Old Riverside Oak

Athens, Georgia

April 3, 2010

It was early March then,

a year and eternity past,

we brought Dad home.

From his old blue chair

he peered through new

windows, not his own

as snow blankets froze

our Southern woodland

into hard white silence

and gray flows flooded

the shallow river shoals

with an icy hush.

Do you remember

that dark night’s cold

when bitter winds descended

from bleak polar plains,

showering limbs and ice

over frozen foundations

of our beleaguered home?

Powerless, huddled

in a house leaking warmth

we covered this fragile,

this gentle-souled man

with blankets and love.

Strong against the night,

but in strength unavailing

over softening banks,

the old riverside oak

surrendered itself to swirling gray

and lodged in downstream shallows.

A year now it’s been, a year

of great loss, a year nurturing

       growth, and senescence

and the canopy fills again

closing gaps with lacy green

       softening the void

now filled with light, but

still, the void.

Springtime truth emerges

       from emptiness

with whispers of hope.

Mortal life, though dust

is forever redeemed           

for we function within

       a greater whole

which cannot quite be

resolved in the fun-house
                     mirrors

       of our dim perception.

So we see now in part

but miss the unity beyond

that surrounds the void

       in a cosmic embrace

apprehended, if at all

in a place beyond words

expressed in the silence

that speaks to the heart.

The old oak, which served the sky

still provides structure.

On trunk and limb

where hawk pairs nested

mud turtles bask

gleaming in bright sun

       over fresh spring flow.

A Farewell to Summer

A memory of Ocean Isle Beach, N.C., August 3, 2002
Athens, Georgia

January 13, 2011

One on each side, my brothers

hoist the folding beach chair

and carry with care

this now frail woman

        across the access

to the edge of the sea

to soak her toes in a tidal caress

to feel the roar and the silence

        to take that one last look

at the wide spaces she wandered

with childhood dreams

her own, her children’s

        her children’s children’s

in those magical margins

where she honed her vocation

spinning lifelines of happiness

to secure young souls

        within her spell

of sunny summer wonder.

Beach grasses bend

in the prevailing wind

as they anchor loose sands

to foundations of impermanence

that shift imperceptibly

        through human lives

and even endless summers

must yield their time

to make way for new beginnings.

The wind blows which way it will

we do not know where

or why, and so let go only

        because we must

and claim that bitter prize - 

our due share of reluctant wisdom.

  

Her short hair tangles today

in a warm ocean breeze

that mixes sand and salt

and the sweet smell of sunblock.

        She sheds no tears

but sets her countenance

to the infinite horizon

with weary resolve

to honor what was, what

        must be again

and to go her way into autumn

with the grace of summer

clutching lightly to the backs

of tiny boys grown tall

in the sunshine of her life.

Heron World

Athens, Georgia

July 20, 2010; revised January 7, 2015
See also Heron in the Wood

Late afternoon envelops stillness
        in patches of shade, and sunlight, and sky
                        radiating moist heat,
                that leaves a sheen
        of salty wet on glistened skin.

And as the river valley glows,
        the shimmering green 
                        surrounds a solitary
                heron

perched in gray-white dignity,

        a sleekness suspended

                        from supple neck

                to thin stick leg

inhabiting a heaven

        of sparkling mud

                        and slow waters

                that mingle in quiet eternity.

What visions haunt the river bird soul

        taking rest at day’s end?

                        In peaceful interlude

                does focus remain true

        to ripple and darting shadow,

        to splash and sustenance below?

Does awareness expand

        beyond shoals and shallows

                        through dappled forest borders

                to the wondering spirit bound

        by skin and brain above?

The heron unfolds

        into neck and wing

                        flashing blue-silver rhythm

                in ponderous flight.

His harsh cry highlights  

        primordial grace 

                        disappearing into downstream shadow

                as eternity dissolves

                        and light breezes hint

                                soft darkness to come.

Summer Cicadas

Athens, Georgia

July 4, 2010

When morning chill subsides

       soft air will vibrate

              to waves of cicada

       in rhythmic insistence

suffusing summer woodland

      with the languid ebb and flow

              that floats the soul

       outside of time

Where a cabin still lies

       beneath evening’s shadow

              and four children drift

       on currents of love

through open screen wonder

       as adult voices fade

              into swells of cicada

       from a forest departed

and a family dispersed.

       But listening closely

              in the intervals of silence

       from across the gulf

the voices persist

       in quiet conversation

              yet present, still

       to a child long grown.

From that far gloaming

       I have heard my own voice

              but faint and indistinct

       emerging to tenuous life.

Perhaps you will have, too

       before it is lost forever

              in time and tide

       of summer cicada.

Advent Reflection on Light

Glade Farm House

December 2001; revised December 2013

In the beginning

when God began to create

the world was without form

        and void.

And on the first day

God created light.

When time and space erupt

energy mingles with matter

        darkness with light

and universe takes form.

When fourteen billion years

        dissipate

into dark cold distance

a soft rumble  echoes

         across the void.

On a remote shore

        the blue oasis

bathed in warm light

teems with life

        wondrous forms

striving over eons.

Into the blessed garden

        of God’s continuous creation

emerges mind, and soul.

And the mind wonders:

        What is man

                that Thou are mindful of him?

And the soul fears: all

        is emptiness

                and striving after the wind.

To the mind God reveals:

        in the beginning

        with the searing light of physical creation

        even then was Word

And to the soul, God gives of himself:

        A child

        full of grace and truth

Across the ages

God’s creative and redemptive light shines

        beacon to mind and soul

        and the darkness cannot overcome it

                even to the end of time.

Telemachus Tends his Driveway

Athens, Georgia

November 22, 2010; revised April 30, 2014
Thoughts revisiting Tennyson’s Ulysses and his son Telemachus

The world shimmers

beyond the kaleidoscopic canopy

decorating my driveway

with layers of leaves.

So I set my purpose
•       make a plan
•       grasp the rake
•       execute the task
mindfully, at first
while two tired dogs

watch, curiously

indifferent to achievement,

snouts down the driveway,

waiting for their goddess

to drive home.

And I too wait

as something in my soul

watches with practiced patience

its own wild yearning

to pursue that grey spirit

through archways to unknown worlds

        and yet

I have lived so far

in the common sphere

with Telemachus, tied

to due adoration of gods

both false and true, balancing

dutiful with discerning

over slow, prudent decades:

•       of discipline

•       of accomplishment

•       of exiting gracefully

a life, not unhappy

        while a soul that could soar

kept safely to ground.

Can Telemachus, retired

capture Ulysses’ soul?

Can the good son

        sail lightly

                beyond the sunset

        on a warm autumn breeze

                        and swirl of dry leaves?

My solace is a still vision

of grey Telemachus

        transcending duty

grasping his own salvation

        in the next task,

                and the next

pursued with a passionate
        kindness.

Raking Fall Leaves with Paul and Camus

Athens, Georgia

November 6, 2010 

               1.

As angry insistence

and braying triumphalism

echo from the aging

alabaster façade

of a once bright city,

tears of the patriot

and tears of the powerless

tell all who would

hear one true thing:

       Noble ideals wielded

              without compassion

       become as noisy

                     gong and clanging

              cymbal.

       The boulder falls, again

              to rubble below;

       squaring his back,

                     again

       Sisyphus descends

alone.

                     2.

This fall football Saturday,

the discordant drone

of politicians and leafblowers

falls blessedly silent.

From hushed canopy stillness

       peace descends

with gentle cascade of leaves

and bright celestial chatter

as a thousand starlings speak

in tongues of tiny angels

a sonorous blessing

to life, joyfully

       borne.

                     3.

Wielding rake and canvas

on a driveway of leaves

my soul seeks relief

in productive tedium.

The measured rythmic scrape

       and swish on concrete

and dry leaves slowly

       resynchronize heartbeat

with head, sweat with

       soul into single

functional unity once more.

And soon, in slanting sunlight

shadow patterns decorate

clean concrete canvas

set between broad

brown leaf shoulders,

a work that will last

       hours.

                     4.

Satisfied, I sip

my hot caramel chai

watching new leaves

       settle so gently

from limitless yellow-brown

canopy above,

and I know in my soul

a second true thing:

       Though tomorrow and tomorrow

              and tomorrows on end

       bring trials and tears

              to a fallen world,

       there will be those

              true patriots who stand

       shoulder with Sisyphus

              and together in toil

       achieve due measure

                     of unsought nobility.

To My Two Year Old Daughter, a Quarter Century Later

Memorial Park, Athens, Georgia

October 30, 2010

I wandered through Bear Hollow

       with you once again

              bouncing lightly on my shoulder

       sharing fresh Saturday memories

                     under blue crystal sky

                     and golden yellow sun

              in a time gone by.

