Poem: The Crib

The Crib

You step back and look at your handiwork.
The leg at one end has been lovingly repaired,
and your critical eye is aware
that your work is not perfect,

that anyone looking closely can see
the line of the break, still,
the crib stands firm again,
peaceful and strong.

Your children slept here -
tiny babies then, you used to watch
them in the night, marveling
at their perfection and promise,

wondering if your own father
had the same sense of miracle,
when you too,
laid there more than half a century ago,

and his father before him, and more....
four generations of babies,
four generations of miracles
repeating themselves, as if we

somehow, needed reminding,
again and again,
unable to accept the reality
with just one new life.

The crib lies empty now,
save for a pair of dolls,
a reminder not of your daughter's childhood,
but of generations to come,

who will turn this relic into something living again,
a rebirth of sorts, a reminder of how God's gifting
brings life to the old and tired,
love to the broken and worn.

===================

I really do have a crib in my house where my children, my self, my father and my grandfather all slept as babies. And it's full of my daughter's dolls. But the one in the picture is more picturesque and so it shows up here instead of the one I write of in this poem. The picture was taken in a house in Ashville, NC. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Morning in the Graveyard

Morning in the Graveyard

The road leads to the graveyard
and you hesitate,
afraid perhaps of ghosts,
of history, or worse,
a future haunted by the past.

Still, you walk through the gates,
past the ancient marble stones.
You face your fear and begin
to read the names on the stones,
one by one,

faceless deaths, faceless lives,
all buried beneath the grass and snow,
and as the gray morning passes,
you sigh, and like the morning sun
breaking through the winter clouds,
you smile, as you realize

your name is not here
and the death you were so certain of,
was not your own after all.

=========

The picture is of a graveyard in Salem, New York, taken last winter. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Proverbs 15:15

Proverbs 15:15

The day is cold
and ice has fallen, covering
much of the landscape
in a frigid blanket.

As you drive to town,
there is no traffic, and faces
peer from windows as you pass,
wondering, no doubt,

what urgent errand
has you traveling on such a day.
How then could you explain,
that you have no task,

simply a desire to experience
everything,
even this cold, hard weather,
fully.

You arrive at last to the farmer's market,
and only a pair of hardy vendors are there,
their wares spread over tables, under tents,
a feast in waiting,

and the three of you talk and laugh,
and share a sip of Rhubarb wine,
and warm your hands and hearts
over flames from an old oil drum,

sharing this morning
shunned by so many,
lost to all but you three,
who laugh away the morning
in delight

================

The picture is from the Roanoke farmer's market. you can click on it for a larger version.

The bible verse from the title reads All the days of the oppressed are wretched, but the cheerful heart has a continual feast. It came from my bible readings this morning.

Tom

Thoughts: Showing Off

One of my colleagues from my day job recently stumbled on this blog and called me up. "You do poetry?" he said. "Who knew?". It was an astonishment to him because he sees me in a technical context day in and day out.

It occured to me after that conversation, that most of my regular readers see just my poetry and photography, and just as my colleague never knew about my poetry, readers here never see the other side of what I do day in and day out.

I manage a group of people in Washington DC who design and build TV facilities - control rooms, studios, edit rooms - that kind of thing. It's the kind of job where I get to wear a lot of hats. At times I am an engineer, a designer, a salesman, a project manager and sometimes a manager. I also do marketing for the company, Diversified Systems.

I love my work and I love being part of a group of such skilled people, and building such wonderful facilities. So I am "showing off" a little here, one of our most recent projects - The Speed Channel, down in Charlotte, NC, which we built for Fox. We also recently did the Larry King show facility for CNN/LA, are working on CNN/DC's capitol fiber hub where all the press for the U. S. capital taps into, as well as the new facility for the Conan O'Brien Show. Fun stuff.

We do tend to peg people as single dimensional, in whatever role we see them in most often. But must of us are far more than that. I am constantly surprised at all the things that the people who work with me do - play in bands, work in the military, go to school, contribute time to charities and passions. It's amazing the depth of nearly everyone we meet, if we just take the time to find out.

Recently, I have begun to ask people I interface at work with what they do besides work, and I am constantly surprised, and learning more, helps me see them more as people than the job they do for me. It's a good excercise, and one the people you are asking appreciate too. Try it!

These pictures are from The Speed Channel. You can click on them for a larger view.

Tom

Poem: The Door

The Door

The door to the house has lay open all day.
The windows sashes are parted and raised
to let in the fresh late summer air
as thunder rolls across the valley.

The neighbors, curious and kind,
have peered in,
surprised at the unexpected hospitality
they find gifts,
and savor the warmth.

