From my window I see
What the window allows me to see
And what my mind allows itself to see
From my heart I see
What the window will always miss
And what I must learn to see without looking
And someday without looking or seeing
I will learn to know from within
Without windows or anything
God always seems to know
When certain people should show up in our lives
That is the case with Shirley Buck Welton
An amazing woman, one hundred years young
Who signifies an undying passion for life
Not just life, but a rich and creative life
Shirley was also my mother’s name
Mom lived a short life, just 59 years
This Shirley, a more refined work of art than my dear mother
A deeper sense of who she is
And able to live that sense each day
That’s something to admire and emulate
Shirley’s blue eyes sparkle with life
Letting those she encounters know
That something beyond what we seek
Is embedded within us, deeply
Undeniably omnipresent
Unforgettably shaping us, and all we touch
Shirley showed me her Steinway piano
With her since ten years of age
Which will likely endure beyond in that special place
Where played piano notes linger forever
Feeding the reverberating hum of the universe
A sound only our hearts can hear
With these words, I honor my new friend Shirley
Giving thanks to her, and God for sending her my way
We try so hard, at times
even desperately seek
That part of us, appearing
so very lost, lonely, and
Often forgotten, yet
Always yielding unknown possibilities
No easy way, getting
to the right point, where
reality reminds us, that
the unknown serves the infinite–
That place we come from, and
ultimately end up
I look at the waning evening sky, which
always gives way, to
That some place lost inside us, where
not even memory survives, but
something larger beckons, till
darkness ends, and the morning sun shines
And some days, when hope gives out, there
is always a memory, ever so faint
That carries the day, and
Finally allows each of us
To march past our stumbling, and
Find a much better life
Spring’s back, her presence all about
Bluebells soaking up sun by the giant oak tree
Perky yellow daffodils lining the cobblestone walkway
Gossiping in the gentle morning breeze
Cardinals and robins know what’s ahead
Things we can’t foresee
Their sweet songs drift across the back woods
Poetry in honor of spring’s eternal promise
One can’t help but dawdle
Linger in the sunshine
Robin egg blue daydreams fill our heads
Carrying us off, another place and time
No escaping her contagious spell
Cast upon us, we dally
For just an instant, forget ourselves
Remembering things that really matter
I watched him closely, as he watched me
Our eyes locked, just for seconds
But long enough to see his soul
That something wrapped about him
Like a sheer linen blanket
The sort of material grandma used
To make living room curtains
Light, airy, gently filtering light
Never blocking it
Or letting too much in
Once our eyes disengaged, I thought
He’s just a simple bird
An ordinary bird, wearing drab brown and orange feathers
Much like myself, I must admit
But there is something special about this bird
Certainly not his colors, or his official pedigree
And not even his choice of music
Some almost unknown Bach overture
Perhaps it was the fact, he called me by my name
And perched upon my right shoulder
That I believe, entitles him to some praise
On this eve of first April
We cannot but wonder
Whether fools we are by nature
Or partisan glad tidings we keep
March has nearly passed
Just moments left to go
Before we turn the page
Another month we must ready to go
They speak of spring
Its renewing praises we sing
Yet monarch butterflies lie so far ahead
Warm weather surely awaits us all
Sometimes I sit in hopeless wonder
Wishing intermittent patches of sun
Could only grow
Filling us complete, inside and out
Spring of course waits no person
Not a one ever so worthy
And so I sit and patiently wait
Spring, its promises, never can break
Flickering moments of light
Faint memories
Wayward ghosts wandering in unplowed fields
Spring is nigh
Soon the farmer will plow his fields
Once in a while we’re lucky
A new window opens
We see past our narcissistic pain
What we think we can’t live without
What the farmer must plow under
It takes courage
To leave things as they are
To be just the witness–
Watching the watcher
Till both become one
Spring is a good thing
Especially after a long hard winter
It’s time to plow the fields
Laugh and dance
Sit without purpose in the sun
We slip into our darkness
Tattered old gloves worn on matching left hands
While fingerless right hands grope for the illusive light switch
We remember from childish old dreams
Refusing to set us free
This darkness clutches itself in disgust
Joyless masturbation, blank expressions
On faceless strangers we call friends
But deep down we know
There’s no befriending the darkness
There’s no reasoning with the unreasonable
Let alone shadows birthing shadows
In the absence of light
No daybreak to brush off the nightmares
We’ve learned to wear night and day
Only loneliness can reach into our darkness
The place we call home
Because we know it, and it knows us
Like our mothers, who can’t let go
So their pain becomes ours
Some things we carry around, even Mondays
Till our arms give out, or they kill us
Most things we encounter in life
Work themselves out, or move on
Our possibilities always exceed
What our attention can bear
What our patience will allow us
Leaving us what we cling to
Mondays will always be mere appetizers
To our full-course possibility week
This Monday is no exception
Leaving us hungry for something more
Tuesday will come no matter what we do
How we greet it, how it greets us
Depends upon us, our attitude
Our ability to transcend all Mondays
For a long time, she was good
Able to carry her own water
Now, she is the water, flowing
Restlessly toward the ocean
Where it all began
And where it always ends
Life becomes a mystery
The moment we step outside
The flow creating us
The moment we wander beyond
That simple knowing point
We call the now
The water eventually claims us all
No escaping her pushing and pulling
Sweeping us in and out
Seashells on shifting beach sand
Hoping a believable answer will wash up
Washing all waiting away
Just because it’s spring
Doesn’t let us off the hook
To be all we can be
At times, more than we imagine
So many springs come back to me
In memories, long lost moments
Hovering in universal timeless expectation
That place we wait till peace finds us
One place I shall always remember
And truly honor till it completely fills me
Is the side yard of our house on Indiana Street in Martins Ferry
Where each spring the forsythia blazed in golden glory
And where amidst this blaze
Truth never waited, dallied, or slumbered
While what we truly are, bloomed
In each breath we took
Life is filled, so many promises
Things we’d never imagine
Lest we’re reminded each moment
Who we are, why we’re here
Growing up, the possibilities overflowed
Went far beyond expectations
Yet, we knew inside, we had limits
Indelible resting points along the way
I never quite knew
We’d ever be held so accountable
For what we are, have always been
And who we’re destined to become
Who could possibly imagine
Or fathom the depths
Surrounding us each moment
So much left for tomorrow
So in these last moments
Let us celebrate, give appreciation
For the truth showing up
Even when the sun births new shadows
Funny what we remember
When we’ve had too many snoots
More than our share
At Dutch Henry’s Bar in Martins Ferry
Not the kind of place Zagat’s would ever rate
Let alone a place you’d tell your mother about
Unless of course, you grew up in Martins Ferry
Where James Wright and I were born
James is gone, now thirty years, can you believe it?
So it’s entirely up to me
To tell the story my own way
But certainly, in a way James would approve
Dutch Henry’s was a working man’s bar
A place steelworkers and coal miners drank
And brewed stories they hoped
Would set straight their broken, exasperated lives
It was also a place they bragged
Even about their overweight intellectual sons
Who’d never survive a Friday night in autumn in Martins Ferry
Where all that mattered was Purple Rider football
James never spoke above a whisper at Dutch Henry’s
He knew the pain one drunk could impose on another
Without remorse, or even the slightest regard
For poetry, Plato, or even uselessly expensive Scotch
Nothing very special about the place
Other than the exceedingly ordinary people there
Who removed their masks once in a while
And played themselves in real life
Only twice did I overlap with James Wright at Dutch Henry’s
Both times his smile out-lasted mine
And both times, he drank me under the table
In long beers, bruising shots, and unrehearsed words
I was no match for Martins Ferry’s first poet son
Yes, Minnegan’s faithful eulogist
Martins Ferry’s best-ever poet, and a man
Whose silence will always speak louder than my best words
Early spring, vernal equinox
First crocuses, then daffodils
Stately bright tulips, in all colors
Magnolia blossoms, flowering dogwood
Eventually lilacs, peonies, and jack in the pulpits
And before we know it
Violas, bleeding hearts, carnations
And ever so many lilies, all shapes and sizes
Then not so far behind
All the cosmos, pink and white
Soon behind, the pugnacious coneflowers
Standing their ground so galantly
Then ever so close to fall
Come the asters and mums
Who wait an eternity
For the marigolds to sing last songs
They talk, in no uncertain terms, about the strangers
Those benignly listening outside nondescript motel rooms
Places people stay when they’re very lonely
Hoping to hear something, anything
Reminding them of even the small things
They were born to remember
I’ve been there, like you, and back
That place you wished, at the time, never existed
But in retrospect, you hope lives forever
Some low-pitched moan, or an unrepentant whisper
Giving notice, paying homage
To the chance to start over again
At times I think
Nobody will ever know
Why I was here, or what I did so significantly
Warranting me a place, ever so humble
Beneath the giant oak tree–
The one under which
We took shade as youngsters
Now at fifty-nine
Somehow I find the courage to remember
Not only who I am
But why I was called here in the first place
And now hearing this answer
I can gladly give it all, a servant to the moment
I pretended
when I was a kid
growing up in Martins Ferry
and sadly, I still do
About what you ask
do I pretend?
