Poem: Jasmine Tea

Jasmine Tea

It's taste is gentler than you remember,
more subtle and complex, as if
with age you can better sense
the layers of taste, better appreciate

it's imperfect gentleness, no longer
needing power or strength
in quite the same way
as you demanded it in the bloom
of exuberant and oblivious youth.

There are flowers in it, white
and shredded, reminding you of dogwoods
and the smell of magnolia in the distant
past.

With the second sip, you are young again,
belying the wrinkled truth of your face, and
your heart, once so tired,

lifts like the dancing steam
drifting upward from the cup,
white and mysterious and always,
always, disappearing.

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

And yes, I really have recently rediscovered the subtle delight that is Jasmine tea,

Tom

Poem: Be Still With Me.

Be Still with Me.

Be still with me.
Feel my heartbeat,
know it, travel my journey

of a thousand cuts,
a thousand healings,
miracles of pain

That leave the most beautiful
scars.

===========

The picture was taken yesterday, 9-11, in Argyle, NY. We passed the firehouse on the way to church in the morning and these two men were standing stock-still at full attention. Hours later, when we drove home again, they were still there, perfectly in place, in honor of the lost of 9-11. Their stillness and honor was so much more touching, more real, more painful, than anything brought about by new, TV or the media. You can click on it for a larger version.

This brief poem is for all who carry with them deep hurts, that simply want them recognized and honored, however, or if, they have healed so far in their journey.

Tom

Poem: Beauty

Beauty

It drove Darwin to distraction,
this peculiar madness
that shifts like sand through time
and culture,

these peacock feather ideals
that launched ships to Troy
and filled the wise Solomon with song

as barbarians threatened his kingdom.

No descriptions, no words, not science or mind
do it justice or save us.
We stand, as dumbfounded as Darwin.
in awe,
and in fear.

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

Dawin once wrote that "The Peacock's tail. That makes me sick.". He was writing about the power of beauty. It so confounded him that in time, he wrote a book on the subject, naming beauty and sex as a power as strong as evolution (Though the Victorians being as they were, this book was mostly ignored and most of us don't even know it exists.).

I prefer to think of beauty as one of God's wild cards, a hint of heaven, whether that beauty is a sunset, a lovely woman, sublime music, whatever. A taste to remind us of what he can do. And as a gift, I revel in the fleeting beauties that come our way.

Enjoy your beauty today, and unlike poor Darwin, just enjoy it.

Tom

Poem: The Challenge

The Challenge

The violin sits on the table,
the once perfect wood stripped of varnish,
its raw essence rough against your hands,
more real for it's texture,
two hundred years of history at your fingertips,

scars spider over it's face, like your own,
like your soul, each line
deep and telling,
mysterious markers, character

that can be seen and felt,
but still somehow,
leaving the story untold,
a thing to be wondered at.

The challenge is not
how to turn this distressed instrument
perfect and beautiful. That is easy,
a mere conjouring of sandpaper
and time erasing away the truth and struggle,

with gloss and shellac.

No,

The challenge is to save it's essence
while rebuilding it's strength,
letting the scars enhance it's beauty
while never, ever
destroying the truth,

until what remains
is beauty of another kind,
historic and new
all at once.

===========

This poem began to be about a table, but the idea of refinishing an instrument became more compelling and complete some how, and so... here it is. The picture is of a violin in Venice, not perfect, but perfectly beautiful. You can click on it for a larger version

Tom

Poem: Beauty

Beauty

The face has worn off, the victim
of age and dampness, and the light is dim.
There is algae growing on the wall,
fed by leaking springs and the late day sun

that leaks through the one door way
that has not been closed in
by the debris of thousands of years.

The fountain no longer dances
merrily, but holds instead, the barest
drips that leech through the stone facing
and glisten. Still,

somehow there is magic,
like an old woman whose face
still reflects the passion of the coquette
she once was, or your own heart,

weary from the abuse of time, yet somehow
still soaring when confronted with this place of magic,
still certain that beauty is not fleeting or fickle,
but something shining, and more than that,

alive.

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

The picture was taken on Palatine Hill, in Rome, in a grotto next to the gardens, overlooking the Roman Forum. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: While Walking in The Venice Fish Market

While Walking in The Venice Fish Market

At seven in the morning, they are there,
their wares already on the table, over ice,
fresh fish from the black sea,
scallops plucked early in the morning,
displayed like art,

octopus, splayed and glistening,
picked over by housewives and chefs,
gawked at by tourists like yourself,
unaccustomed as you are, so far in the mountains
to seeing sea life quite so alive,

so.... real, writhing in the cool morning air,
so fresh there is no smell, just beauty and promise,
unaware that that very night they will rest
on a table in a sidewalk cafe,and you marvel
in a city and place that makes beauty

even of this simple thing,
a market table, or vegetables on a stand,
where the basic elements of life
shout with joy and light and color, and you wonder
at how you have lived so long

in a place of heaviness and sepia light
and never noticed.

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

One of the things I was unprepared for when I was in Italy was the food. I thought I knew what Italian food was and I could not have been more wrong. The food there was invariably light and fresh, and night after night I lingered over multiple courses of simple, yet strikingly tasty faire. Every evening's' dinner was something to celebrate. That's not hyperbole, it's fact. The experience has changed how I view food, and what I want in a great meal, or even a simple meal.

Those of you who have been to that part of the world know (and I have heard from enough of you to know many of you have) that part of the reason the food is so good is the freshness of it.

These pictures show the fish market in Venice. Now, we have fresh markets in Virginia and Vermont as well, but typically they are a one day a week affair, where we gather a few vegetables and perhaps some meat, to carry us for a week, while in Venice and other places they are daily markets, and each day people gather their food for the night ahead. There IS a difference and even this long time junk food junkie has to admit, the difference is a marvelous thing.

I feel in love with the food, and with the beauty of the markets, and somehow, I knew a poem or few would emerge from the day spent in and out of them. As always, you can click on the images above and below for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Newport Beach

Newport Beach

It is cold, and the beaches are empty,
yours, the only soul standing, seeing
the primeval beauty still, sparkling,
still before the coming storm,

a lonely beauty shimmering
with each rising breaker.
And yes, the water is frigid,
leaving a sheen of ice on the rock,

yet you are warm, knowing
that it is in such moments,
alone and quiet,
that God speaks,

and so you stand,
and listen,
and listen.

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

The pictures were taken Sunday, on the beaches of Newport, Rhode Island. I grew up in the south, where our beaches were broad, sandy, flat and except in storms... quiet. This was my first trip to the New England shore, with it's rocky coastline and water that breaks and dances constantly in the light. There is a life to the water there that I fell instantly in love with, so I will be making the drive again, you can be sure. You can click on the images for a larger version.

Tom

Thoughts

Regular readers know that more often than not, I publish poetry here, using it to help express feelings and thoughts. Very often, I use scenes and images from nature or gardens to illustrate those feelings. So I when I walk though the woods, or dig in my little flower beds, or capture some image on my camera, I am often both seeing the image, and thinking of what it touches and what it makes me think about and what feelings are flowing as a result of what I am seeing and experiencing.

But sometimes the beauty of what is around me just leaves me just so appreciative and overcome by the gift of that beauty, that I don't think about anything else at all. Yesterday was one of those days.

November 1st and a sunny day with temperatures around 70. The mountains here in Virginia are near their peak, vibrant with fall color. I drove up to Paint Bank, through mountainous Craig Country with the top down on the car, just surrounded by color, and spent the afternoon there, simply soaking it all in. No thinking, just getting lost in it all.


These pictures are from yesterday. You can click on them for a larger version.

Tom