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.