Like we both don’t know
life is simply livable
yet desperately unknowable
I used to struggle
with half-truths and other semblances
of things that aren’t things at all
just experiences we can only live
Somehow I veered off the path
I thought I should be on
Only to find
Paths are not what life is about
Why aren’t we more confident?
Willing to accept and expect
there is nothing deeper
than what we can grasp in this moment
Some say we deserve more
Like we are God’s chosen people
Who am I to argue with you?
Let alone God
We let things slip
Older we get
Most not necessarily bad
Like the time you remembered
Hugging a cousin on her seventh birthday
She kissed you on the mouth
You wished she wasn’t your cousin
I saw you at the Antler Bar–
That place men only talked to men
About things when they grow older
They wish they’d told their mothers
Alone
One cold January eve
Stepping aside
No one to deceive
Thinking back
To better times
Younger years
Mountain climbs
The world lies ahead of me
Singing songs, feeling free
Happier never could we be
Way back, 1970
Longer hair
Mini skirts
Hashish pipes
Rock and roll concerts
Times aplenty
Nothing left to want
Life much simpler
Cooped up memories haunt
Poems a comin’
Right and left
Dodging bullets
Life bereft
Untold stories
From long ago
How life changes
So much we’ll never know
Narcissism, so very hard to digest
Deep intrapersonal indigestion
For all seeking its source
That is the place
It all comes from
Yes where we all begin again
Every once in a while
We must go home
Could be Martins Ferry
Maybe East Cleveland
A place where all unraveling ends
And all beginnings start again
A new Christmas is here
A time for introspection
Exploring the inner depths
Infinite light and dark places
We’ve either been
Or dream about on such special nights
Two days before this Christmas
My heart is still stirring
So many vibrations filling the house
I must look in the mirror
And there find myself staring
In a dark suit of clothes, not truth I am wearing
Easier times behind us lie
I sit in bed and sometimes cry
Last log on the fire
Watch it burning
Life inside me
Forever churning
A new Christmas has finally come
A destination of hope
Ever deep repining
And so back in the magical mirror I glance
Hoping to see
God, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost
Makes you wonder
Why we worry so much
Why we fret reality
What’s completely inevitable
Far beyond our desires
Makes you wonder
What lies inside
Making us so sensitive
To a sunrise, sunset
And everything in between
Despite all we think we know
Tomorrow shows up
Magically intertwined with today
And all other days
That have ever been
Wanting to simply believe
In Santa Claus, Jesus, God the Father
Yet it is so clear
What we believe
Always serves what really is
So we appear in each moment
Somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow
The key, never fear or doubt
What and how life presents itself
Instead, savor each breath, its life-giving
Past a point
We’re all naked
Without purpose
Any end destination
Once you look closer
See past all good and bad
Where we live daily shows up
Like a boil on our ass
Crude you say
How life treats us
Or what washes up
On life’s ever-churning beach
Don’t lose hope
Or forget all reason
For surely in between
Life worth living reappears
Once again thinking back
Christmastime Martins Ferry
Shopping list inside my gray wool mitten
Trudging through virgin white knee-deep snow
The walk uptown
Past Teare’s Drug, the rowdy Antler Bar
Finally down South Fourth Street
Woolworths, the Fenray Theatre
Emptying my Christmas Club account
All seven dollars and nine cents
At the old Citizen’s Bank
Just north of Isaly’s, best ice cream in town
In 1958, seven bucks bought a lot
Presents for Mom, Dad, my sister, both grandmas
Magically, the right gifts always appeared
With at least a dollar to spare
Arms full, the walk home
Along South Fifth Street
But first a stop in the library
Then a browse of candy at Tidbit’s
The snow started again
A week till Christmas
I hoped, prayed it would last
Ensuring Santa’s on time arrival
Hear me read this poem
At the window she stood watching
Waiting for him to meet her
As they had met so many times before
This hotel
Once filled with their happy moments
Times they had spent
In each other’s company
Sometimes just talking about small things
Only mattering because these things they shared
It was just before Thanksgiving last year
They had had a quite lunch
At their corner table
Their spot away from the world
Where they held hands
Where he looked at her
In that special way
Only he could look at her
She felt beautiful in his presence
She felt loved
He felt safe from his demons
Those he lived with all his life
And besides himself, only she understood
Nothing lasts forever
Not the happy times, nor the sad
Not even the demons
Even the memories fade away
Like paper-thin clouds
On a breezy summer day
He had been gone nearly a year
It had taken her that long to return
To their corner table at the hotel
The same three men were hanging the Christmas ornaments
A sight they had shared together
So many times before
They always closed their eyes
Until the last wreath was hung
At the window overlooking the square
Only then did one of the men turn on the lights
Only then did they open their eyes
And again their dream came true
She waited till the last wreath was hung
Before she walked to the window
Then she closed her eyes
Letting her tears fall
Like they never had before
She kept her eyes closed this time
Not quite ready to let him go
Maybe next year
After her first Christmas without him
Sometimes no words are needed
To say what the heart feels
Sometimes the words simply aren’t there
Perhaps they never were, never will be
At times like these
We can only share what we feel
Through a quiet hug, a knowing smile
A hand’s gentle touch
They’re never easy–
Fragile moments like this
Ever so beautiful flowers
Waving in a summer breeze
It’s hard saying goodbye
To the golden orange sun at sunset
Or the full moon casting shadows
On fresh fallen snow
And when we feel the melody so deeply
There are always tears
Those reminding us
It can never last
Here is a poem I performed back in September. I have posted the poem with the prompts (found in caps and parentheses) I used in its reading so you can see how I approached the poem on stage.
Prefer to listen to me read this poem? Click here.
(GAZE OFF & EARNEST TONE)
Each moment, a piece of it all
A fragment, flash on the screen, an echo
An engagement of our most sacred being
If we REMEMBER, something reminding us
Who we are, who we’ve become
IN BETWEEN good looks in the mirror (PAUSE)
(SHIFT: SHAKE HEAD & SERIOUS) Growing up, I NEVER liked my hair
Too thick, too curly
Not flat and combable like my friends
(EMPHASIS & LOUDER, PAUSE, SHOCKED FACE) NOW LOOK AT ME!
Silver-white hair
Too thin
My Dad’s BALD spot at the back of my head
(SLOWER) Now I wish I had thick curly hair (PAUSE)
(SHIFT NORMAL VOICE My annual physical is next week
I’m not looking forward to it
Ten pounds heavier than last year
THOUGH I’ve been on a diet ALL year
Well, not the one those CLINIC doctors put me on (PAUSE)
(EMPHATICLY) Mine instead
Much easier, FAR more satisfying (PAUSE)
An extra dollop or two of mashed potatoes
Ice cream once a week
REAL ice cream
Not that low-fat stuff tasting like frozen wallpaper paste (PAUSE)
(SHIFT) This year they stick that tube with the flashlight up my BEE-hind
(EMPHATICALLY & SHAKE HEAD) Why would anyone want to be a proctologist? (PAUSE)
Don’t get me wrong (PAUSE)
The world needs butt doctors
BESIDES it pays well
But too bad they can’t fix the OTHER type of ASSHOLE
Like Joe Camel, (PAUSE) who flicked his cigarette butt out his pickup truck window
That NEARLY hit the hood of my new Lexus (PAUSE)
(DISGUSTED & SHAKE HEAD) Why don’t smokers put their stink sticks out in their car ash trays?
