear be no more. Love will reign in every heart!  ...may you walk in a new dawn, may you dance with light hearts and spread peace throughout the earth."   Ps 68  Psalms for Praying by Nan Merrill

When the Hounds Bay

Trunks from the attic of the old homestead. Not quite sure they fit in this new place.  

I give you the challenging poem below in the midst of happy photos of my holiday decorating. 

This season my heart is especially full. I remember my mom this month - December being the month of her birth and death. I pulled a tiny suitcase from my Christmas decoration box recently, her old cassette tape holder.

This case held her most precious collection: tape recordings from grandchildren, quartet music recorded by my brother sing all four parts and recorded in his own music studio, other quartet and hymn recordings. Now, I use it to store my own outdated cassettes. I've looked at this case every Christmas for last few years, even moved it to our new house and barely noticed it, yet this year grief suddenly washes over me at the sight. 

Perhaps my heart is tenderized because so many dear people have died this year. And because so many troubling events are happening. Even as I write a friend waits beside her husband's hospice bed, holding sacred vigil. Ah, life, what can one do?  


Embrace poetry, love deeply, live justly, make your corner of the world more beautiful.... 

 

    

              .....especially as the hounds bay. 

                                              * * *



When the Hounds Bay

When dogs refuse to use the newly

installed dog door, and instead stand

dolefully on the porch looking through

the French doors, and you’re too lazy or

overwhelmed to get up again to

show them the way, that’s

when the hounds bay. When toddlers empty

every toy bin and grind modeling clay

into the carpet; when two harnessed dogs

on two long lines pull you to your knees,

whining: deer!, turkey!;  when ravens grouch,

driving off hawks and heavy mist rolls over

the mountains, that’s when the hounds bay. 

When the percolator boils over and

politicians spew, when men grope and fondle

yet fear intimacy, the hounds gather

momentum. When children are shamed, girl

commodities traded, trafficked and hidden

like colorful aces in a sumptuous deck,

that’s when the hounds bay. When hard 

emotions are squashed and screams

muzzled, and children work long hours

for my smooth, dark chocolate, that’s

when the hounds bay. When everyone

sleep walks, stifling body and soul, and

starvation of every kind goes unnoticed, the

hounds eventually get tired and go lie down. 

                                                    * * *

Arise, bay if needed; keep watch, stay awake. Shine a light into the world's darkness. Be a light carrier! 

Isaiah 9:2 - The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.

 When they saw the star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy! Matthew 2:10.

                                     

Questions Can be Beacons in the Fog

The path is shrouded in beauty, the way

mysterious, fitting for a time as this. Lean

in. Expand. How shall we be this day? What

percolates in bellies and hearts across the

globe?  The mind has had its day.  Today

belongs to dreamers, artists, poets. Tomorrow

calls forth the intuitive. Obscurity wants light

carriers, beacons in the fog. Who is trustworthy,

what kind of community do we desire? Enough

questions.  I walk to the woods. Drape my body

length-wise over fallen trunk. Moss below me;

sky above. Pull up my knees, prayer form in

reverse. Chest opened wide for breath, arms

dropped limply down sides, shoulders brushing

rough bark. Fingers trail down, finding rest on leaf-

coated earth. Heart opening pose. More real

than yoga bolster, this old log. Sunlight squints

vision. Tree tops dance with clouds. Oak roots

murmur and wind whispers secretly through

boughs. Tree roots communicate: 

Grandmother to mother to daughter to grand-daughter...

an unseen network of tendrils and

fungus. Branching as deep and wide below

as seen above.  I feel the vibrant community.

Know this is as real as trolls on facebook, the

bleeding hearts, cynics, mockers, idealists  

commenting on news feeds. All the yelling, all

the silence, both equally felt. What is real?  

What are the nerves and sinew, the communication

lines, the heartbeats of this brave, new

world?  These woods open my heart. And, across

the way in woods higher than the log on which

I muse, lives another. Over there, the woods are a

fortress. The trees guard private property. Is the

heart over there closed? Everything belongs - 

so beautiful in theory; challenging in reality.