Poem: Morning Prayers

Morning Prayers

Each morning, early, as you lay in bed,
prayers fill your mind, prayers
first of gratitude, then supplication
less for yourself than others,
for the lights in your life
past and present,

for those struggling
and those with hope
and those who are more history
than a presence in your life, those
who are part of your hopes,
and most of all, those
who have no hope.

And so you pray,
then pry yourself up to face the day.

They rarely know who they are,
those you pray for each dawn,
and yet, God is listening,
and like you, cares for the lights
he loves, and from the far away
that is not distance of miles,
but distance we place between us,
he reaches down
and coddles us in his Michelangelo arms
and leads us, somehow
out of our darkness
despite ourselves.

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The picture was taken in the chapel in Wishford Major, in England not far from Stonehenge. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

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Thoghts: On Seeing

Sometimes my mind goes in the strangest places. The other day I was at Hollins University working on their TV studio. In front of the library were three trees standing in a row, like kindly guardians overseeing the tiny benches below them. I liked their symmetry and the contrast of the bright even grass and the dark swirl of summer leaves on the trees, and quickly snapped a shot with the tiny compact camera I carry around for work use.

As I was taking the picture, a person walking by spoke - "Why are you taking a picture of that? All those trees do is block the view to the theater."

After he said something, I realized that the trees did block the view to the little theater in the distance. But at the same time, they were beautiful in their own right. And it struck me how we choose to see things influences how we feel about things.

This is not a new lesson of course. Writers far better than I write to it in articles and books all the time. But it's one worth being reminded of again and again, because too often the temptation is to fall in negative views that while they may not be entirely false, may not be entirely correct either.

And in the process, we can miss the beauty right in front of us, and that's sad.

The problem, of course, is that it takes work to look at things differently. Poets, writers, artists and photographers often consciously try to do it on certain levels. Sometimes we succeed. But in my experience, we also often fail, our own lenses are clung to desperately, even if our chosen way to see is destructive and prevents us from seeing the beauty and the gifts we have here and now as completely, or well, as we might. It affects everything we see.

Just like the trees.

I am not talking about delusion here, but a willingness to say, "hmm, maybe if I looked at it this way......"

I was reading on the Oprah site the other day (yes, I confess, I actually like the site and the magazine.), and read an interesting article about the physiology of the brain, about how fluid it is, and how it adapts and changes as we change our thoughts, and how we can change what we believe and what we see by telling it certain things, good or bad, whether or not we believe them at the beginning of the process. The brain follows what we feed it, and adapts it's beliefs to what we feed it.

Too often we think it's the world that is feeding our brain, but what we don't realize is that we can do it ourselves.

Think about the implications that has!

Happy Monday, back to poems later this week.

Tom

Poem: Standing in the Garden

Standing in the Garden

You stand in the garden,
aware that once it was barren,
the hard Vermont earth
bound by roots and stones,
a captive where life
withered and died,
strangled by the hardness
of a hundred years
of neglect.

You stand in the garden,
a place not of plants,
but soul, a place, like your own heart
that could not flourish
until you dug, found the killing stones
and strangling roots,
and ripped them from the earth
and replaced them
with loam and soft soil and seeds, and

most importantly,
faith
that a garden well tended,
will always
bloom.

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The picture is from a garden in Manchester, Vermont. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Nightwalking

Nightwalking

It is dusk and the last light
of the day falls from the sky.
All you have seen, all that is familiar
fades to black,

and the paths you were once sure of
become treacherous,
and the temptation is to stop
and let the night's cold

fold over you,
to build a small fire to push back the night,
where you can warm yourself,
but

the journey beckons
and you understand that time is fading
as sure as the sunset,
that there are at times, reasons

to walk into the indigo night,
no matter the fear,
for somewhere beyond your sight,

someone waits for you,
the warmth and light of their heart
and home, beckoning
like the nightingale's song.

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

Tom

Poem: Surrender

Surrender

You surrender
to fear,
to love,
to temptation,
to folly,
to the impulse to dance,
to the shyness always lurking within,
to your past,
to the taste of cold champagne,
to God,
to Satan,
to safety and walls.

