Poem: Lillypads and the Meaning of Life

Lillypads and the Meaning of Life

A year ago thieves came late in the night,
and stole every bloom they saw,
every pink blossom and green pad
from the corner of the pond,

stealing their lush summer beauty
for their own, as if
somehow the act of possession
made it theirs, and yet

now, a season later, you stand here
and gaze over the pond
at the new growth that flourishes,
bright beauty waving in the afternoon winds

as if laughing at those who seek to possess
nature, alive and beautiful
in this place of wild carp and otters,
rising from the bottom of the pond,

from the source of life itself,
out of the muck of centuries
giving back beauty, an act of love
by a God who loves, an act

we too often miss in a life too full
of acquisition, action and illusions.

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

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

Tom

Thoughts: Slow Down

I am at Disney World this week with my kids (so that is why I have not been posting new poems). Add to that the fact that my camera became saturated with suntan lotion from a spray can of the stuff and is essentially ruined until I get it to a shop, and I've not had my normal flurry of photographs, save with a cheap pocket camera I picked up to capture a few things.

Still, I can't seem to help take pictures and even with the little pocket camera, I've been busy snapping away.

This is not our first trip to Disney. My daughter, who is now 15 began coming here at two and has been here at least five times. My son has been here nearly as many times himself. I have an incredible number of pictures of this place taken over the years.

When I get home from a trip, I am always struck by the pictures I took. Not that they are so great -- honestly, most are just snap shots and such - but at how many of them are of quiet, solitary places.

If you have ever been here, you know what's odd about that. Disney is the crowd capital of the universe. Zillions of people everywhere, but somehow I find the quiet places. It's something I've always done, it seems, though I could not have told you why, or even that I was doing it consciously.

In recent years though, I have been doing it more consciously. The past few years have been times of turmoil, and though I would not wish turmoil on anyone, they have taught me how to consciously do what I used to do naturally in less tumultuous times - find places of peace, both literally, and in a spiritual sense.

You'd think something I did naturally in normally busy times would have translated in really tough times, but it did not. I had to learn to find peace, but the learning was one of the best things that came out of the upheaval. I'm actually grateful to have learned it.

I am reading, while on this vacation, a book called "In Praise of Slowness" and it's part of my continued learning, about slowing the mind and the business of life. It sounds fanciful in today's faster faster world, but I am finding it very practical, and useful, and.... peaceful. If you can find peace here at Disney, with it's non-stop, sensory overload way of doing things, you can find it anywhere. So if you are over run, I'd suggest you find the book and give it a read. I think you'll find it worth your while.

A few of you regular readers may think I have hit this subject a time or two too much. But more and more I become convinced of the importance of quiet and solitude in developing the spiritual life (No matter what your faith, though mine is unabashedly Christian). After all, the scriptures do say "be still and know I am God.", not "scurry about and know I am God."

Tom

PS - the picture is of a sculpture outside Cinderella's castle at Disney world, taken last night. You can click on it for larger version.

Poem: The Fence

The Fence

You walk in the early morning,
through the town rife with history,
the old homes with their white clapboard
punctuated with flowers,
and the unnaturally perfect green grass

until you come to the fence,
once proud and strong
like your own spirit,
but now blown by wind
and worn by age,

its paint flaking,
leaning to one side,
no longer a fortress
but instead a gate waiting
for the next storm
to push it aside

and open the gardens within
to every passerby,
a gateway about to open
the beauty beyond
to everyone,

and suddenly the fence
is more beautiful
in it's fragility,
more perfect
than it was ever meant to be.

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

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

Tom

Poem: Before and After

Before and After

Before,
and after
the storm,
there is always sunlight.

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

I was driving from Vermont to DC yesterday and got caught in terrible thunderstorms as I drive - three of them involved hail, so much the ground was white with it. But before and after the storms, was brilliant sunlight, and that got me thinking about how the same is true in life, and that got me thinking about a poem. Short, but then... it's a simple thought.

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

Tom

Poem: The Game

The Game

It's a game she said
as she sipped her coffee,
fresh from Starbucks,
hot and expensive,
matching the dress she wore
as she sat across from your desk.

It's a game, she said,
manipulating the people around you,
to make them buy, make them want
what you have, a game to play
on their fear, their weakness,
and see in you, their savior.

It's a game, she said,
and I play it well and I play it to win,
and I do, and I live well with my cats,
in a palace of a home,
and you wonder as she talks
if she realizes
it's not a game,
and that she has already lost.

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

The picture was taken in an antique store on the market in Roanoke, Virginia. You can click on it for a larger version.

Poem: Even The Last

Even The Last

You stand at the garden's edge,
looking at the color of iris,
a week past prime,
with their greenery edged with brown
and half of the flowers
now dead, their husks hanging
like cocoons long abandoned, and yet

a few flowers remain,
reminders of what was, and more,
a reminder that there is always beauty,
even now, even in this time of life
when you are no longer young
and so much of life has passed you by,

so much of the richness is dry and dead
like the irises that wave slowing in the May breeze,
and so you focus, not on the expanse of garden,
but on this one flower,
savoring it's richness,
it's vibrant determination of color,
and tender, velvet texture,

knowing every flower, even the last,
holds in it the promise of springs yet to come.

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

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

Tom

Vermont: Creativity as a way of life

Back when I started this blog, I mentioned that one of the things I wanted to do here was annotate some of the difference between my home of 53 years, Virginia, and my new home in southwestern Vermont. A month into living here, I have yet to do that, so this evening I thought I would take a little time and begin.

I have been coming up here for a little more than a year and a half now. I was immediately struck by the beauty of the mountains and the quintessentially New England villages. I have a lifetime love of old homes, and southwestern Vermont is filled with simple colonial homes of perfect proportions and an easy elegance.

The light here is somehow different than what I am used to, and things photograph beautifully, not just in the early mornings and late afternoons (which is true everywhere), but also in the middle of the day. I am sure there are some who knew that moving ten hours north would change the nature of light, but I was not aware of it, and I am enchanted by the difference.

But more than that, I have come to love the people here, and in particular, the way art is a way of life for so many of the people who live and work here.

Don't get me wrong, the Roanoke Valley has a plethora of artists, writers and artisans. There are plenty of opportunities for a creative person to find like spirits and mingle. But the difference here is that there seems to be a larger percentage of people who practice their art (whatever it may be.). Sometimes it seems nearly everyone here is an artist of one sort or another.

In Virginia, when I would meet people at church or at a gathering or in a business setting, nearly everyone answers with what they do for a living. They are mechanics, or lawyers or whatever. Here however, I have noticed that they tend to answer not so much with their vocation, but with their avocation. With their art. I often find out that someone writes or paints or is a potter or woodworker before I find out they are a housewife or doctor or plumber. It's just accepted here that art is not something someone else does, but something most people do.

This has taken a little getting used to. In Virginia, the fact that I was worked as a manager and broadcast engineer, that wrote poetry and took photographs and drew made me something of an anomaly. Here in Vermont, it makes me... well... kind of like everyone else. I like that. I like it a lot.

I like it because it means I am always encountering like spirits. I may be in the grocery store or at church or talking to my lawyer and the conversation often turns to literature or drama or art or.... I don't even have to seek creatives out - they are everywhere.

I don't think, while I was in Virginia, that I realized how much I missed that kind of conversation. But I realize now that I did, and I missed it a lot because I find myself energized constantly by every day conversation.

Again, don't get me wrong. There were plenty of opportunities for me to find like minded people in Virginia. So if I didn't get enough to nourish my spirit, I have myself to blame. I would have had to seek them out, but the opportunities were there. But what sets this corner of Vermont apart is how pervasive it is, how the creative spirit seems to be simply part of the fabric of life. I don't have to seek it out. Just the opposite - I'd have to hide from it if I didn't want it.

To say I am grateful for the adventure of coming here would be an understatement. At my age, most people in my experience are where they are going to be, held in place by habit, jobs, or a wide variety of other things. In my case however, a startling chain of unexpected events piled on on the other for months on end and led me here, to a place that a few years ago, I never would have imagined, a place where creativity is not just "out there", or "something others do." to a place where it's simply a way of life.

Tom


PS: The picture is of the slate quarry next to my house in West Pawlet, Vermont, the quarry that gives my home and this blog their name. You can click on it for a larger version.

Poem: Dangerous Muse

Dangerous Muse

You step into the night air
and feel its bite as you look skyward and see it:
the ghostly halo surrounding the moon
in a perfect pale circle,

A harbinger of bad weather, cold storms
still far beyond the mountainous horizon,
silent and stealthy, approaching
out of sight except for this faint ring of light.

But no matter. Long before the storms come,
before clouds cover the moon's soft glow,
or the first icy raindrops fall,
you will be gone,

safe inside your home, warm and protected
by walls and love and the power of life
that allows you to stand here and gaze
wonderingly and safe at this dangerous muse of light.

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

The picture, unlike most of them on this blog, is not mine. It is from the Flikr account of "CTD-2005" and is used with a Creative Commons permission.

Tom

Poem: Sacred Ground

Sacred Ground

It is sacred ground,
this place with it's misty sunlight,
this brief opening in the dark wood
where you can pause

and rest on the pine needles
that cover the forest floor
like a blanket of silencing down.

It is sacred ground,
this place in your heart
where despite all fear,
you open yourself,

and dare to believe
that love can conquer all,
despite the evidence.

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

The picture was taken along the Appalachian Trail near Daleville, Va. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom