Monday, May 25, 2015

Listen!





In the woods stood a bridge,
ten wooden slats and a railing,
stretching over a dancing stream.

I stood and watched
while the music played,
a timpani of water over rocks,
water over rocks,

until I felt the beat in my hands,
in my feet, in my chest—
until the rocks themselves
took the shape of music,

a bass note from a boulder,
a tenor made of stone,
a cappella water droplets
singling arias as they fell.

In the glinting flash of sunlight,
the resonance of rustling leaves,
the swirl and dash of water,
there formed a symphony of stream and earth
and me.





Sunday, May 17, 2015

An Agreement With My Path

This Sunday's writing prompt was from How to Walk, by Thich Nhat Hanh: "Make an agreement with the flight of stairs (I don't have stairs so I chose my slate walkway) you use most often. Decide to always practice walking meditation on those stairs, going up and going down; don’t climb those stairs absentmindedly. If you commit to this and then realize you have climbed several steps in forgetfulness, go back down and climb up them again. Over twenty years ago, I signed such an agreement with my stairs, and it has brought me great joy. "



Flagstones are solidly hard suckers. 73 of them make up a path that leads to and from my front door. I walk them dozens of times every day without really noticing them or appreciating them. So out I go to walk the familiar stones in a new way. I am not walking them in proper walking meditation form. I'm not paying attention to my breathing, but rather directing my full attention to the stones beneath my feet. I remember that they were a gift from a long-ago friend, laid down to ease the plentitude of mud that made up my path before the stones came.

The slates I walk so carelessly are really quite beautiful. Blue-gray in color, striated in places, chipped here and there, they are laid end-to-end and side-by-side from my cottage doorstep to that of my landlord in the big house. Various plants—dandelions, chickweed, violets, a few wild strawberries— grow in the dirt between the slates. Ants have their sand hills there, and stray leaves that escaped the rake huddle along the edges.

The path leads me from home to the world and back again. It is a constant in a universe of change, though even it changes under the hand of winter frost and summer rains. The slates themselves harbor the weather, soaking up the sun that burns my bare feet when the temperature rises and sporting a layer of ice when the temperature drops.


Today they are warm to my bare feet and dusty from broom leavings sent carelessly across them when I swept the adjoining patio. I had plans to pull the greenery growing between the slates, to tidy the walk of rooted weeds that, if left alone, overtake the slates; messy, sprawling weeds only because they are unwanted. Today, however, they will get a reprieve. Today they are part of my contract with my path, a reminder to travel mindfully across these 73 stones, my path to and from home, to and from enlightenment.


Sunday, May 03, 2015

Witness





An early morning walk as the sun rises. A placid pond. Four geese silently floating. Then a great clamor from water and sky, a large bird of prey flapping out of a cove clutching something in its talons, a pair of low flying geese screaming behind it, wings beating double time. They fly one above, one below the bird of prey. As the three wheel about, the talons release their treasure. Something falls amid the floating geese and splashes - an egg, a fledgling? I stare into the sun and cannot be sure.

As if it does not matter, the bird of prey flaps toward land and perches high in a pine. The pursuing geese speed away, back to the cove. The geese on the pond circle and talk, circle and talk. I am merely a witness. I walk on. When I return half an hour later, the geese on the pond are still talking about it.


Sunday, April 12, 2015

What Are You Laureate of Today?

Today’s prompt was to be Poet Laureate of something – a place, a species, a time of day. I chose to be the voice of Bartholomew’s Cobble, a nearby natural landmark, to become the advocate for the trees, the river, the small inhabitants of hedge and meadow so one would know about it’s small miracles and hidden mercies.



In a small eastern town
at a bend in the river,
a curve in the road,
a sign marks the site of
a natural wonder
where, for a nominal fee,
anyone can wander through meadows
and old growth forest,
see ancient rocks cobbled together,
towering monoliths that overlook
a winding flow of duck-speckled water.

Where, in winter’s deep snow
one can track the demise of
some small tunneling creature
at the claws of a silent owl
or the jaws of a hungry fox
while the Hunter’s Moon
watches with indifference.
Or where, in spring,
one can hear the Bobolink call
from the barberry hedge,

where, in summer even the crickets exclaim over the
sweet, soft smell of the meadow grasses
and the way the sun leans against
the trunk of the sycamore and where,
in autumn, leaves are sky bound things,
strangers to the earth
as the wind loosens their moorings
and sends them sailing, lilting
through the air
to rest on grass and hedge,
brook and rill,
road and path.
There they stay
looking up at the sky

until winter closes their eyes.


Sunday, March 08, 2015

My Pollyanna Life

Today's Sunday Writing prompt was two-fold, awakening the senses and having a conversation with the morning. Here are two of my responses.



In Conversation

Good morning day,
drifting in snowflakes,
your cold gray face freckled with birds,
the sunrays of your smile absent,
beaming elsewhere.

Good morning day,
lightly slipping in beneath the curtains,
rousing me slowly, pulling me from dreams,
drawing me to the window
to watch the snow float down.

I recognize yesterday and tomorrow
in the steadfastness of the trees,
see the past heaped in white drifts on the ground,
feel the future on the wind,
taste the present in a sip of scalding tea,

hear the passing of the hour
in the tick of the clock,
see the light swell and illuminate every corner,
smell the time of day cooking on the stove,
an egg singing praises to the morning.



New Day

Wake up eyes.
See the light come creeping in
making friends with the shadows.
Watch the little bird with the red hood
eating the peanut butter suet
and the arms of the trees spreading themselves
across the gray horizon.

Wake up ears.
Hear the clock ticking off the minutes
and the rooster announcing its own presence.
Listen to the silence that lies beneath all sound
and the sounds that dip into the silence.

Wake up nose.
Revel in the scents of toast
and of bacon frying crisp in the pan.
Smell the gunmetal of new snow that drifts
down like feathers in the cold.

Wake up mouth.
Sing praises to the new day,
mimic the chickadee with a whistle,
bless the tea kettle and the breakfast plate.

Wake up fingers and toes.
Feel the silkiness of the sheets,
the chill of the floor and the warmth of fuzzy slippers.
Indulge in the softness of water.
Smooth the unruly hair and wipe the grit of sleep
from the eyes.

Wake up self.
Merge into the morning
watch the birds,
listen to the kettle,
taste an orange,
smell an egg frying.
Touch the day with gentle fingers.
Step softly.