Perfect strangers too, look in the doorway,
tentative at first, then with bold confidence
they enter the hallway, wander the rooms,
wearing their delight openly,
sharing their hearts, their drama, their tears
with me, an imperfect stranger.

But you, you stand at the street
fearful of what you will find here,
fearful of cobwebs and ghosts.
Certain the door waits to trap you inside,
you stand far, afraid to enter this house
that yearns not for neighbors or strangers,
but for you.

Can you not see?
The locks are on the inside,
and once in,
you can always let yourself out,
or stay forever, as you choose.

Come then. Come out of the storm.
Join me here.
Let us explore this mansion
and discover its delights
together.

============

The poem is an older one, recently revisited and revised and finally finished. The picture is from Winterthur, taken last summer while on vacation with my children. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: My Desk is Cluttered

My Desk is Cluttered

My desk is cluttered
with cards from loved ones, children and strangers,
with small boxes holding treasures that are mine alone,
with sand in a bottle, a tiny armadillo,
and an old brass compass.

My desk is cluttered
with candles that sway
like a grape vine in a summer breeze,
or a woman dancing slowly in the night.

My desk is cluttered
with a stone black and white,
rounded like riverstones everywhere,
but full of magic,
from the depths of Merlin's cave
in far Tintagle.

And when I die, few will know
how much love clutters my desk.
or know the magic that lives there,
or the power it provides,
or the joy.
Ah yes, the joy!

===========

The picture really is of my desk, taken tonight, although I gave it the "old" feel by using software, imaging what a picture of my desk might look like in a hundred years. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Thought: An award

Ralph Neckman of the delightfully whimsical book-in-a-blog, has given me the Premia Dardos Award, which evidently is given is for the appreciation of merits - culturally, literary and individually - of every blogger who expresses him/herself on his/her blog.

I am honored to have Ralph in particular think enough to add me to his list, because his blog really is one of the exceptional reads I enjoy on a regular basis. One of these days the adventures and thoughtfulness of his family of entertaining giraffes will end up on the best seller list, a-la-J. K. Rawling. Yes, the world he creates on his blog is that good of a read.

There are some rules attached to this award, and basically they are....

1. be tickled pink ;)

2. copy and paste the award picture to your blog;

3. write down the regulations;

4. link the blog who bestowed you the Award;

5. and finally nominate 15 blogs for the Award.

I have a little problem with the last one. Too chain letterish for me, but the rules also say you don't have to nominate any, so I will lay low and think on it before passing the award on. There are so many good writers and artists and photographers out there sharing their work and hearts on the web. One of my favorite things to do is visit bloggers I have come to know and respect, and then follow their favorite links to another, and from there to another, reading all over the world.

I have a few of these awards at this point, and at times I have thought about doing what others do and putting them on the sidebar somewhere, but so far I haven't done it. I don't want to seem like I don't appreciate these things. I do, but what I appreciate about them is this: I have noticed that without exception, the people who pass them on to me are people whose writing or expression I really admire, like Ralph Neckman. And who doesn't appreciate a compliment from your peers?

So for now, tack down Ralph's list of people he's passed the award on to - there are some really good writers on that list. I am in good company, it seems!

Tom

Poem: On watching Obama take his Oath.

On watching Obama take his Oath

The crowd is breathtaking,
and the temptation
is to see only a sea of people,
not the individual faces
and hearts that have come

on this day, at this hour,
to be part of the rebirth of hope,
heart by heart,
making that hope

something more than a passive wish,
stirring the courage to give it life,
to give it sinew and heart, a soul
that reflects not some siren song,

but a longing, long dormant,
that dares to reach upward and cry,
Yes, God, I believe in your love,
not for nations and churches,
but for me. Me!

And believe it not in words,
but actions, work, effort,
and together, only together,

create
life from ashes,
light from darkness,
love from loss.

=================

The picture is not mine. It's an AP shot. But it illustrated the poem, and is striking in it's own right.

Tom

Poem: Clashing Colors

Clashing Colors

It is a timefor failure,
for experimenting,
for moving the furniture
and moving it again.

It is a time to mix new colors,
to try new recipies on strangers,
to draw left handed
and to pray new prayers.

It is time to dance
when you have never danced before;
to scribble bad sonnets
that rhyme in all the wrong places.

And when the colors clash,
and the room feels out of balance,
and the metaphors in your verse
make kind women wince, then

it is time to laugh at failure,
knowing God spends a lifetime
on each flawed life,
loving us to show us how

we too should learn to love
imperfection,
understanding his love is not in the goal,
but the striving, the reaching, the journey.

==========

The picture is of my daughter's cat, Cleopatra, perched on a not quite level birdbath that, despite it's tilt, is a favorite napping place. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Fire

Fire

Fire,
both holy and profane,
lives like love:
warming,
cooking gently,
lighting the night,
burning like hell,
and ever rising
from the ashes,
again, and again.

