Owl feathers

"Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis, all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace."
— Frederick Buechner

"Color is the keyboard, the eyes are the harmonies, the soul is the piano with many strings. The artist is the hand that plays, touching one key then another to cause vibration of the soul."
— Wassily Kandinsky


My apologies to those blogfriends who haven't heard from me — Blogger has been difficult the last several days, irregularly interfering with commenting at some sites, including this one.

I will be out of town and offline this coming week. Off to find some sun. See you the next week!

Dream in blue

as day's heat seeps
from tiles and walls
rising into white
moonlight
and charcoal darkness —
sleep
in the soft cradle
of the night,

rest easy
in the darkness
spreading over these
dense green hills,
let the night's cool air
wash your tired body
in sliding shadows
while darkness
settles,

listen for
rustlings
under the leaves
that hang
thick and glinting
in the night,
for sounds of the dark,
of the rosy earth
breathing,
and sleep
until the last star fades

until day
laps in
through the open window
in bright ribbons
blue and white
like a sea
cresting the sill —
gather yourself
as the gathering heat
leans upon the hill,
as the air
grows thick
and blue mist blooms
over the trees —

rise now —
blue day awaits!

Spring night

wind blows all night
and I wake in a sweat
thinking of you who
are not with me

this longing
threads through my heart
and pulls wayward

I look for beauty every day
and find it most places
but what of
the holes I find —

pull a veil of sky
over my shoulders,
sit with the emptiness

there is a song
in deeper recesses
pushing itself
out

and so I walk
daily, feet
on the path

and, singing to myself
and to those here
and to you who
are not with me,

sing my life
into this shape
that carries you, too

Senryu trio

my eyes just open,
from behind the dark curtain
sweet sound of bird song

*

here beneath the grey
limitless expanse of sky
your young hand holds mine

*

a day to breathe deep
a day to swim through all tears
a day for wide eyes

Between sand and sky

boots crunch on the sandy soil
the dog's collar jingles as he
runs silently over the dry grass
wind whips across the hill
snatching the sounds of breathing —
carrying the shrill scream of a hawk

a high, sharp silhouette
solitary against the clouds
lit by the lowering sun
banks of cream, rose, lavender, grey
where the hawk writes poems
upon the closing of each day

I whisper to the ground, to the wind
to the hawk, to the sun
and if and when our boots
may fall together on some path
the wind knows, as we all will know
somewhere between sand and sky

In the dark

(Senryu sequence)

light washes through me
like the sun passes over
the ripening earth

as much as I am
afraid of the dark, I can
not hold fast the light

if you choose to share
your light with me, you'll see these
hands out in welcome

Do you remember when...?

It's your turn to write for me!

Please leave a comment "remembering" something...
completely fictional...
that connects you and me...
maybe how we met...
even though we've never met...
or some other "memory"...
needn't be long...
in poetic form or not...
have fun making it up...

Thanks to Brenda for this meme:
If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we don't speak often or don't really know each other) please post a comment and tell the story of a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory connecting you and me . It can be anything you want - good or bad ("good" is better for me, however) - BUT IT HAS TO BE FICTION. When you're finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON'T ACTUALLY remember about you!

I'm waiting with bated breath...
But, please, don't take it too seriously!

Update:

Thank you all for the gifts you left here on my front step. Reading these stories and poems has been, and continues to be, an amazing experience, completely humbling and a source of joy.

If you choose to pick up this meme and post it on your own blog, please let me know.

Haiku

tiny white doves fall
slowly from the heavy sky
wings melt on my skin

The present mystery

we stand on the surface of eternity
ankle deep in the mystery that surrounds us

but forget that —

let me touch one more time
the rough skin of your face
and press my lips against it,
against yours, inhaling
the scent of my skin touching yours —

time enough for eternity —
oh, after

In owl's grove

This weekend, in spring-like temperatures, I walked in the owl's grove, noticing the first tiny, green buds.














I was lucky enough to see the owl.


















I was also privileged to see, for the first time this year, the red-tailed hawk that nests in one of the large cottonwoods, but by then it was too dark to take pictures.












This morning, we woke to 3 inches of snow.

Click on the pictures for larger views.

Owl feather

I have been reading Odes to Common Things by Pablo Neruda, translated by Ken Krabbenhoft. Here's a bit, in Spanish and then in English:

Oda a la guitarra

. . . Y la mujer que toca
la tierra y la guitarra
lleva en su voz
el duelo
y la alegría
de la profunda hora.
El tiempo y la distancia
caen a la guitarra:
somos un sueño,
un canto
entrecortado:
el corazón campestre
se va por los caminos a caballo:
sueña y sueña la noche y el silencio,
canta y canta la tierra y su guitarra.

Ode to the guitar

. . . And the woman who plays
both earth and guitar
bears in her voice
the mourning
and the joy
of the most poignant moment.
Time and distance
fall away from the guitar.
We are a dream,
an unfinished
song.
The untamed heart
rides back roads on horseback:
over and over again it dreams of the night, of silence,
over and over again it sings of the earth, of its guitar.

Rain

I woke this morning
to the loud crack
of rules breaking
and witnessed the sky
stretched like a soul
across the world
outside my door,
weeping
for the disappearance
of honesty,
the fractures
of trust,
the despair of
a love that wants
to hold the world.

And the rain pours down
on dry grass,
bare dirt.

Enigma

a moment with you is
like a moment with
a rare, wild thing
untouchable
unknowable
delight

you take my hand to
lead me through
a rich meadow where
my eyes, my heart
feast on every
flower, every grass
every
word

with you

Thick with wings

I watched the yearning creek run,
the land lying damp and still
under a dull sky, and stepped softly
across the leaf-strewn earth.

Two winter-bleached trees
were suddenly thick with wings,
as if leafed out in a
shimmering Spring,

and they were singing —
a flock of red-wing blackbirds
filled the baskets
of their bony branches

and the chorus of reedy, raucous,
red-shouldered joy
seemed to call the sun
out from the shrouded sky —

slanting, glorious, brilliant rays shot
from behind the blues and greys,
and all things — the wet stones,
the bark, the flattened grasses,

the wide sky itself —
on an otherwise heartless late winter day,
were torched with golden fire
and for a moment the world sang.

La rivière à mes pieds

la rivière à mes pieds
glisse sur les rochers,
tourbillonnant
en remous et ressacs,
dépassant l'obstacle
des souches à la dérive,
des rochers décalés —
elle s'écoule ininterrompue
où elle doit aller,
où elle doit aller,
où elle doit aller


in translation:

The river at my feet

the river at my feet
pours fast over boulders,
swirling around in
eddies and backwashes,
past unexpected obstacles
of drifting logs and
shifting rocks —
it flows still unimpeded
where it needs to go
where it needs to go
where it needs to go

This

... is incredible.

(Thanks to Carel, via dharma bums, for the link.)

Owl feathers

"There’s no secret to balance. You just have to feel the waves."

— Frank Herbert


"As the soft yield of water cleaves obstinate stone,
So to yield with life solves the insoluble."

— Lao-tzu


"We could say the universe is made of possibilities, not atoms."

— Muriel Rukeyser

Spring fever

three strands
...of geese
......flying north

the feel of skin
...warm in sun
......this first day

of almost spring,
...the soft smell
......that rises

from the ready earth
...beneath our feet,
......I look at you — yes!



(Does anyone know how to format text in Blogger so that lines can be indented?) Update: Rexroth's Daughter is brilliant! ...And thanks to whiskey for sharing an eye for the finer points of good design.

What is

I meant to write about death
about missing you
and about the
light that comes from the dark

but all I have is
this golden light through
the open door
on a cool morning
the little birds singing in
the bare tree outside
how welcome
their song is
and
the sound of my own
breath


Today is my mother's birthday.