Tag Archives: awareness

objects in the sky are closer than they appear

the equinox of the afternoon
presses toward Winter
easy silk sliding through treetops,
a garbage plane runs its motor echoes
dry against the distant blue

I remember sitting in the woods
with a joint, hearing 
a contrail scratch slowly
across my mind, the world green and
bird and brown and rustle and gray

tires on a country lane
crackle against loose aggregate
the hazy rumble of its passing. 
the airplane's stern whine
washes back and forth across empty sky

easy now come evening's landmarks:
dark children voices push 
fresh cut air into our ears, 
a distant mower sends news clippings,
the air turning luminous orange 

a warm wind blows against slanted land,
time billows like a cotton sheet 
unfolding from its center - 
this jeweled and burning moment 
empty, eternal, perfect 

Sun-Light-through-the-Forest-Trees-800x600-wide-wallpapers.net

three am

alone at night
the body refusing sleep
my creaking feet, my naked passage
to this stumbling equilibrium,
this gravitational silence.
a quiet, systemic protest
against a too pleasant tomorrow.
awakened from rooted depths,
to this glowing mirror,
the lined-up, strung-out
cicada still whirring,
still half-expecting
to hear an answer.

for r. david bretnor

P1020378my labored eyes
my open mouth
my resting eyeglasses
my astonished gaze

nothing so strange as a day
vanquished by the moon.
a cheerio. a wreath. a dead cat.
an opium dream rebounding

you've cut the pine down.
quietly waiting come to spend
time with us. resting in 
clumps of may apple and fern

long stretches of space, 
light spilling over leaves
moving in the wind. it's a
story told by a human. 

my silver coin
my outstretched palm
my plucked banjo
my open heart

_____________________________________________________

 

Apologia for a sabbatical

Although I have been silent here (this blog) for many weeks, I must report that all is quite well in Central Virginia. . . remarkable, even.  Initially, changes in the work (and hence, writing) schedule made this practice less approachable on a regular basis.  But more importantly, I have been uncertain how in the world to write down the things I am experiencing.  I must confess that I have nursed this gap in my output with some despair.

To be sure, our honeybees still buzz, our hens strut and cluck, the vegetables and berries bloom, the birds flit, and squirrels scramble madly up and down nearby oaks.  I could have reported this.  That we are bursting with life.  That we are surrounded by a living, breathing world that has the capacity to enchant in an instant.  That I added first a ‘deep’ and now a ‘super’ to our thriving beehive.  That our Maran went broody, or that our new Rhode Island Red pullets sound like aspiring oboists still mastering the hardship of honking through a double reed instrument.

And in this enveloping canvas of vibrant green, under this arching canopy of soft-edged blue. . . even in the suddenly wilting heat of early July (today it was 104F), what a gift to call this place home!  I should like to have been reporting all of this in vivid detail these past weeks. But I have been stilled.

And now to the point.  I can barely write, these days.  Not when the very molecules of the air have begun to emit a subtle luminosity.   The world is glowing, friend. Have you noticed, by any chance?  This becomes more apparent in the hours near sunset.  Many are the evenings that I cannot bear to preoccupy my head and hands in work, preferring rather to simply bask in the flow of this. . . this fountain of reality.

Remove the nozzle from a garden hose, point the hose up in your hand and turn on the pressure. Do you see how the water tumbles up and out in a dancing cascade?  This is my metaphor for how the world continuously comes into being.  It was not created long ago; it is being created now, instant by instant.  And not from one point, but from all points.  Consider that revolution in perspective.  The world is anything but static.

Most of us walk a path well removed from the edge of creation, shielded by the compelling urgency of our own stories, our own thoughts.  By the time you think about it, the dancing cascade has hardened into facts, outlooks, obligations.  You can never see what your thoughts will not allow.

I suppose it may be me. . .  just a well-meaning dude with a blog who picked this moment to go around the bend – and quite happily forgot to come back.  And that’s fine. Or is it you, too, reader?  Have you noticed anything different in the world, the air, the cells of your being?  I would prefer to think that it is both of us.  Perhaps all we need is a gentle shaking. Wake up! There are miracles waiting in the space between your thoughts.

I shall continue to write and make notes here at times, hopefully picking up the pace again.  I see this season’s young deer gingerly exploring the back lot.  Foxes regularly visit us at night, barking out their frustration at the tasty poultry that roost just out of reach in well-secured pens.  I should like to consider all these in time.  But, for all you left-brainers out there (and we are still so legion), the tone may become mildly  unrealistic annoying mmm. . . challenging.  So be it.

In peace.