You delight today

       in the open possum playscape

              with pale coat female

       and her homely prehensile tail,

                     licking peanut butter from the perch

                     and gently grooming

              her dainty pink nose.

       You watch, intent

       and I hold your tiny hand

              tight against the decades

                     that press, inexorable

              blurring memory,

                            softening vivid presence.

                            Yet my breath still catches

                     when I recall

       a quarter century hence

              your wispy blond curls

                     framing the face of delight itself

                            as you laugh

                     and your spirit shines

                     through other eyes today -

              though differing in hue and homeland,

                            they share the same sparkle.

And I am gray presence, passive

              witness to their wonder

                     which they will carry

                            into unknown worlds

              that you will build together

                     from the hopes and embers

       we leave behind.

To Bring You Beauty

State Botanical Garden, Athens, Georgia

October 13, 2010; revised May 7, 2020

I would bring you beauty 
if I only knew how.
I would slip into spirit,

dissolve into autumn breeze
which carries the scent 
of crimson sage 

to clouds of yellow butterflies 
in the afternoon light 
of their lives. 

As the press of obligation fades, 
the busy pings, the urgent beeps, 
and rumble of distant machines – 

I hover with a bumblebee 
in the spell of a purple aster. 
I drift in scented air 

on a lilting riff of mockingbird-song, 
the swerve of a skipper, 
a toddler’s giggle 

through the elusive realm
where beauty infuses all being.
I would bring you a portion 

but, reaching, it slips
through re-embodied hands
and recedes like time itself,

its lingering afterglow 
reflected in clouds 
of evening gnats.

A Walk in the Sacred Rainforest

Impressions of a hike up the Pipiwai Trail through Kipahulu Valley
Maui, Hawaii

September 27, 2010; revised November 16, 2015

               1.

In sunny clearings
suffused with sweetness,
sour passionfruit, fallen,
offers rich red pulp
        shamelessly to all
who would partake
in its cycle.

               2.

Nurtured aloft
young banyan survive
by strangling their host
with aerial roots
grasping for ground.

This is their nature
they can do no else
and participate long
in this world of strife.

But decades are kind
and beginnings fade;
with strength, they mellow,
returning life’s blessing.
This is also their nature.

On Pipiwai Trail
the giant wild banyan
stretches a welcome
to hikers and pilgrims:

Come meditate, or laugh
in a playscape of trunks
on my limbs and roots
sheltered in the unity
of my singular being.

               3.

Under the towering bamboo glade

in a thicket of impenetrable profusion

       lies a portal

brooding in cathedral dimness.

Muted shafts rise

        from a pale litter floor

                to their distant green destiny

                        stories above.

        High  shoots

        clack and tap

        an otherworldly composition

        as the structure groans

        in ghostly lament

        of a heavy burden

        perpetually borne.

            4.

With pounding mechanical power

                         flying tourists

                              swoop, circle

                         grab their view

                              Kipahulu Valley

                         a magnificent painting

                              silver ribbons

                         snake sheer walls

                              to a canopy carpet

                         far below.

                                   Satiated, the rumble recedes

                                                            and they are gone.

               5.

Reality remains behind

where waters spill freely

from the glistening cliff

       soaring over shallow depression

where hikers become pilgrims

       of feathery mist.

A humble rock basin

receives the shower

and overflows in abundance

to supply sacred pools

       far removed.

            6.

              Beyond the portal

       Palikea carves deep

       an inaccessible landscape

       hiding channels and coves

in dangerous mystery.

Haleakala

Maui, Hawaii

September 25, 2010; revised December 1, 2013

From the fertile plain at Pukalini

                you ascend the flank of Haleakala

                        through tall stands of shady koa

                               to white pine and pasture

                                       scrub bush and boulder

                                               silversword and cinder

                                                      sky, wind.

Into the silence

of cold light

and piercing shadow

where psyche shrinks

before the stern truth

whispered without words
in dawning thought
and gentle urge:

                                                           You were given a garden

                                                           and precious days, numbered.

                                                           You do not belong here, but

                                                           linger, and count the colors

                                                           of gold in the sunset below

                                                           then descend through darkness

                                                           and while there is yet time

                                                           find your own fertile plain

                                                           to cultivate and sustain

                                                           each precious day

                                                           that still remains

                                                           as servant, helper

                                                           partner

                                                           friend.