The Diminutive of Grace

Tianjin, Beijing, and Hubei Provence, China 

December 6, 2012; October 1, 2014

For Xiang Wén Yàn (Gracie) and her father, Xiang Heng-Zhu – Grace and Peace

恩典
It can come anywhere,

which is why I travel,

why I make myself

stranger, bumbling

about the far ends,

seeking the epicenter

where subterranean  

grace probes thin places

and could even emerge

from the traffic of Tianjin

which, of course, it does

though we could not

know her just yet, caught

in the converging weave

of bikes and buses, trucks

and cars, each urgent

to shoot through now

to the next knot, and the next

in the wan afternoon light

of a jet-lagged Sunday.

恩典

Travel teaches hard truth –

Great Walls can be blocked

by blizzards, blogspot by

censors, blue sky by smog,

and old men mired in ideology

can meet in museums

by the mausoleum of Mao

to choose among themselves.

  

But Tao blows which way

it will and grace still flows

through whom it will.

Through tiny frames

born to mouse,

or to dragon, farm girls

from Hubei who pack fire

into forty kilos, carrying

a father’s dream through

far cities, sustained

by songs of the Silver River

dividing celestial lovers

on dark nights far from

pavement. By small dogs

and bright days following

father through fields

feeding on stories, lessons

fit for weary souls – When

days grow hard, remember

well the ones who hunger,

mountain children far

from school. And dear

Wén Yàn, do not forget

to feed your buffalo.

恩典
I can still hear her song

soft in my ear, subtle

tones dancing gracefully

around my comprehension.

  

And I can still feel

her coarse silk warmth

resting on my right shoulder

in a tight bus barreling

through what time

we shared, what spirit

that smiles across culture

and binds the wounds of Babel.

恩典
This is why I travel, why

I cross the terminus

into tomorrow, to talk

in darkened halls the idiom

of equations, sharing

PowerPoints and polite

smiles, software suffused

with life-blood, coded bits

of mind, bequeathed.

But Gracie, did I never 
lecture on the math 
of absolute? A fraction

of the infinite
is infinite itself;

the diminutive 
of Grace is grace.

The Dueling Harmonics of Unending Fall

Athens, Georgia

October 2, 2012

1.

Amped by anger

      bankrolled

      by billionaires

righteous fools feed

      on grievance

      spit out blame

ill-tempered tools

      respond

      the same

self righteous tribes

      reciprocate

      offended

minions escalate.

      Impelled

      by honor

social loops resonate

      to unholy

      harmonics

in a world wired close

      and wound

      tight, trolling

the soundtrack of

      triumphalism

      braying 

arias echo the   

      alabaster

      façade

of a once shining city

      set proudly

      on a hill

above the fertile

      fruitless

      plains.

2.

Prophetic words come as cold wind

      to early fall –

            Your noble ideals

wielded without compassion

      are no more than noisy

                  gong and clanging

            cymbal.

3.

Up from rubble wasteland plains

    past the crest of weathered heights

        a rock is rolled to ruined walls

            founded once on noble

                dreams and human flaws

                    repaired with vows

                        and painted

                            cracks.

                         The rock rolls back

            to rubble plains.

                   Squaring shoulders

                          once again

            our Sisyphus descends

alone.

4.

Yet somehow through the centuries

      Saint Paul’s savior

            whispers

                  Love.

 5.

There are autumn afternoons
that would grace eternity, when
echoes of ageless minds penetrate 
prepackaged lives, and strife 
recedes to hush 

         when out of stillness          

             peace descends     

          on dry leaf flurries    

       and tittering cascades    

             of celestial love      

      as a thousand starlings   

           speak in tongues          

               of tiny angels             

           timeless blessings       

               to life joyfully             

                     borne.                        

 6.

When blessed by birds

      and righteous

      ghosts

      a holy

harmonic takes hold

      of hearts

      compelled

      by Love

to wield the tools

      of peaceful

      arts –

      dancing

endless autumn days

      confronting

      endless fall

      of night

committing all to ágape

      through toil

      and play –  

      raising up

large rocks to height

      hard words

      to harmony

      come what

might – through rise

      and fall

      Camus

      and Paul

would claim delight

      set shoulder

      with Sisyphus

      heart-fire

with Love, foregoing

      treasure

      achieving due

      measure

of life nobly worn.

"Leaves and light" by David Noah, Winterville, Georgia

A Sunday Afternoon Island Dream

Isle La Motte, Vermont

July 29, 2012

Down at the Fisk farm,

four Vermont yankees

play the blues

to polite applause

beside the art barn

where the well

behaved sip unsweet

tea and lemonade

to wash down

deeply chocolate pie

on lawn chairs pulled

to patchy shade

as laid back bikers glide

slow roads that wind past

fields and cider

stands, which operate on

honor code, how goodness

goes in honest

lands, where in the deep late

afternoon a humble man

in holey jeans

strides up the road

with violin and soon

the early evening

still is gently filled

with Air on a G String  

as maestro plays

Bach on the beach

with more passion

than skill, much

like most marriages,

which get by on

grace and guts

to kinder days

like Isle La Motte

its summertime

ice cider joy

distilled from bitter

winter nights.

"Peace" - photograph by
David Noah, Winterville, Georgia

Ladies of the Lake

Isle La Motte, Vermont

July 29, 2012; modified February 3, 2015

At Maya House

on Isle La Motte

two brides embrace

as loved ones watch

well-chosen words when

spoken under open sky

rise up in light

to join the song

of hermit thrush

in blissful flush

of summertime.

Soon siblings, strangers

sit as one, share

pasta, toasts and provolone

as Texas, Georgia, Quebecois

mingle with Missouri

tribes, their vegan plates

set side by side

with sausage balls

and biting flies, a wedding

feast for all alike.

Later in the failing light

beyond a summer sunset

far away from most places

rising over cold waters

a stone’s throw

from rocky shores –

The ladies of the lake are one.

The Hawk is Hunting

Athens, Georgia

July 23, 2012

A shadow glides the gentle land 

beyond the blacktop, bordered 

by ditches and daisies 

down packed dirt driveways 

past tin-roof farm homes,

two room churches, fenced-in 

cows and free-range mice –

now soaring over grace and lies

the hawk is hunting summer skies.

A raptor circles arid plains

its pilot half a world away

a mug of Starbucks in one hand

while focused on his wary prey

a fighter striding toward his fate

as protocols somewhere are met

a mouse is clicked, new smoke plumes rise

in distant fields a young man dies –

the hawk is hunting summer skies.

Ghostly circuits take to clouds

to conjure up a techno-shroud

that reinforces human pride

as algorithms churn inside

spinning truths submerged in lies

and soaring dreams descend to doubts 

just who the raptor, who the mouse

when cell phones stalk unwary lives –

the hawk is hunting summer skies.

At twilight hawks return to nest

but techno-servants never rest

they serve their masters faithfully

from Faust to Frankenstein they grow

ignore for now the final toll

relax, embrace your YouTube soul

let comfort salve the silent fright

as spirit reapers take to flight

and hunt the haunted summer night.

"Bird and building" by David Noah, Winterville, GA

Journey to Embarkation

Daejeon, South Korea

September 21, 2010; revised May, 2014

Midnight rains have stopped for now

and veils of mist envelop trees. Soft

textures of darkness hover beyond

        the pale reach of streetlight

that bathes the last bus stop

                out of Daejeon.

Late night truths come veiled in signs.

A white dog emerges from shadow,

makes his mark then passes on

        and leaves me emptied

on the path of pilgrims now

                at peace with night.

Though dawn lies distant, far beyond

my closed horizons bright midmorning

showers light, I must have faith  

        for here I am, wayfaring

stranger, watching forms

                in drifts of fog.

Too soon the rains will return

and the lullaby tap of wipers

will sooth intermittent sleep

        through the last

empty hours of night

                in a far country,

And my bus will plow steady

to causeway’s end

beyond the mudflats

        where sea and sky

merge, gray and indistinct

                at Incheon.

My brothers, we are bodies

becoming spirit, forever drifting 

mid-transit. We are always

        awaiting embarkation.

We have always already

                arrived.

In the Aftermath of an Engineering Binge

Athens, Georgia

June 6, 2012

My muse flipped me off last week

after too many midnights, head caught

in code, tweaking time step solvers

on an engineering binge.

She said you left that years ago

for herons, shoals, and metered lines

and who but one like you might find

your mind entranced in strings of code?

I said it’s just a short-time thing

      an algorithm coding fling

      my simulation fantasy

to make a number cruncher sing.

Just fine she said, half out the door

      composing raunchy metaphor

it’s art, I argued, and what’s more

my colleagues all swear, and you know’em

my programs resemble a poem:

      they tend to abort

      a syllable sort

ambiguous functions the norm.

As I said, my muse

      flipped me off last week.

Took up with a wild-eyed type,

      my evil twin Sal

who drives a souped-up symbol –

      nineteen sixty seven

      or eight mustang

which has nothing on my hybrid

when it comes to efficiency.

She was last seen riding shotgun

      top down, streaming

      raucous lines, the kind

she knows I never use. To choose

      the wild, a touch

      obtuse and bad

career move for a muse

‘cause "Reptile Brain" just cannot write.

      So I propose

      a compromise

pour tu, cher muse, inverse haiku:

     Wake up soon and savor dawn

                    engineer by day             

            after sunset, yield to art.

So ready now to channel

      phrases, randy words  

      stoked in the queue

long overdue, when can we start?

Photography by David Noah, Winterville, Georgia

A Springtime Promise

Lines composed after the onset of an intermittent arrhythmia

May 2012; modified April 4, 2014

There are springtime Saturday mornings 
bursting with birdsong and breeze 
so sweet no set of sun salutations, 
no Psalm of praise could say 
such love, when life breathes light 
and you run for hours on joy alone.
Do not forget these days 

For there will be fortnights 
        filled 
            with fail 
when worlds assault your 
spirit with chainsaws 
        at eight 
            sharp 
on days that follow 
frantic weeks of sleep 
        denied 
            when 
fears converge on fitful 
nights, when cynicism drains 
        your life 
            your heart 
grows dim beneath bright 
skies which mock your 
        lonely 
            soul 
with lies that love 
persists and life abides 
      for flesh 
          is grass 
that withers, dries 
when summer brings 
        its scorching 
            breath 
and blows untethered 
hope to shreds. Do not 
        forget 
            the spring

For there will be seasons 
when you find yourself dark
        pilgrim 
            plunging 
through too many 
tomorrows so lost 
        salvation 
            is just 
a set of syllables in 
some forgotten tongue 
        when paths 
            wind inward, 
spiral aimless, down 
through tangles, torn 
        convictions, 
            worn out 
dreams, forsaken, trapped 
in mental mazes, soul 
        cries out 
            against 
the ages, curses life, 
denies it twice, that 
        empty 
            vessel 
born to die. Do not forget 
the darkest times

For there will be springtime Saturdays 

when you find your heart 

strangely calm 

when the sacred surrounds you with signs

for it's written on the lattice of a late season frost 

and whispered in the midnight storm 

that peace, perhaps, will find you yet 

perhaps, for you, a pulse and breath 

for you, the tilt and turn of earth 
for you, a patch of morning sun.