I HAVE BEEN A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND

I have been a stranger in a strange land,

where my compass failed and every step was

labored and directionless. I prayed; I listened;

you said, Come out of the shadows. Barely

visible above a silhouetted slope, a gold-red

sliver broke the firmament, restored my

equilibrium, and gave me hope. Because I

asked, you spoke. Because you showed me

heaven’s glorious awakening, I promised, I will

follow you. Before the sun went down, I had

forgotten all of it, and even now, beset by

doubts, I wander off, disoriented, lost. Again

you take my hand and lead me from a

treacherous and twisted path onto a high,

straight, sunlit road. Friends wait, you say,

hospitably at this day’s journey’s end. And so it

is that to my left are shade at noontime and a

place to rest, and to my right, a dozen steps

beyond, fresh water gushes from a spring

between two ancient moss-clad stones. In you

I lack for nothing; I have all I need. With you

beside me, I am not alone. I lean upon your

strength; it never stumbles. Night holds neither

mystery nor terror, though the moon is dark,

the stars dim. At the cusp of morning, redbirds

interrupt the silence with their song, and

poplars and acacias whisper, Carry on—

anticipating dawn.

Amen.

No Complaints

Sunshine and Shadow, Winslow Homer, 1872

SUNNY, CHANCE OF SCATTERED STORMS

O Memory of mine, if some trifling irritation should
happen to at any time arise and try to shape itself into
a shadow something like complaining… if, perhaps, my
pillow is too hard or soft or otherwise refuses to
cooperate with the odd shape of my head... or it
occurs to me to wonder, Did I forget to lock the door?
and I, grumbling, get out of bed and stumble twenty
feet to check — the door indeed is locked, and I am
cross about the wasted effort —

Remind me gently, Memory, about the day when I
believed I had nowhere to stay... and then about my
lying in the dark on cold faux marble tile in hostile
territory, as it seemed, behind a door marked “Detox
Intake”... about the racing heart, the inward violence,
despair thrashing crazily in a bottomless, vast lake of
peace that maddeningly would not swallow it —
serenity that would not yield....

And, Memory, allow me never to entirely forget the
brisk, efficient kindness of the human hands that
brought a blanket; tired eyes yet bright with hope that
read my vital signs; exhausted voices — gravelly with
having been pressed into shouting for ten-and-one
half-going-on-eleven brutal hours in a facility both
understaffed and overcrowded — that still could ask
with genuine compassion, Are you having thoughts of
suicide? Remind me, Memory, of that sudden and
eternal and surprising certainty: I didn’t want to die.

And then release me, Memory of mine, from history
back into life, the bliss that is this very minute, warm
and glorious with sunlight and the possibility,
however slight, of thunderstorms.

Two poems of the East

Venus at dawn over the Pacific Ocean, by Brocken Inagloryon Wikipedia

THE ONLY WAY

I am not afraid of dying. I’ve already died at least a thousand times and come out, maybe chastened, maybe childlike, on the other side. I might have said, if I had words for it, I hate it here. I want my old life back. But there’s no future in that, is there? “Onward,” says my wise friend, pointing easterly. 

Without a more appealing prospect, I obey and turn and see a light, a brighter one than shone before, and hear a softer, sweeter voice than what was shrill and screaming in the pain of yesterday, the dream I’d just awakened from. 

And so it is (as if it were a choice I’d made – my will instead of, in the end, the only way to bliss), toward that new star, benign in April’s misty dawn, above new streams and gently rising hills, that I begin.

For Rod Colvin, April 2014

KRISHNAMURTI’S SECRET

I don’t mind what happens,

Krishnamurti said. I nod.

I know exactly what he means,

and yet I can’t help wondering

if Krishnamurti ever loved

a rugby team

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Last Call of the Night Watchman

Last Call of the Night Watchman
 

Sundog (also parhelion), the
appearance of bright spots
 of light on either side of the sun


Morning bounds out of the black shade... all but taps me on the shoulder... Hey, lady! Big round yellow circle here! I watch it with my back. I like to see what it does more than how it looks. The universe calls out importantly Born again! You there! Her! Him! Everything’s new and everyone has do-overs or at the very least another chance to get it right. All’s well. Night was blasted prettily; it’s skittered off to lick its wounds. A light breeze makes
teasing eddies on a small lake prodding
it awake and petulant it slaps the shore
not fully lucid yet, its lazy waves
like fingers tipped with jewels


It’s not a subtle thing, this exotic transformation, but it’s gotten ordinary to us: night day dark light, a hushed percussion that doesn’t skip a beat but marches evenly, troops on through the seasons year by year. My father never missed a day of work but knew the miracle
of dawn. He was both earth and sky and
then the time came when he couldn’t soldier
on and went where I can’t find him. Ever
since, I’ve felt a bit at sea... adrift like
the small child lost in the department store.
Daddy always found me then. But when he went
away for good, when I waited gripping a stranger’s
hand and he didn’t return, I knew that daylight
wouldn’t be a sure thing any more. The
drum had stopped. I couldn't hear the
marching now

Hidden Lake, Glacier
National Park, Montana


I must have slept. How is it that the early sunlight whispers on my neck?... another chance to get it right I guess. I can’t see the lake from here; I know it’s nearby where it’s always been, the lissome willows with their graceful branches
dangling at its edge; if I were fanciful, perhaps I'd wonder if they laugh to hear it mutter and complain and watch it stumble into wakefulness... and languidly it
swats with jeweled fingertips at merry
breezes; the rhythm settles and becomes
familiar, and I am at ease

All images: vnwallpapers