Every car comes equipped with one (PAUSE)
At times like that
I try to remind myself of what my guru, Swami Kund-a-gaspar said
“EVERYTHING in life is an opportunity to learn and grow (PAUSE)
Even the pigeon crapping on your head is a teacher
The pigeon teaches us to accept what the moment presents”
(EMPHATICALLY) “But pigeon crap?” I asked Swami
(LOW VOICE) His reply: “Yes. We must learn to deal with the SHIT in life
To detach from what we hold onto and mistake for the TRUE way” (PAUSE)
And so, I didn’t lay on the horn, and give Joe Camel the FINGER (PAUSE)
But deep down I prayed a pigeon would drop a BIG one on his noggin
(SHIFT & EMPHATICALLY) This economy STINKS (PAUSE)
(POINT FINGER) I blame that BOW-LEGGED, WAR-MONGERING George Bush (PAUSE)
And yes, Enron, AIG, and the rest of those corporate thieves (PAUSE)
OK (PAUSE), so we ALL share in the blame for our economic mess (PAUSE)
It’s the worst it’s been since the Great Depression
Which I missed, but certainly Dad experienced
He even had to drop-out of high school his junior year (CONTINUE)
To work at Gus McCann’s filling station in Benwood, West Virginia
Dad says it was the best thing he ever did
Ole Gus taught him to play the guitar—
Something that brought true happiness to my father (PAUSE)
(LOWER VOICE & SERIOUS) Dad died last October at 86, nearly a year ago
(NOD HEAD) He kept his sense of humor to the end
During one of my last visits with him, Dad said:
(GRAVE VOICE) “Boy (PAUSE) this economy is bad
I better get the HELL out of here
Before they raise the price of funerals
And up the admission fee to get into Heaven” (PAUSE)
(SMILE) He made it through, before both hiked their prices (PAUSE)
(SHIFT & EMPHATICALLY) I want to do something DIFFERENT with my life
HONESTLY, I am TIRED of working (PAUSE)
That is doing things for MONEY (PAUSE)
DON’T get me wrong, I LOVE money
But REALLY, work ISN’T all it’s cracked up to be (PAUSE)
Mostly I’m tired of the PIGEONS
You know, those people who are forever CRAPPING on you
Because they pay YOU to do something
That frankly THEY should do themselves (PAUSE)
(SHIFT) The older I get
The more KARL MARX’S words ring true to my ears (PAUSE)
(EMPHATICALLY) NO, I’m NOT talking about one of Groucho Marx’s brothers (PAUSE)
I mean the big-bearded, 19th century political economist and philosopher (PAUSE)
Who said (PAUSE): “Work enslaves the spirit and beguiles all goodness in life” (PAUSE)
I guess that’s why I like art—
It frees the spirit, UNSHACKLING us from our own MADNESS (PAUSE)
That’s also why I HATE it when someone says:
(RAISE BROWS) “Your poem or photograph is a TRUE WORK of art”
Art, to me, is the ANTITHESIS of work (PAUSE)
(SHIFT & SMILE) I’m glad I got all this off my chest
I feel MUCH better
MAYBE I’ll even go back to work
And put up with those pigeons (PAUSE)
MAYBE I’ll listen to my doctor this year
And cut back on the mashed potatoes and ice cream (PAUSE)
MAYBE I’ll grow what REMAINS of my hair long
Take up the guitar
Buy a farm and raise pigeons
Register as a Defense contractor (PAUSE)
(LOWER VOICE & SLOWLY) And SELL my pigeons to the Pentagon (SMILE)
The morning sunlight reveals
What the night’s darkness stole away from us
Those things haunting us well past 3 AM
Well past the time for usual self-inflicted salvations
Things we promise to do should we live
To see daybreak in our now slumbering garden
Cast your eyes upon something of beauty
Like those dangling pink flowers where morning dew drops cling
Like each breath we take holds on
Till the next can take its place
Leaving nothing in between
No room for the darkness to reenter
Admire the pink flowers, if you will
But they can’t save us
Nor can the garden itself
Soon to be choked to death by weeds
Then covered by snow
Freezing shut the ice blue lips of hope
Look more closely at the dew drops
Each a tear reflecting back to us
Parts of ourselves lost, broken, forgotten
One by one suck them into your mouth
In small measure, let them quench the thirst
That has become your life
I know you all come here for my poetry, but if photography interests you, click here to see my new photoblog: http://doniannonephoto.wordpress.com/
Ninety-three
Once, so full of life
Now, breath by breath
Making room for another life
Still proud
Not in a vain way
But to have lived through so much
To have carried her cross the distance
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want
Little she wanted in life
Nothing to want in death
Except to go home
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
No more evil to fear
No more valleys to walk
No death to await
All goodbyes have been said
Her angel has come
Sweet sunlight falls across Thelma’s face
A new star will light the Heavens tonight
Note: Thelma was a hospice patient. I sat vigil with her last week. She died on July 1st. I read the 23rd Psalm to her before she died, not knowing it was her favorite scripture, which her great-granddaughter told me afterward.
July morning sun
Creeping through the trees
Into the front flower garden
A young blue jay watches on
The jay understands
There is nothing to be done
Nowhere to go
Just observe, soak up the sun
Sometimes we make life too hard
Harder than it needs to be
See the sun streaking through the garden?
Such is life in each moment
As a child, the better of two places
You might go when you die
A place with pearly gates
Where God and Jesus live
A place you imagined
When times were tough
A place giving you hope
For a better tomorrow
A place Grandma talked about often
Praying we may all go there someday
A rendezvous for family and friends
Like some magical tree house in the woods
And now, a frame of mind
Not a place anymore
But a way of being in any moment
Allowing life to pass through us
Nothing special
Or different than anything else
No need to be anything or anyone anymore
Just being for the sake of being
Like art, beauty for its own sake
Like beauty, in the eyes of the beholder
Like creation, unstoppable
Like now, Heaven
Gray rainy days
Why we need inner sunshine
Why we need inner focus
Bringing light to the world
We fret too much, this and that
Making unnecessary choices
After all, we’re here
It’s always now, never sooner or later
Bright pink azalea blossoms in sunlight
They’re possible any day
Come rain or shine
Always inside us, waiting
Outside my window—
A determined blue jay
Squawking about this and that
I laugh; that’s me
The rain subsides
Giving way to stillness
Even that nature provides
It’s ours, if we stop our squawking
Then there are the clouds
Hiding the sun
So nature’s tears can soak deep
Into the thirsty earth
Gray rainy days
Reminding us, listen, hear
The rain singing on the roof
Reminding us, bring our light to the world
there is this place inside me
i find myself there quite unexpectedly
without ever trying
a happy place
warm with early morning sunshine
just the hint of a breeze
turning grandma’s petunias side to side
on her green and yellow front porch
this place is grandma’s living room
i’m always a little boy
playing on the floor
next to the screen door
maybe this place is a wormhole—
an invisible tube—
connecting me to who i am
often when i hear the engine
of a small plane flying overhead
the low-vibration sound waves carry me to this place
this special place of comfort inside—
a place my grandma created just for me
this is a place of peace
where the better part of me steps forward
leaving the other parts behind
it’s always a gentle landing
like a cloud drifting across a perfectly blue sky
on a warm summer day
i always feel just a bit sad
when it’s time to leave
eventually we must all go
they knew me
turned their heads
looked my way
made me turn mine
there we stood—
face to face
i loved them
first moment i saw them
bright red dresses
decked out to the nines
voluptuous vixens
dancing in the wind
a bit of déjà vu
soulful remembering
strangely familiar—
the smell of fresh baked bread
the sweet scent of lilacs
a springtime long ago
they invited me to dance
sing out with them
red tulips touch us deeply
especially on a warm spring day
when the sun holds death at bay
and each moment is an eternity
she’s gone, my mom
her memories linger
like her sweet motherly scent
the enticing aroma of her cooking
mothers are magical
no way to be without one
how they love us, even when we’re bad
especially when we’re good
she died way too young
only 59 in 1986
wish we had more time
so many foregone memories
we reminisce more
the older we get
the more of life behind us
than ahead
boys and girls need their moms
to grow, become men and women
men and women need their moms
to remember the eternal child within them
No greater honor—
Be like the flower
Face the sun
Let its warmth fill you
Overturning whatever steals your joy
Be like the flower
Proud, but ever humble
Never too straight
Always able to bend
Flowing with the wind
Be like the flower
Use the day to grow
Give back to the Earth
Use the night to rest
Rejuvenate from a hard day’s work
Be like the flower
Always ready to live
And when the time comes
Be ready to die
Making room for another
Springtime
New beauty born
New beauty in our lives
Sharper focus on life’s becoming
Sometimes we try too hard
To be what we’re not
Possess what’s not ours
Fight who we are
Red tulips in a garden
No bucking the tide
Or clinging to anything
They simply are
We give the tulips our attention
They smile, their redness grows even brighter
We look beyond them
Life’s eternal fountain appears
We look inside ourselves
There our beauty lies
Eternal spring within our hearts
Our beauty comes into focus
So much inside us
Locked away
Inaccessible until
We discover the combination
Releasing deep secrets buried in the soul
These secrets
No mystery to the deepest part of us—
That part belonging to something larger
Yet out of sight they remain
Until the rusted lock and chain are taken away
Never easy
Dealing with the hidden
Even terribly lost parts of ourselves
But once in
So much more becomes known
Once we find our way
Even the deepest secrets—
Those buried in the cave of our heart
Become known
Releasing our grip on what binds us to eternity
There is this place
Called Daffodil Hill
Springtime magic covers it
Perky whites littering its base
A sea of brilliant yellows along the top
Sunlight graces this place
Touches your soul
Leaves you spellbound
Something larger ignites in your heart
When you hear the daffodils sing
I was a young boy once again
Speechless
No words to describe
Tears from nowhere filling my eyes
For an instant, connected to it all
Hard not to believe
In something divine, overwhelmingly powerful
Yet in its presence, a tenderness
Emanating from the magical chorus
On Daffodil Hill
New life
Emerging each moment
With each breath
Hope is born
Bringing our deepest desires into focus
New blossoms on the tree of life
Pure, virgin whiteness
Against a burning blue sky
Each blossom a breath
Each breath a new beginning
Programmed from birth
To become the fruit of life
Sustaining us
Transforming us
Like the rain and sun give us rainbows
No pain
Unless we resist
Stand in tomorrow’s way
Accept the gift—
New life in focus
Time
Not separate
Never without something else
One dimension among many
Old and new, both parts of the same
Within you
A metaphysical clock
Keeps you ticking
Never forward or backward
Always moving in circles
Life
Experienced as time
But always timeless
Moving in circles
Old and new, both parts of the same
Last night’s star-filled sky sang me fast to sleep
This morning’s warm sun graced my windowpane
Awakening me with its hypnotic laughter
Looking in the bathroom mirror this morning I thought—
It’s good to be alive
Things don’t always go our way
At times they totally run amok
Defying our sense of justice
Showing us how vulnerable we really are
It’s good to be alive
At times, we delude ourselves—
A good life is about getting our way
Having things as we want them
Stirring my morning coffee, I thought—
It’s good to be alive
Have you noticed how spring sunlight
Completely transforms the needles on a white pine
And how the sky and clouds peeking through the forest
Appear like blurry blue and white diamonds
It’s good to be alive
Sometimes we gravitate too much
In the direction of our dreams
Failing to appreciate the beauty, magic of life
Just as it presents itself
Truly, it’s good to be alive
Like ghosts
Their faces linger in my mind
Can’t forget them
No matter how hard I tried
They’re still there
Feeding on what’s left of me
Which faces?
The Depression faces
Dark, hollow, hungry
Haunting faces
Men, women, children
Especially the children
They sold their shoes
For pennies, a scrap of bread
Their filthy faces and feet
Dirtied by their worst nightmare
No washing away their pain
It changes you
Having nothing left to lose
Even worse
Having something and losing it
It changes you
Even looking back and remembering
From a distance
I watched you dance
Like a sea of tiny blue stars
Dreamy circles you waltzed
Never missing a step
Perfect harmony with the wind
Inching closer
I saw your sweet smiles
Blue spring beauties
Forever in tune
With that something larger
Casting a spell over me
How lucky seeing you dance
Your heads held high
Identical green dresses you wore
Like velvet
Shimmering in the sun
Graceful as only a flower can be
I felt you so close
As only a chosen lover can be
Dance with you I did
My heart filled with glee
Now I must go
A date with Emily Dickinson to keep
Too easy
Looking in obvious places
Those we already know
Possibilities already imagined
Imagine an open window
In the midst of your darkness
A place where light is possible
An opening for outside possibilities
Get used to the light
At first too much for your eyes
Then new images take shape
Filling your soul with hope
In this realm
The inevitable disappears
Taking its place
With all other known possibilities
Let the obvious possibilities fade away
Take a chance on the unknown
Bet the farm on it
Walk into the light
So much to delight about in springtime—
Fresh green buds on trees, crocuses, daffodils, tulips
But nothing matches a pastel blue robin egg
To ignite spring feelings within me
My robin egg infatuation traces back to first grade
When Miss Woods, using God and science in the same breath
Explained that robin eggs were blue to camouflage them
Among the sun-dappled leaves hovering about the robin’s nest
I decided then and there
