Spirit of the nuanced
The Guardian
Captures me
Subtle breath whisps escaping
Amid mornings fresh slumber,
Retreating darkness
Holding whiskers proud
Beyond horizon’s line;
An unfurling, curling
One here, one there
Among different sized lobes
Each a maze of geometry
So uniquely theirs
It’s a geneological foodbank
Each year in passing.
Calmness of inanimate objects
Sitting patiently waiting use
Though no forseen future demands
Their attention.
Sweet parent-birds
Fly hither and tither
Dusting tops of every perch
Fighting for their moment
To build their grass nest more home like.
It is within this deep being
That the Guardians arrive
No trumpeting, no blooming,
Just tingling sensations
Arising from an inner cleft
Of my seeking heart
Wedged between a desire to think
And a greed to be done thought;
An unknown state
Of neither solid nor liquid
A gelatin, oozing down my spine
And into my belly
Dancing to a tribal rhythm section
Continually beating
And beating
And uplifting my observations
Like a lost feather
Caught in a spiral.
Is this seek or search?
Are eyes wide open
Even during sleep time dreaming?
Does water still run
When my hand doth not provide
Ripples for its current to take?
For in this lost world
A game that hath not unfolded
Shall our minds be awake
To feel and hear each luminensce
A shining depth for soul language
Hidden within our own Glorian?
Shall we know so deeply
Without language or reason
To guide our knowing
Or maybe we call it
More appropriately
Guiding our understanding
Or better yet
Shall we call this quest
Simply a Glorian.
Humbling
Farming is forever humbling
Awake into a day that never ends
Time forever reminding you
That it stops for no one.
Death surrounds us
That ceaseless burden of seasons
At once begun and thus ending
Bringing with her death, decay, rot,
As well as growth, shoots, greenery
Catching and holding on to
Each ember of light
Allowing it to stay alive
And if, for some unseen reason
Light decides to shift away
Blocked out by some larger tree
Or shifting season
It is the humbling reminder
That our time is as once fresh
And mingled so tightly with death
That in the event our labour slows
A creeping natural chaos shall ensue
Taking hold of every dream
We ever dared to live towards.
And when you think that the day is done
When the sun has gone down
And invisible snipes roam the skies
Processing, dishes, last checks,
Predators, water,
The day is never done
To give you one last breath
Before you close your eyes
And say goodnight to no one
Since all have already found rest.
Nobody
I’ve become aware I am nobody
If I had any fame, it is lost
If I was milk, I’d be spilt
If I were a rose, I’d be dried.
I am not who I’ve thought I am;
A lone wolf howls in moon’s light,
A whisper shadows unseeing,
A blueprint is missing pages.
I do not walk alone
For I am followed and met by wind,
My heart beats beside me and within,
And my eyes fall on friends I don’t know.
Planting an Orchard
Six steps
Apple tree
Compost on top
Twice
I’ve walked twice through this field
The first time was to clear
What had taken hold of my empty thoughts
The second pass was to remind myself
Of each burden I had come to lift,
Of all obstacles I have seen come and then go,
Of muscles and sinue of my body that has once been broken or sore
And now which holds me strong,
Of grasses and trees I have been graced to come to know,
Of each changing season that has changed my soul
Just as one changes their choice in clothes,
And when I returned to the spot I had started from
For I knew where I had come from
I knew I was once again
A changed man never to return
To the same footsteps I had just walked.
Upper Field
Each word only spoke to who I used to be
Hitting me with sadness I hadn’t felt in so long
Memory, an idle passtime we cannot live without
Like each deep line slowly growing across my body
And each sun setting beyond the upper field
Pink and golden and blue as it be
A feather of mine that once flew me
In wind I now see as ghosts
Of who I used to be.
Wooden Chest
My hands of sawdust
Leaked thin oil of care
A blade beginning to dull
Against wood lacking edge
Thought I could not hold
Escaped my singing lips
Towards this mother wisdom
Inside my wooden chest.
Winds
Winds so softly blow against
Open breath of my morning
Definitely Arctic air
Lingering in it’s breadth
Curling around me as if to say
You are home, welcome,
And good morning to you Sir.
For me, it is as an alarm
Awake before I’m called
A sign I am still early
For a fresh day to my face.
Greeting, Sun
Greetings, Rooster
Greetings, fresh grass
Greetings, Wind
I am ready for today.
Silence Sail
I silenced my mind
To no prevail
A hope
That did unrail
And awoke myself
To orchard grass
Slowly loosening my veil
Then all at once
A rhythm began
Slowly filling my sail.
The Way You Used To
You don’t look at me the way you used to
Soft eyes, like you were a bit mystified
By my approach to life
Or maybe it was my life itself
That intrigued you.
You don’t look to me the way you used to
Photographs I remember you in
A bikini I haven’t seen in a long time
And a smile that could drive a mad-man wild
I remember that as we lay.
You don’t need to look the way you used to
We’re milder, softer, settled,
Together comfortably with a purpose
A vision of family and future
That holds us tight as we say goodnight.
You don’t know me the way you used to
Now you hold my hand with intention
Setting rituals of togetherness, wholeness
And connectedness that those photographs
Never held.
You don’t look at me the way you used to
And I love the way you look to me,
Though I don’t remember much about
The young man I used to be,
I know the meaning and purpose of
The man I am to you.