=====

The picture was taken two falls ago in a house near Pawlet, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: A Warm Afternoon in March

A Warm Afternoon in March

You do not begin in a frenzy of work,
but by sitting,
and in your mind's eye imagining
this drab patch of earth as something more,

a place of refuge and hope and peace,
of color and fragrance, sitting
day after day, until finally, you see it,
as real as real and you are ready to begin.

It is a small space, a few square yard
of tangled weeds and overgrown grass,
unremarkable, covered with broken limbs,
debris from winter storms now past.

To those who walk past, it seems drudgery,
the work you do today. They watch
you pile limbs for the firepit,
see you prying heavy stones and a moss covered stump,

that seems to grow from the earth's core,
see you digging deep into the soil,
the ripe sweat of the March sun on your face,
black dirt under your fingernails.

But for you, it is not work, this effort.
It is something else,
a rediscovery, a rebirth of hope and joy,
a reclaiming of the garden left fallow,

and in each handful of rich black earth,
you breath the air of spring,
certain of a future filled
with the glory of flowers.

=============

The picture was taken at Roaring Run, near Eagle Rock, Virginia. You can click on it for a larger view.

Tom

Poem: Hidden Horizons

Hidden Horizons

You look over the parking lot,
past the signs and cars,
past the wires strung across the sky,

peering beyond all the barriers
we put in our own way,
things of our own creation,

clutter of the worst kind,
distracting us from God's own beauty,
and his truth,

that the horizon
is not nearly as far away
as we imagine.

===============

The picture was take from my hotel room parking lot outside Washington DC this morning. It struck me that what I saw at first, was the colors on the horizon, and then it struck me how much stuff was between me and the horizon, and from that, on the ride to work, this poem slipped out. You can click on the picture for a larger version.

Tom

Quote of the week: January 10

"The ultimate creative act is to express what is most authentic about you." - Eileen M Clegg

Since 1991 I have put a quote of the week on the end of my e-mails. People often ask me if I can pull up a particular quote and I almost always can't. So I decided to begin posting them here on my blog so they can be found again, should anyone want them. To review all my quotes, click on the "quotes" tag at the bottom right and they should all come up.

The picture is from the rail yards in Roanoke. You can click on it for a larger version.

Poem: The Fires of War

The Fires of War

Your eyes are red, weepy and tired
from lack of sleep, and the smoke
of war lies grey and threatening
like a night fog, licked with flames,

tired, like an ancient warrior
on the plains of Troy, on that last day,
when, even certain of victory,
you are stooped with the exhaustion of defeat.

Nearby, others bristle with excitement,
their first victory, and the adrenaline
that courses through their young bodies,
feeling, for a moment, invincible, eternal in the moment,

and they wonder at your quiet, at the calm
that has marked you in this week of chaos,
not knowing the truth that will come:
that there is always another battle,

and that victory is more about preserving your soul
than the tides of war.

===========

I always find it amazing where poems, or any creative work, comes from. This one for instance, began because as I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, I had exceptionally bloodshot eyes. So I decided to play with the image of bloodshot eyes to begin a poem. Somewhere in the process, I remembered this picture.

The picture goes back to November, when my small group at church gathered around bonfires of brush on the church property, for an evening of fellowship. It was about as far from war as you can get, but the fires, several of them burning in a row, reminded me of campfires in an ancient battle. This poem combines that mental image with a long contentious week at work ... and this poem seems to have emerged. Not at all where I started.

As always, you can click on the image for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Fresh Wind

Fresh Wind

The storm has passed.
The air has cleared,
and your eye scans the path ahead,
fresh and clean,
hopeful and bright.

It is not that love is in the air,
but something that,
without the dark clouds,
lightening and deafening thunder,
can finally be seen.

===========

The Picture is of the D&H Trail along an abandoned train track bed, near Rupert, Vermont. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Morning

Morning

Morning.
When all is quiet and the broad orange sky
reminds you of the vastness
of God's palette.

Morning,
when the only voices are your own,
the mewing critic of history,
finally fades like darkness at the dawn.

Morning,
when the vapors of fear are burnt away
like a fog on the moors,
revealing the colors of life,
awaiting.

===========

A while back, I commented on the incredible sunrises we have been having here in Botetourt county recently. This picture is of yet another one. You may click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Psalm 103:1-5

Psalm 103: 1-5

In the dark of night, you lay
alone in your bed,
a single light pushing back the night,
but not

the dark thoughts
that creep into your heart
as you tire. Thoughts
of loss and failure,

of mistakes that have burned
your past, sometimes smoldering,
sometimes in a great blaze.

But flames are not always fatal.
At times they merely singe,
of cover you with the stench of oily smoke,
something that can be largely cleaned,
and like mistakes, made

if not whole, at least usable,
blessed even, and marked
as a new place to start,
a brighter light

that pushes back the dark spaces
in your mind, and remember instead,
those you love, and who love you,
and the God that made love, his greatest creation,

not just possible,
but real.

-------------

The picture taken at the Rice House, in Manchester, Vermont. You can click on it for a larger version.

The poem was inspired by my bible reading this morning, by recent events, and by the woman I love.

Tom

Links on the creative process

My friend Chris Griffith is at it again - showing us how he takes a painting from ground zero to a finished work. I read Chris's blog regularly. It's always full of interesting comments and videos on an eclectic mix of things. But I like it best when he shows the steps in his painting. Too many people think art just "happens" and it's encouraging to see that instead it's a process, and to see it develop step by step. And I think it takes a certain amount of courage to do that, as often the creative process is messy, full of mistakes, backtracking, rethinking, redoing... My final poems, for instance, often bear little resemblance to how they start out. But unlike Chris, I rarely post the starting version, the middle version.... I only tend to post the finished work. So I don't just admire Chris's work, but his willingness to show the whole process.

I've recently discovered another blog where the writer sometimes does the same thing. It's called ARTIT, and well worth visiting.

Tom

PS - The photo is of flowers at the Roanoke Farmer's market, taken a few months ago. You can click on it for a larger version.

Thoughts: An unexpected start to the New Year

The picture above is of the front seat of my once beloved Isuzu Trooper. On New Year's day, while driving between my parents home in Richmond and my sister's home in Northern Virginia, the engine lights on the trooper came on and when I stopped, there was smoke coming from the engine compartment. When I opened the hood, there was a fire in the engine. I rushed to get my son and niece, who were riding with me, out of the truck and we watched as the truck was engulfed in smoke and flames.

Yes, it was the mess you would expect. We lost some of our Christmas presents and everything we had - clothes, toys, everything, was encrusted with smoke damage and water damage. And try finding a rental car on New Year's day in Ladysmith, Va. It's not going to happen.

But as soon as we pulled over, two off duty police stopped. One, a kind woman from Tidewater, comforted my children, while the other worked with me as the fire department and state police arrived. After the flames were quelled, they helped me pack up the wet and charred suitcases and bags of gifts into the back of one of their cars. Everyone involved, from the firemen, to the state trooper, to the people who stopped just to help, were kind and helpful.

The boyfriend of one of the off duty police who stopped tried to find us a rental car place and hauled us and our messy belongings from place to place for an hour, then when it became clear we weren't going to find one, volunteered to drive all the way to Vienna, Virginia to my sister's home. They had plans to visit family, but never hesitated to offer their help and would not take anything for it.

I won't lie to you. It was scary. But the kids were champs, followed directions and got out fine. They were scared but did great. The Trooper is a total loss and we lost some gifts. I spent the day today getting a rental car so we could get home this weekend, and doing laundry, and sorting through the bags of smoked gifts.

But we gained something too. By yesterday evening they were contemplating the great "waht I did during my Christmas vacation" story they would have when they go back to school next week. And this morning as I woke, the kids had made up two incredibly wonderful cards thanking me for my cool head and keeping them safe in a scary time. The cards oozed love. Tonight they wrote cards to the couple that helped us out so much, and drove us to Vienna, and there is a real sense of gratefulness all around today. Lots of hugs all around all day. And... we saw kindness of the most unselfish kind at work, faith in action.

I'd have preferred to have not caught on fire and lost my old truck. I could have lived with a bit less adventure. But I can't call it a total loss. Like most things in life, things are lost, and other things are gained. God was watching over us in a big way, and it's good to be reminded that he is at work even in bad times.

Tom

PS - like most of my pictures, you can click on this one for a larger view. It's not as pretty as most of my shots, but it's something to remember.

Poem: Psalm 46:10

Psalm 46:10

Be still
and you will hear the wind in the trees on the mountain.
You will hear birds and the rustling of deer,
foraging in the night,
and the cry of a child, far in the distance.

Be still,
and you will see the frost on the grass,
an intricate painting of cold and life.
You will see the December moon bright in the darkness,
and the wave of corn fields basking in it's glow.

Be still,
and you will hear your own heart
as it pounds in fear and anticipation
of love yet to come,
or fears so terrible you cannot speak it.

Be still,
and know that I am God,

that I love you
and will dance with you
in the moonlight,
my own wind the music,
my love, the pounding in your heart.

==========

The picture was taken from my front porch the morning after Christmas. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom