dusk and dawn and
the pages in between
the perfect ambience
of a quiet day
I resolve to write you to sleep
wake these weary eyes
after the guilt
of clumsy fingers subsides
ah, what sensual guilt
to rest in indecision
the horizontal body
against the star-filled sky
I fear these eyes will not wake.
together. we may weigh more than the morning sun.
There is uncertainty ahead for those of us who walk alone.
The youngest minds know best.
Our journey together is the season hidden beneath our feet.
The destination is who we carry with us in our hands.
Today the colors lit up the sky at dusk
stubborn trees refusing to give up the day
the sun from the ground in yellow hues
a proclamation to fight a bit longer.
I wonder who noticed among the darkness impending
that the Earth was fighting for its name “Life”
and for its soul “Light”, for its breath “Water”.
I walked away like the others
beacons falling at our feet.
Will there be another Spring?
Will there be another choice?
The past few days, I have been at a loss. The sight of fall turning towards winter accompanied by an increasing chill in the air. The world, our neighbors seemingly devoid in many places of humanity. Personally, I received news of an indefinite separation from my voice teacher due to a personal crisis in her life.
How quickly what we know as routine comforts can be lost. The feelings of warmth and the brightness of color. A friendly voice in conversation or in song that plays on repeat in our minds now contemplated only through small empty spaces.
I seek to find a patient resolve that there is undiscovered wisdom in change, that there is no weakness in questioning the present journey and its destination. Tonight, I revisited the beginning of my journey “finding voice” via an old poem of mine, and through these words of the past am reminded of the many ways to seek out completeness, as the teacher and as the student.
Voice Lessons (written September 24, 2014)
In pictures I teach the students about
the apple tree and what it learns
about its own life
that blossoms will
come upon spring and the lush green
bursts of foliage will cover its upper
body in summer
and that soon—at now
the fruits of summer life will step forth
in memories as round and as crisp as orbs
that lie loose on the lines of its branches.
How proper that on these days I
become that tree. I become the fall
and its memories. Its pages that when dropped
can be scattered in words
and propelled from the mouths of babes
their flavorful sweet songs
the melodies and their company
which serve to warm us on the coming winter days.
Below is what incompleteness sounds like. I grieve the loss of my teacher. Her echoes are now empty spaces in this verse of the classic, Natural Woman.
Tomorrow we have no choice but to accept the change we cannot control. Standing erect with the fullness of that apple tree. Harvest time.
The end of the day
when the body rests in harmonious partnership with comfort
an oxymoron to uncertainty, the human will relive
its subconscious babble in the dream.
how many manifestations of destiny exist behind windows
when life is about choice and time is about limits
bury the rest in clay of different colors
body from the Earth, mind from the Divine
peering through the windows of what is lost
the sight of mounds and mounds I sleep.
I sleep now feeling weighed upon by all I have lost to the ego.
There are dreams to be had—in tonight’s I’ll be flying.
What do you spend your mind on these days
the value of time is the race to knowledge not understanding
I recall a silent world at least certain periods of contemplative silence
I remember the freedom of knowing my body in relation to the Earth
the six directions of self teetering above, below, in front of, behind
side by side realistic expectations
I even remember the horizon its direct line and its indirect story
the promise of surprises, the human acceptance of doubt as acceptable to being.
I imagined growing out of this Earth with the sun of my own mind
layers of thought unveiled by voices and books quiet, quiet contemplation
music not madness.
If I am left to become young on my own
I will be the last one to remember (this I fear)
the combination of eyes and words and patience and kisses
and to think naively it could happen again even better the next time around.