You surrender
to lies, the ones you hear
and the ones you tell yourself,
to the charm of small children,
to the whirl of activity,
or the peace of introspection,
to the journey,
to choice,
to chaos and maelstroms of your own mind,
to the lure of power,
or the belief you have none.

You surrender,
and only you
decide
to what.

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My apologies. I had no photographs to illustrate surrender, so I am pictureless today.

Tom

Poem: Beyond the Grave

Beyond the Grave

You walk past the graveyard at dusk,
the shadows faint in the falling light,
the rugged fence open, no oppostition
to your climbing over
and into this place of the dead.

But why?
Why linger here, where those who have passed
are dark soil,
their remains not what they once were,
but nourishment now to life ongoing,

like your own past,
dead and rotting,
gone except for the lessons learned,
and hopes grown tall and verdant
on what lies behind,
true grace, God given,
vibrant and dancing
beyond the grave.

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

Tom

Thoughts: A Monet Day

Yesterday, I had what I referred to as "a Monet day". That thought was spawned by passing a pasture of wildflowers that reminded me of Monet's paintings of his gardens in Giverny, France. throughout the day, I found myself thinking of those wonderful impressionist paintings.

I had the chance to see an exhibit of Monet's work while working in Las Vegas (of all places) a few years ago. Like most of us, I had see prints of many of his garden pictures, but no print prepares you for the life and vibrancy of seeing the originals. It's something that just can't be captured on a flat print.

They are not detailed, not in the least. And when compared to photographs of the same gardens, he's not even always accurate in his rendering. But what he did, with his splotches of color and light, is capture the essence of the gardens, the essence, and let us fill in the rest with the guiding of his art.

In a real sense, I think poets do the same with language. We're generally not an accurate lot, even when we paint a picture with our description. But when the muse is kind to us, and we work at it, we manage to capture some essence that spurs the reader to feel something that is suggested in the poet's words.

As the day passed yesterday, I found myself coming back to that idea, of impressionism in language as well as art, and realized that there are impressionists and realists in conversation as well. Some people speak less, but paint am impressionistic picture with their sparse words, while others are "realists" and talk in details, filling in each one just as a painter might painstakingly render each detail in his painting. Neither is "right" or "wrong", but are simply different schools of conversation, like different schools of art.

My day yesterday was an impressionistic one. And I think I am probably more impressionistic in my conversation and even my thoughts as well. It means I write poetry instead of novels, talk in impressions more than facts, and try to capture essense more than perfection in my photographs. I suspect, as I think on it, it has other implications as well.

The picture this morning is of the field that spurred these thoughts yesterday. I took to software to create a brush stroke effect to show you, not what was, but what I saw as I looked over it. Because often, for better or worse, what we see is not what is.

Tom

PS - you can click on the picture for a larger version.

Poem: Sight

Sight

You don't like them.
Wrong as it seems
they make you ill,
cause bile to rise
uncontrollably
and make you gag
even at the slightest taste,
and yet,

You see their beauty,
revel in their color
and the many things
that come from them
that you love,
and you hope

you can approach life the same way,
that even those
who make you ill
will have a beauty
somewhere,
and more importantly
that beyond your distaste,
you can see that beauty,
and revel in it's gift.

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Yes, I really do gag trying to eat tomatoes, yet cook them down, add your spices and I love many things that come from them. And their beauty? They are undeniably beautiful. This shot was taken at the Dorset Farmer's market. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Look Carefully

Look Carefully

Look carefully.
Not at the ground beneath your feet,
or the mountains like walls
from the ancient past,
but up
to the sky. Look up
at what lies beyond
where you have been,
or where you are,
for the only boundaries are
where you look.

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The picture is of the countryside near my home in West Pawlet, Vt. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Light Never Dies

Light Never Dies

The light flickers,
blown, despite the glass walls,
by the night wind
that winds down the mountains,
through the trees,
past the rustling creek below
and somehow,
works past the windscreens
to the flame,

Like life and your own walls,
flickering,
afraid of the night, unsure
of the power
of light, unsure of it's persistance

and endurance, not believing,
despite the evidence, that it
will last until morning, and even
should the wind blow it out,
that in the face of darkness, God
will set his match to you
again and again, for he knows
what we do not, that light never dies.

