Poem: February Dreams

February Dreams

The furniture is still in place.
The pictures hang on the walls.
Books line each shelf, filled to overflowing.

You sit at your desk,
scanning the room with your eyes, seeing
not the room as it is,

but empty, with the winter light
streaming in a lonely window.
You imagine

all this, there. In a new land
far from where you have lived all your life,
and suddenly

home is no longer home.
It is only a waystation, a step into eternity
that is alive, like winter's thaw,

an unexpected warmth.
You blink, and everything is the same,
almost,

for having seen the future,
nothing is the same
ever again.

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

The picture is from the interior of the Rice House in Manchester, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Ezekial 24:36

Ezekiel 24:36

The rain falls in a mist at the fall of dusk,
silent and warm, warm enough
to melt the Feburary snows,
the water soaking slowly

into the parched land,
running downhill to the streams,
life giving waters for the deer and coyote
that live in these mountains.

In the creek below your house,
fish dance in celebration of deeper waters,
the ice glaze broken through,
the sky reflecting through their ceiling the first time in months

You are inside, looking out, keenly aware
of the bright warmth of the fire
that warms your feet
this winter's day, grateful

for the blessing of this unexpected place
you now inhabit, so far from home, grateful
for the heat of friendship and passion
so late in the season.

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

The verse, from my bible readings yesterday evening, reads I will send down showers in season; there will be showers of blessing.

The picture (which I purposefully blurred) was taken in Rupert, Vermont. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Ivy

Ivy

Before the first flowers there is this:
the greening of ivy
as it tendrils up the brick wall,
greening even unseen under snow,

until, with the March melt, you see it,
your fingers reaching down
to touch it's satin skin,
as if it's secret life,

the nurture of it's all voracious roots
could bring you the same new growth,
tapping deep into God's earth
for the power to live.

==========

The picture was taken at Poplar Forest, Thomas Jefferson's "other" home. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: The Joy of Middle Age

The Joy of Middle Age

Your hand gently brushes away the snow on the birdfeeders,
clearing the way to the tiny finches to feed,
just another task as you face the nine inches
of snowfall that covers the landscape.

There is much to do, sidewalks to shovel,
a driveway to plow, cars to warm up and clear
of the hard underpinning of ice
blocking your vision.

It is hard to imagine the coming spring,
in this world of white, except
that you have lived long, and know
that no matter how hard the winter,

Spring lies in wait, and so
you smile in the cold February wind,
glad for the season of cold
that will make Spring's first blossom
more precious.

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

The picture is of a bird feeder in Rupert, Vermont, where they did indeed get 9 inches of snow. Contrast that to this picture of flowers (below) taken in my flower bed in from of my home in Virginia, about ten days ago. What a difference a few hundred miles make! You can click on the images for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: First Flowers

First Flowers

God has ordained the spring,
a sacred season, signaling
rebirth of the most mysterious kind,
one you may try to deny,
but cannot.

For it is his essence,
this rebirth, offering
hope where none exists,
and bringing life
out of raw earth,

ignoring it's deadness,
laughing like a child
at his secret:
that there is no death
and love is the essence
of everything.

==========

The picture is from early last Spring - the daffodils are not blooming here quite yet. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Stillness

Stillness

Stillness.
You can find it even here,
in the city,
in the early hours,
a place where time stops,
God lives,
and peace, if you allow it,
reigns.

Stillness,
you can find it even here,
in the midst of the chaos
that is your life,
a place where time stops,
God lives,
and peace, if you allow it,
reigns.

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

The picture was taken in Durkeetown, NY. You can click on it for a larger version.

Thoughts about poetry and art

I remember going through The Artist's Way a couple of years or so ago and reading the part where many people who have creative yearnings think they will never do great art because they are not tortured souls like Vincent Van Gogh or Sylvia Plath. They feel there is some linkage between inner agony and art. Thus the phrase about "suffering artists", which has as much to do with the soul as their financial circumstances.

But I don't know that that is the case, that we have to be suffering to create. At least that has not been my experience. Yes, in bad times (and we all have them.), my poetry has been a valve that helped me sort my soul out sometimes. But it has also been an outlet for joy, for thankfulness, for grace, all of which are a greater experience in my life than the pain. My favorite poem I have ever written in fact, anticipates a kiss. What could be more wonderful than that?

There have been a lot of new readers of this blog recently. I am not sure why. Originally I think it was read only by a few friends, but somewhere over the past couple of months, more people are reading my little verses, a hundred or two a day, and I want those new readers to understand you can't always read the state of my soul or heart at the moment, by my poems.

At almost 54 years of age, I have a deep well of feelings that go back decades. At any time, something will bring back a feeling memory that might be twenty years old, or twenty minutes old. Everything in the journey contributes to each verse.

Often it is images that spawn the feeling memories, something I see or hear or smell that brings them to the surface and weaves into the poem. Or a bible verse that triggers them. That, the trigger, is generally immediate and recent.

When I write the poems, they are mine, but the moment I publish them here, they become yours, and my images and thoughts are translated by your own experience. And so often you get things out of them that I never imagined.

Does that make it less real, less valid? I don't think so. I believe all art is God working through us in some way. It comes from a spirit of creativity that is part of being created in God's image. And if he spawns a creative thought in me that says one thing to me, why could not a God that created the universe also make that thought say something else to a myriad of other people? To say that could not be so would be to put limits on a God that has no limits.

I am grateful for you who read my verse, and grateful when one or another touches you. It is, in a small way, my witness, not in a theological sense, but in a heart-sense.

But, please, when you read, don't imagine as you read of pain that I am in pain, or when you read of joy I am in joy. I am generally remembering, feeling again and letting those things out in a way I know how.

Have a good week, all. I am traveling the next week or two, so the posts may be less frequent. All is well however.

Tom

PS - The picture is of a historic home in Botetourt County, Santelane, before it was restored. You can click on it for a larger version.

Poem: Manna of Love

Manna of Love

The snow has fallen all night,
a whisper of white,
clicking softly on the gray slate roof
while you sleep.

You wake to it,
a world bright in the early morning sun,
crisp and fresh,
like your heart,

renewed in beauty,
calmed by acceptance
of what God has brought you this day:
manna of love,

enough for today, telling you again
that there will be enough tomorrow as well,
Not because of your heart,
but because of his.

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

The picture was taken in Manchester, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Romans 12:2

Romans 12:2

It does not have to be this way,
a wreck of a life, a ruin,
always on the verge of collapse,

the bright paint of love long faded,
the sturdy beams of faith rotted.
No, this house, this place you live

hand in hand with your soul,
in deep shadowed hallways,
rocking in fear,

can become a storybook,
rags to riches, love borne again
on wings of faith

beyond wishing,
beyond hope,
beyond knowing.

I tell you this
because I know
ruin.

I know the darkness
and the realness and power
it believes it has, and does

when we reach alone for the light.

But we are not alone,
love flows around us like the wind, waiting
for us to have the courage

to claim it as our own,
opening the rusted shutters,
letting in the light,
claiming what we were meant to be.

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

The picture is of a house in Jennings Creek, Virginia. I have a weakness for old houses, and a sadness when I find ones abandoned like this. But at the same time, I know that houses are like people: all it takes is faith to rebuild them, no matter their state. You can click on the picture for a larger version.

The bible text reads: And be not conformed to this world, but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is good, acceptable and perfect..." It is from my readings this morning. That reading, and this article from Christianity today, inspired the poem.

Happy Valentine's Day, all.


Tom

Poem: Snow in the Quarry

Snow in the Quarry

The quarry is covered in snow
that softens the rough edges
of the hard, gray slate,

and the sun, February bright,
carves new shadows,
short and dark at mid-day.

Little lives here, save a few
hardscrapple trees, their roots
burrowing in stony nooks.

It is silent. Not even wind comes here,
just you in the winter sun,
to see the shadows

and the slow, slow progression of the day,
for the quarry is long abandoned.
The strong arms and bustle

that made this place, and the deep scars
of those generations of miners
are left to you

and the snow,
both softening the stone
in your own way.

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

The picture was taken recently at a quarry in West Pawlet, Vermont. You can click on the picture for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Song of Solomon 4:2

Song of Solomon 4:12

The wall is high,
each brick painstakingly placed
one on the other, cemented
and strong. Enduring
for a generation
of storms, creating
a place of safety
where you may tend your garden
alone, protected.

The gate is rusted, untended,
a mass of metal grown hard
and solid, as firm as the brick
it is attached to, allowing
those who pass to peer in
and glimpse just enough
to know there is a vast
beauty hidden within.

These walls will stand forever.
That was their purpose
and they serve it well.
But the gate was made for other purposes,
and as long as it stands,
there is hope,
possibility..... promise
that your garden
will open,
and the beauty inside
will finally be seen.

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

I was reading the Song of Solomon today in my bible readings. This verse begins... "You are a garden locked up, my sister, my bride. You are a spring enclosed, a sealed fountain." From that idea... this poem.

The picture is of a gate in front of one of my favorite houses in Fincastle, Virginia. You may click on it for a larger view.

Tom

Poem: A Different Road

A Different Road

You have always had an eye for byways,
a wondering, almost a lust,
for side roads and less traveled paths,
a desire suppressed

as if somehow, staying the course
on the road more traveled was some kind of virtue,
as if there was value in following

people you did not know, but now,
wrenched from your perfect highway,
you find yourself here,

once again at the starting point
and you stand at the intersection
of highway and byway,

and this time,
chose the unmarked path,
unsure of the destination,
but joyful in the journey.

===========

The picture was taken last week in Mount Jackson, Va. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Four Days Without Poetry

Four Days Without Poetry

Four days
without poetry,
not a word read,
not a phrase written,
not a single intimate whisper
in the depths of your mind,

four days
building shelves,
moving boxes,
hauling trash,
steady, sweaty work

necessary work,
progress,
satisfying,
but when you are finished,
and you lay down,

your heart opens
and the words flow like a winter's snow
melting in spring, feelings
of love, of peace, of hope
and promise, grateful
for the poetry of life.

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

It really was that kind of weekend - lots of good work done and not a bit of verse, until this morning.

The picture was taken in Pawlet, VT last winter. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Eyes from Everywhere

The map above represents people who have visited this little blog this morning before 9:30 or so. I was doing my regular (once ever 2-3 day) reading from my favorite blogs, and it came to me how many of them are from overseas. A lot of my favorites are from the UK, and there's one from Paris, France, and another from Africa. As well as all over the place here in the U.S. So I peeked to see where my visitors had been coming from.

In almost every case, I have found these now favorite blogs by visiting sites linked to on other blogs I read, or by clicking on people who comment on those blogs, and one led to another and led to another.

If you are a reader here, one of those pin-points on the map above, I'd suggest you click on some of my favorite blogs on the right hand column, or read some of the comments here and click on the commentator's links. It's a way to find interesting, beautiful and challenging things to read and see.

Does anyone except me appreciate a world where an ordinary person in Va can experience life and get to know people EVERYWHERE? I find it amazing still, even though it's part of my everyday life and work.

As I looked at the map, it occurred to me that I had no idea how many people were reading my poems and thoughts here, or where they come from, or who they are. I don't know if they like them, hate them, are touched by them, or indifferent. Most readers simply read and move on. A few will comment perhaps. And fewer still might e-mail me and start a conversation. But even though this is a small little blog in the vast bloggy universe, there's still a fair number of people looking in.

In the same way, I thought to myself, God is looking down on me, watching, seeing my flaws at work, loving me despite them, guiding me perhaps, or testing me, but always there. He's even reading these words (probably laughing). And just like with my map of surprises, I am often unaware. I shouldn't be. I should be VERY aware, but like most people, I go through too many chunks of my life not thinking about God, but thinking about every thing else.

Still, when I stop to think, or in my daly prayer times, I am grateful for God's looking in. I've had a run of bad times the past few years. Nothing a million other people haven't gone through, but still, for me, tough times to sort through. Now, as I look back, I see where he was looking in, where he was at work, watching over me and steering me, and steering the world around me to make good things happen in love, even when I failed him.

That's grace, his eyes from everywhere, loving us... no matter what, where, or when.

Tom

PS - if you are interested, you can click on the map to get a larger version.

Poem: Slowing Down to Anywhere

Slowing Down to Anywhere

After three conference calls at seventy miles an hour
down a stretch of interstate 81, the phone grows quiet
and your mind, too active for it's own good,
hungers for peace, so

you take the next exit, not reading the sign, not caring
where the winding road takes you, grateful
to be slowing down to anywhere, until

you reach the river, snow-silent and perfect,
and you park, and walk, and listen, a diversion
that restores your soul, a reminder

that life is not action, but this,
opening yourself to what is real,
slow, and Godly.

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

The picture was taken this afternoon on my drive to Washington, DC, somewhere near Mount Jackson, Virginia. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom