We ride the waves
of our universe,
always in motion
Sky, Wind, Clouds
and Me counting on
the going forth and
the coming back,
predictable patterns.
In a Skinny Poem
In a sip clouds transform
skies
dark
sweet
rain
skies
blue
clouds
stretch
skies
transform clouds in a sip.
In a breath life changes
days
dark
sweet
tears
days
bright
grace
gathers
changes life in a breath
Check out Truth Thomas and the Skinny Poem.
Poetry Form Matters: Truth Thomas and The Skinny
As it turns out, I didn’t quit on writing or fall into a writer’s block,
I had not run out of things to say or ways to experience the world.
I fell into a deep silence, sitting in a kind of well without water,
No momentum to flourish, no observations to shape into words.
In this silence I made great friends with darkness, allowing myself
to slip between the covers of night and day, listening to hope;
transforming deep breaths into sleep and awareness into light;
welcomed, embraced without demands, I kept watch and waited.
So much happened in the time between then and now.
Just as the seasons were transforming my mountain horizon
into green leafed mansions that moved with the winds,
fear covered the earth world with illness, and forced solitude.
From my personal space I witnessed what I could not deny:
prejudices perpetuate tyranny, the pain of injustice grows
like a deadly virus until it finally takes our collective breath away.
As a people we need more than words that call for action,
more than good intentions to stand in solidarity with others;
We need voices of wise leaders willing to take risks and
oppose status quo. We need to hear the narratives of those
who know injustice and come through on the side of hope,
voices providing assurance, guidance on how to replace
violence with de-escalation, confrontation with active listening.
We cannot relive the past; this is a time to transform the future.
Pulled by the energy of necessity, making my way out
of the well of wordless darkness, I push away the ever
present doubt that I can make a difference, the question
of what can I say that others have not offered before me.
In the confinement of a well, and the space of solitude
I discover I am never alone; my thoughts are energy
creating waves, connecting me with a world others;
bound together we create momentum for change.
It’s raining outside – pouring actually. A bit warm for a winter day; waiting at the retina eye care office for Mountain Mobility, a ride home. Forty-five minutes till scheduled pick-up; pushing against a restless yearning to slip into wishful thinking for a different kind of day, I choose to practice staying in the present moment. Taking in the real that’s now I witness the kindness of strangers, caregivers, receptionists, goodness that enriches my day; a colorful array of rain boots, every style and hue becomes a delight; warmth of indoor lights provide a haven; patients coming and going creatively manage canes, walkers, umbrellas, papers; a harmony of voices, soothing talk tones. I sit in a healing space, where a congregation of people weary with worries waits together gathering courage, pricks of hope to hold onto sight, In the present moment all seems well, manageable, glorious, or just plain okay. Attentive to the now, I can see –
light abounds on dark grey days.
The Pull of the Tides and Fall Harvest Moon
Drew me towards Year’s End, New Decade of
Possibilities. Winter rode Waves of early Sunsets,
Festival Lights and Celebrations.
January Dawns with an Invitation to move Gingerly
Over Frozen Ground, Peer through Bared Arms
Of Nature at the Open Horizon. Resolve, Re-vision,
Slow down, Change of Rhythm.
Well, Glory Be! These Words escape my Lips
A bit like Bird-Song, An Awakening Mantra.
Surprise, Delight, tinged with Gratitude, another
Day to Spin with the Earth, Circle the Sun.
Glory Be! Keep an Eye out for the Wonders,
Gifts that keep my World in Balance,
Heal the Hurts, Right the Wrongs, Hold to the
Promise, for Love is the Axis on which we Turn.
The Truth is I can only hold onto Truth
for the length of a deep breath of
awe. A glimmer of light, ten beats of
my heart before reality fills the space
with emotions, needs, dreams,
making it difficult to savor the
delicious freedom of Truth.
Yesterday, shrouded in the pain of absence I
searched for an answer – how to stop
an unbearable ache not found in my mind
or seared in my heart, rather embedded
in every disposition of my spirit, pulse
of my body, charge of my brain. I
knew she was not longer here.
My red and white soft furred border-collie,
with the freckles and snout of a brittany,
gifted with unending love, bearer of divine
gift to everyone who stopped long enough
to catch her eye. A single treat ensured life-
long devotion. Her life not nearly long enough.
We released her from suffering with a
great desire that she might truly run free.
Today I encountered in a fleeting moment
acceptance of her life as temporal presence,
a gift wrapped in an eternal love.
In that moment of oneness I knew
she marked my being with a love
that will never diminish, that cannot
be taken away, a gift for all eternity.
Now there abides in my reality absence
and presence, pain and healing.
The truth is that loss is only bearable
when I remember that the essence
of a life endures forever in love.
Summer weds autumn on this dense
forest trail; white wood asters line the
bridal path, candelabras of goldenrods,
red maple leaves scattered like rose petals
along the path, sun struck mica glittering,
wedding jewels. Through the laurel arch,
past the birch and poplar stands, witnesses
bearing boutonnieres of purple turtle heads,
bouquets of white snake root; a scent of
decay nourishes life unseen; breezes stir
nature’s memory, recalling the Cherokee
partnered with the land, grateful for this
hallowed Black Mountain. The South Toe River,
faithfully moving to its Source, carries our
vows to come this way once again.
Marmalade in the Morning
The morning sun stretches,
yawning wide over mountain
ridges before slipping back
under a thick grey quilt.
Eager dark clouds push
their way across the day
while I spread lemon and
lavender marmalade over
toasted English muffin.
***
Late Afternoon Tea
Clouds smudged with the
grime of a day’s journey
align like runners carrying
a banner, “Look to the West”.
Blue, crystal blue patches
make way as day dwindles.
My last sip of lavender
and chamomile tea.
I have three passions: trail hiking in the mountains, observing nature in a silent setting, and music. I am compelled to write about the first two – trying to lean into, savor the wonder and awe. The third experience for me is most often wordless – sounds and rhythms that empty me of all other pondering, resonating in my heart, sometimes speaking words buried in my spirit. All three passions share the results of liberation from whatever burdens, obsessions, or anxieties I carry about every day. I enjoy a wide range of music performers, but am drawn these days to Bluegrass, Traditional, and the soul of a few folksingers. A recent music and storytelling event moved me to words because the sounds and rhythms were set between tales I have never heard.
I live in a world where buskers are a part of the fabric of the city; they also find themselves playing by the “rules”, like assigned slots for street corners and building entrances. In Asheville they formed a Collective to create a conversation with the policy makers to benefit street entertainers as well as the city’s economic and cultural life. To walk through town is to be drawn from one corner to the next by street musicians.
The only word to truly describe Abby the Spoonlady is mesmerizing. Experiences of silent listening, joyous wonder, and a bit of movement. When Abby plays on the corner of Patton and Biltmore Avenues, a crowd quickly forms. These days she is a popular draw at indoor music venues. Last month I secured tickets for a “second showing” at a local stage. I looked forward to her music with her partner on the road, Chris Rodrigues, a great singer, songwriter in his own right. But I especially wanted hear Abby telling her stories. A first for me. The two gave a performance that I did not want to end. When the show closed and the stage was silent I captured my experience in words so I could hold onto the memories. Check out her music and stories. https://spoonladymusic.com/spoon-lady-biography/
Abby the Spoonlady wears life as a traveler
in the worn lines of her face; her voice carries
the wisdom of the road and a bounty of love
for those she met along the way – a family
of migrants who stopped to give her a much needed
lift, placing a young child on her lap as she slid
into the back seat; the cold nights spent
on the road with weary others gathered under
concrete bridges; the snowman they built
in the freight yard, topping it with a hard hat
and scattered bits of clothing; this community of
loners watched as workmen stopped to take pictures
of their creation. She helped traveling buddies shove
a comfortable sofa into a rail car to soften yet
another long ride heading somewhere she never
felt she belonged. “It’s not easy” she says, “always
waiting for someone to ask you to leave or just
move along.” Wedged behind a cardboard sign left by
her street mates reading “quarantined,” she hoped
the officers would move away and leave her alone;
she played percussion, drawing the attention of a group
of Chippendales emerging from a bar; they continued their
their routines while an appreciative crowd gathered.
with bells on her feet, and a matched pair of
any old serving spoons she clicked, clacked,
snapped her body, rhythm and movement coming
alive, eyes wide open, brilliant with glee. Abby says
she doesn’t move about too much these days;
her body tells her not to. “I miss the traveling ways –
but I learned all I need to know about being
genuinely myself- with nothing to lose.”
We are about done with winter in the south – nature is already signaling change. March announces its arrival a bit early with yesterday’s howling winds. The red maple outside my window is tipped with red buds. Dandelions persistently push though dried leaves; daffodils greet me on my walk to the park. Sitting on the park bench shaped from a fallen hickory, I consider winter’s lessons for survival.
With cues from burrowing creatures, I line my winter retreat with a stack of books, a list of movies to stream, CD’s hiding too long behind my top ten favorites choices, games I usually do not get around to playing I crochet comforters and wraps in warm colors, and delight in a variety of scarves to add more than warmth to winter wear. I pull out my highly favored fur-lined boots kept in the back of the closet for much of the year. On the coldest days I reach for my mother’s wool sweater, monogrammed with her initials.
Hoarding can also be life-giving I am very familiar with this hoarding instinct, having watched the squirrels’ frenzy of burying nuts. My lawn is covered with paw sized pits; scratched patches. Every newscaster in the northeast and much of the south sends reporters and photographers to the local hardware and grocers’ when a winter weather watch is announced. Viewers dutifully note the ritual of emptying shelves. In order to shift from surviving to thriving, I redefine the tradition of hoarding (while my pot of soup is simmering and my stash of chocolate is secure) I am hoarding gratitude. Wrapped in flannel and wool, I think about the pleasures of spiced tea, mulled cider, the snapping flame of a red cinnamon scented candle.
This year winter demands that I take an artist’s eye to a background of grey. Muted skies accent every point of color. From my reflection corner, where I read, write, and meditate, the red bird feeder that is kept inside in every other season creates a scene of vibrant activity. My kitchen window frames the suet feeder, and the frequent colorful visitors – cardinals, blue jays, black-capped chickadees, tufted titmouse, red-breasted finch, pileated woodpecker. Their song is a winter’s jubilation as though they share in my delight at frost that sparkles when the sunlight finally appears, crystal coated mornings, the dance of snowflakes leaving a sweet layer of white icing on rhododendrons and magnolias with their candle like bulbs. Evergreens stand out in sharp contrast to their deciduous earth mates, reinforcing their own survival with a careful selection on nutrients. Seasons have a tendency to build on the spirit of anticipation, and though I pass through my winter trials with an upswing in acceptance, I eager anticipate change.
How About That 