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The picture was taken in a friends garden. You may click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Out of the Woods

Out of the Woods

Out of nowhere the horse
bolts from the narrow path
at wood's edge,
galloping freely int the field,
a place full of openness
and possibilities
like your own life
after you emerged from the deep woods
to a new place,
unexpected and bright
with fresh sunshine,
that had always been there,
but suddenly
was yours.

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

Tom

Poem: Mountain Growth

Mountain Growth

You see him in the distance, a spec
against the vastness of water and mountains,
paddling away from you,
gliding across the water
with confidence and joy,
his eyes full of adventure,
and what lies ahead, no longer
the small boy
who huddled close
at the sound of thunder, a boy
who has fears still,
but also the courage to conquer them

and you realize that though he is only eleven,
he is on his way
to being a man.

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The picture is from my son and I's kayaking adventure on Emerald Lake in North Dorset Vermont yesterday. You can click on it to see a larger version.

Tom

Poem: You Know How It Is

You Know How It Is

You know how it is.
You set out to have a simple conversation,
gather some facts
from a stranger,

and a magic happens,
a connection,
deeper than expected,
like a flash of lightening
on a summer's night,

and suddenly
there is a person who is more than a person
at your side,
an ally,
a soul tied to your own,
made,

like Adam,
out of dust,
out of nothing that existed before.

You know how it happens, because
it is not the first time,
and yet
each time it does,
you are surprised.

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The picture is from the carriage ride I wrote about in my previous post. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Thoughts: A Carriage Ride

Last night, my son and I visited some of my new friends in Vermont. We had a cookout then took a long horse carriage ride through the Vermont countryside. I am new here, so everything is new to me, but what struck me was that my friends who have lived here for ages, kept saying the same thing as we rattled up the winding country road - about all the new things they were seeing because of the slow pace of the horse drawn carriage.

Now understand, Southern Vermont is not exactly the big city. Towns here limit the speed to between 30 and 40 miles an hour, and no one goes anywhere fast. There's a real embracing of a slower pace of life. That's part of why people love it here, I am learning. But the horse ride was slower still and indeed, your eye could linger on things as you pass them, or probe through the trees up the hollows, seeing things you missed in a car ride. Even those who had lived here a long time were discovering new houses, or other features.

It got me thinking about how much we miss rushing through life. And how we fool ourselves that we are doing more in all that rush. Maybe we're just doing different things, but also missing things in our rush. It may not just be scenery, like last night, but also relational things, or things that could be bringing a richness to our lives.

Three and a half years ago, I was encouraged by a counselor to begin writing down my day, and the emotions different events of the day brought to my mind. It's a practice I still do most days. Because it makes me slow down and appreciate the range of feelings I have each day, and the richness of it all.

Slowing down has spiritual benefits as well, I have learned. In fact, slowing down has shown me the truth in my favorite bible verse: Be still and know I am God. Too much activity separates us from the gifts of God, because as we rush through life we miss them, just as the people on the wagon ride missed the lovely scenery as they drove down the road each day.

I don't think you have to run slow all the time. But having a time of slowness each day can add so much to our lives. Our ride took maybe 45 minutes or an hour. Yet it added a real abundance to our day. A few minutes in the morning, a bit of time at night. It's amazing what a difference it can make to the whole day.

Be still.

Tom

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The picture is of the carriage being brought around for us to ride on it. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: True Weather

True Weather

The weather outside changes,
made fickle by the mountains and winds,
storms one minute,
peace and sun the next,
a puzzle of uncertainty,
unpredictable
with it's anger and joy.

But here in the sanctuary
of your soul,
all is peace,
a focus not on the world,
but the silence
that sings to God each morning
and is cradled by him
each night.

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The picture was taken at a house in Washington Country, New York. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom