Returning from another Chicago Thanksgiving

Peering out my Canadair window at dusk,

we smoothly arc and bank the atmosphere.

I am almost home. I am almost here.

In velvet descent I see the gentle curve of creeks

curling the marshes under the pinkish air.

Ever nearer now, the stars of street lamps peek out there.

As the plane touches down it’s as if the wheels

receive an injection of terra firma. A jolting, squeal,
and then, out come the cell phones--  

Angel's home

Badness be an angel

Badness be an angel

Never done the

right thing feels OK

don’t feel wrong

Not good enough

That’s the truth

that be the girl

I know who is tough

Badness be an angel

Always trying to be more

that be the girl

that is me

Cascading down the river

Carried over the falls

feels right, feels OK

don’t feel wrong

First planning ahead

Then in the moment

movin’, movin’ on

trying not dying … yet

That be the girl who’s smilin’

Badness in her soul, but trying’

            tears in her heart

            eyes watchin’ … you.

White Point Garden

“Count them happy

who for their faith

and their courage

endured a great fight.”

The Battery--marked throughout

with memories of the manned redoubts,

the warriors, the fighters for freedom;

from ship to sub, pirate to historian

capstans, rifles, mortars, and guns--

bears no regret.

You stand upon that point of land

framed by fort and isle and sand

dedicated to struggles lost and won,

but it is the trees, patient and gracious

that say, “Stay, stay a while with us;

you are safe.”

Overspread with carpet grass and leaves--

carelessly brushed by the ceaseless harbor breeze,

White Point reigns as Charleston’s bowsprit.

Bounded by the sea wall, facing off the sea,

in a dulcet undertone, she whispers,

“Bring it on.”

“Count them happy

who for their faith

and their courage

endured a great fight.”

Is it not an apt verse for human life?

Standing on white sea shells, alive;

pointing outward to our soul’s delight;

resting inward,

We too endure.

Charleston, July 15, 2012

Perfect form

Perfect form.

Perfect surface.

Perfect moment.

Standing there

in stillness

he and I.

Both waiting

I could have stayed with him

until all the others left

the noisy admirers,

the dutiful,

until we were alone together;

until we were locked up in darkness.

Forever.

But it seems that

despite his eternal gaze,

his pure white skin,

his immobile stance--

stone resting in his hand,

the strap cast over his shoulder and back--

his ever ready watchfulness

his confidence and clear intent,

that I am the one

who is actually alive;

I am the one who is breathing.

I am the one who must move.

Not so. David.

What have I learned about Italy?

(Chaperoning 9 Ninth graders for 10 days in Italy)

We were an amoeba.

A group of cells--

living and breathing

stretching and pulling this way and that--

usually with imagined purpose

doing what we were designed to do:

seeking nourishment

like krill in a whale’s bale.

We were a messy lot.

We came, we saw, we conquered nothing.

The Italian peninsula is big and hilly--

full of stones and grass and trees

and cities rich with reminders

of those who came before.

It has sought to tell their stories

of discontent and relief;

of desires of family;

of struggle and victory;

All the stories.

It has done rather well at that.

It is a good thing we were together--

our hearts and minds

willing to see, to take in.

Busy with picture taking and

memorizing tableaus

of our foolishness,

whether I realized it or not,

our amoeba was seeking joy

and joy we received.

Ciao Bella! 

Sad little demitasse cup and saucer...

We hold onto things

                                   

PART I

I folded over the table

where I was  folding newsprint paper

around a picture of something

I wanted to hold onto.

But I couldn’t; I folded it tighter

hugging my fist wrapped picture

to my forehead,

but the tears just came anyway.


It was a picture of a toddler

in a tiny swimsuit

with safety bubble on her back

by a swimming pool.

She is carefully guiding the pool skimmer pole

with her little hands

gathering those annoying bits of leaves and fly parts

that she doesn’t want to swim with--

--little master of her domain.

A sweet moment captured in a frame

a symbol of all the moments I am holding onto. 

                                     *** 

                                    PART II

I have held onto so many things.

There are millions of emblems

bouncing around me.

with their nagging little voices:

Remember me, Love me, Save me;

receipts, old financial papers—

how long do I keep these?,

pictures of everyone I ever knew,

a broken demitasse cup—

a little glue and it would be like new;

an earring missing a pearl—

surely I can find a little pearl to restore it--

handmade baby clothes—

really? Do I need handmade baby clothes??