That robin egg blue was my favorite color
Because it protected new life
And because it made me feel close to the sky
Even now, some fifty years later
Especially after a long hard winter
Spotting a robin egg shell on the ground
Makes me feel alive in a way only spring can do
Given a magic wand
I’d rid the world of loneliness—
What isolates us
Marginalizes us
Disconnecting us from the rest of the world
Mostly we do it to ourselves
We think we are alone
Separate from what sustains us
And sure enough
Our connection to life is broken
Yes, others can break the connection
Escalating our deepest fears of being alone
Heightening the pain of our cancer
Amplifying the weight of our depression
But mostly we do it to ourselves
We’re never really alone
You’re not, I’m not
Something Higher connects all of us
In your darkest hour, reach out
Touch it, let it touch you back
We wait too long
To do what’s most important
Things stirring our hearts
And riding the wild horses of our souls
The clock, time, busy schedules
Just excuses for not doing
What only we can do, and no other
Things making it all worthwhile
It’s gone before we know it
The best part of us
The things we equate to joy
Things worth doing for their own sake
It’s a mistake
To forget who we are
And then pretend truth was never there
Or something else was more important
We wait too long
To surrender to what really matters
To the only thing that can save us
From a life of hopeless despair and misadventure
You do it, and I see it in you
I do it, and you see it in me
If only we could see it in ourselves
Maybe we wouldn’t wait so long
Subject Line: Don Iannone on Live Radio/Webstream Show this Sunday, March 29th 4-5 p.m. EDT (1-2 p.m. PST)
I am joining a fellow member of Wisdom Workers, Dr. Zara Larsen, on her Tucson-based live talk radio and web streamed show this Sunday, March 29th from 4-5:00 p.m. EDT. "Circles of Change: Conversations on Change Leadership and Career Fulfillment" is dedicated to opening up positive conversations on personal career and organizational change to inspire and help others during these change-rich times. Zara has hosted over 100 shows in just over a year featuring guests from around the country. We will be discussing my portfolio career of leadership development and strategy consulting with Wisdom Workers (as Zara would say, "Your 9 to 5 life"), and creative life work in photography and poetry ("5 to 9, wanting to become more life!").
Join us live within the Tucson/Phoenix broadcast area on AM 1330 KJLL "The Jolt", or via web stream at your computer. www.tucsonsjolt.com/ If you are on an Apple/Macintosh computer, first circumvent Firefox and enter through Internet Explorer. Call-in questions to (520) 529-3508, toll free (877) 544-2580. Email questions can be sent to change@thelarsengroup.com
If you miss the live show, a recap and full podcast will be posted at www.thelarsengroup.com/ "Circles of Change Radio", 2009 Season left hand tab by Wednesday evening, April 1st, where you will also find the full complimentary library of thought provoking shows to date.
Thanks in advance for joining us!
A German poet and photographer friend, Ines Langs, has a new poetry book. The book is about 50% German and 50% English. Here are two of her English poems to tantalize you.
Love Torture
Oh what a torture love can be
taken and given
driven
by all the spirits
of heaven and hell
choking on a yell
laughing and crying
living and dying
in sweet pain and ecstasy
Copyright Ines Langs, March 29, 2007
————————————————————-
I only need a soft breeze to lift me up into the skies
Softly I came down to rest,
lying still now for a while.
When the sun is turning West,
you can see me softly smile.
Morning sun will wake me up
with his tender loving kiss.
And a breeze will lift me up,
lets me fly again in bliss.
(Copyright Ines Langs, October 26, 2008)
Here is the information to buy a copy.
“Poesie ist Licht und Dunkel”
by Ines Langs
ISBN 978-3-8370-7692-9
available for order in every bookstore and online:
Click here to order online (sorry, only in German)
(title translation: Poetry is Light and Dark)
The book contains a collection of my poems from 1997 to 2008, poems in English as well as in German, and some fitting images.
Time, just a fragment
Loose particles in space
What’s left over, after sunset
That which hovers
Finally leaving us wasted and lost
Like some stalled memory
Favoring what’s to come
Over what never could be
Time, always inexact heartbeats
Those skipping beats between realities
Those awaiting tomorrow
Even before today arrives
And like some stalled memory
Lost, before starting over
And finally finding
What we thought never could be
Poetic Alchemist 