                                    ***

                                    PART III

This moving thing is not just about packing:

save, give away, trash. Oh no, it’s much more than that.

At my age, I am jettisoning huge tracts of my life,

entire chapters in the shredder, debris down the drain.

Is there any reason to be reminded of any of it anyway?

I shall relegate all memories to that “Where did I put my keys?”

region of the brain.

Their work is done.  Those memories made me.

I need not carry their detritus around with me anymore. 

I need not trail a dust cloud of impertinent minutia.

It is time to fly the coop, leave the nest

of accumulated possessions and lessons learned

and just be.  

So I can just go…

                                    ***

                                    PART IV

Each successive move, I strip more away.

In both possessions and memories.

Soon I will be living in a hut.

Thinking about the present.

Inspired by Suzanne

Low Sunday 2012

Imagine you are in a great cavernous room;

a place that makes  you feel small, yet safe--

vaulted and open, spacious and free

like a cathedral of trees, or a beech with a breeze.

There, there are many strangers

and acquaintances

from the present and the past

and someone stands and says:

“I am a nobody, no one special.

but I heard something.”

(and—we all love gossip—every ear is ready to hear)

“I have heard that …” he says.

“if you have a secret worry

or a small secret fear--

something you have told no one,

absolutely no one… ever;

or if you did, not in a way that they believe you.

Even your parents did not believe you—

‘oh, poo poo,

you do not mean that’

(because they knew

it was true

and thought if they denied it,

it would not be true)

Well, if you have this thought,

I have heard there is someone

who knows how you feel,

what you think…

In fact, you all have someone,

someone who believes you

and whose eyes drink you in,

whose arms enfold you

without touching your skin

you feel warmth

like when you come in from the cold.

You are transformed ”

He says.  “I have heard this is true.”
I too have heard this for years and years,

but I have not run into this someone.

Not personally.  Have you?

To be polite, I don’t challenge him.

No one does.  It’s such a nice idea.

We all hope we will run into someone like this

for we think we are ready to tell our secrets.

Are they secrets?

What if I have the same secrets?

If I have the same fears, the same worries,

do I need to share my secrets?

Are they still secrets? 

Or do I just think it’s a secret?

What if I go about my business

pretending I know the secrets

of everyone I meet.

Believing them,

drinking them in with my eyes,

enfolding them with my imaginary arms,

sending warmth so they won’t be cold.

Then I would be somebody special.

Savasana

Lying on my mat lightly breathing with

my body feeling heavy sinking and

weighted down on a non existent floor.

I feel tear drops peaking out when

hands press down on my shoulders--are

my hands softly slipping under these hands?

I massage the palms with my thumbs then

softly slip away like a breath and a caress and

my fingertips too drift away, back to my sides.

I am imagining that it is the end of life and

I am nearing heaven--but not quite yet for

there is too much to do, but less and less.

My lists vaporize, I faintly hear the bells of

the music that surrounds us all beating a

slow steady rhythm calling me inward.

I see tableaus, pictures gone by and

albumen images of the past stalking me on

my closed eye lids—sifting in and out.

Still images of moments fade into view while

I breathe in very, very slowly and let it out just

as slack and easy, for now I have no arms or legs.

I hope it will be like this:  melting away or

heavy and weightless, so very tired that

you really don’t care if you breathe or live or die.

Nonetheless, now I shall float away into

that distant beacon of bright light by

choice, because I can and it is dark here.

Thomas O. Morin

Thy name is integrity.

Thank you for welcoming Jack and me into the Asbury church family

many, many moons ago.

Thy name is gracious.

Thank you for sharing your grief while reading many, many condolence cards

when Mary died.

Thy name is brave.

Thank you for encompassing me in your joyous love of the outdoors

when we kayaked the bay, the Salmon River, Fish Creek, the Moose River, the White River and on a very special trip, the Nantahala.

Thy name is happiness.

And thank you for the grace I witnessed as you neared the end

of our lonely struggles here on earth.

Thy name is inspiration.

“Secure yourself to heaven, Tom,

Hold on tight, the night has come.

Fasten up your earthly burdens,

You have just begun.”

Goodbye sweet prince of a man

Thy name is etched upon my heart.

"Secure Yourself" Indigo Girls

Amy Elizabeth Ray and Emily Ann Saliers

As I lie in bed (My faithful dog)

As I lie in bed

on a Saturday morning,

warm, cozy and content--

gazing at 6” of new snow,

my faithful dog comes by

tail waggin’ around

and says:

“Hey, you’re up!

Let’s go out!

Right now would be good!”

As I settle myself

at my desk ready to work,

the household chores done--

and all my errands run,

my faithful dog arrives

grubby toy in her mouth

and says:

“Hey, you’re up!

Let’s play tug-o-war!

Right now would be good!”

As I rest on the sofa

a little tired and sad

my nook in hand--

the remote close by.

my faithful dog sidles over

and says:

“Hey, there you are!

“I’m hungry, feed me now!

Right now would be good!”

Her eyes say it all:

“Whatever I want

would make you happy, right?

Right now would be good.”

Our every  movement  planned

(grocery shopping)

Before me a sea

of fruits and veggies…

and tended grocery carts

Between mustard greens

and the fresh string beans

I see an old friend of mine

We are most likely

to cross paths and meet

if I thread my way towards her.

Just the two of us

amid the shopping chaos--

making a chance encounter--

I hurry a bit

so as not to miss

smiling all the way.

An instant before impact

we spy and react

Bump, shock, “Hi!”

Not as expected:

delight un-reflected--

Just a “hi-how-are-you?”

I sigh, “fine-and-you?”

So embarrassed.

I roll on towards potatoes.

our every movement planned

Am I…

Am I relaxing or wasting time?

Who names my act,
you out there or I?


There is the laundry: 2 piles  on the bedroom floor

one darks , one whites, waiting patiently, I might add,

to be washed; their very presence a bore.


There  are dust bunnies of doggie fur

lurking in the corners—hoping for sunlight

to reveal themselves to me—yet I defer.


Dishes to wash—usually a satisfactory task—

sit and sulk in the sink.  The peanut butter

caking; milk painting the bottom of the glass.


I know they are there.

They mount up like ghosts around me

ceaselessly hovering in the air.


The stacks of paper all about call out.  

Read me! Sort me! File me!

I can hear the rustling sound of credit card bills.


Messages to reply, couched on my computer

and the smart fone silently cries: answer all of me!

Really, must I?


It is my mind that listens and decides

I am wanton,  a bad girl…

I should, I could, I ought.


Reset, breathe, let this laziness be my choice,

the frame of the puzzle of my life;

the edge that holds “to do” in place.


I am the namer.  So be it that today

I rest in refreshing stillness

not a naughty willingness to run away.

Occupy Rochester January 2012

Occupy tent village

I think those little Occupy tents are so cute.

The whole thing gives me a little giggle.

An outpost in the middle of the city--

Tidy signs posted along the commuters’ route.

Canvases tied to trees and tethered to the earth,

The symbolism is too much to bear: 

Little soldiers shabbily sheltered against the elements;

Little Robin Hoods demanding recompense for our true worth.

What are they thinking, the 1%?  Do they care?

Occupy Wall Street, Occupy Rochester, Occupy my couch.

The 1% is greedy, of that there is no doubt,

And the 1% is not concerned with what is fair.

My dad said people give for very personal reasons. 

Does the 99% need to provide the 1% a reason to give?

To provide the 1% a reason to do business differently?

Because now, what they do, seems like treason.

To the 1%, Occupy is like an ant under a tank tread. 

And the 1% actually pays taxes and donates to needy.

It just doesn’t pay enough or donate enough--

Because it’s not in the 1%’s job description to share.

So, if the greedy 1% will not change of it’s own will ,

What does that leave the lowly 99% to do besides Occupy?

We must change the rules of the game, carve up the mighty 1%’s pie!.

Reform the regulations! Revise the laws! Write a bill!

Oh my goodness! This is turning into work.

Camping and marching sounds ever so much easier.

But can 99 of us change the will of 1 legislator?

Is it a responsibility that the 99% can not shirk?

It’s a daunting task to vote them in or vote them out.

If only we did not feel like ants under tank treads.

If only we felt powerful, if only we believed in change.

Perhaps we do, those darn tents are so cute.