Rot

It is a slow rot
that brought you to this place,
each flake of pain silently falling
unnoticed

until your walls were raw and exposed,
your windows,
broken in the wind,
the weather no longer held at bay
but let in

to the floors, the beams,
all hidden,
all rotting,

all happening so slowly
no one notices
until finally the roof bows and falls,
or
someone arrives, dedicated
to restoration.

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

The picture was taken down the road from in in West Pawlet. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

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: Every Death Has A Story

Every Death Has a Story

The building stands like a boxer, punch drunk, 

a fresh coat of paint on the front, 

the back and foundations battered, 

abandoned, 

the slow erosion of time and neglect leaving

a facade, waiting for the final beam to crack

or for the wrecker's ball to strike

one final blow, 

to end the song, silence the music

that once lifted the hearts, like you, 

now worn, now waiting, 

a fraction, nay

less than that, of who and what you were, 

still savable, but failing, struggling, 

unwilling to collapse, 

unable to rise, 

echoes of opera and burlesque, 

of soul dancing and moments of frivolous courage, 

all resound in the silence, 

you look at the whitewashed walls, 

aware

that every death has a story, 

even before it comes. 

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

The pictures of are of the old Equinox Opera House, in Manchester Vermont. It was recently approved for demolition by the town, so it's days are numbered. You can click on it for a larger view, or visit my facebook album to see more shots. 

The Title was blatantly stolen from the New York Times, who take someone from the obituaries and fleshes out their life in a column called "Every Life Tells a Story." I am not an obituary reader, but that title gave me the idea.

Tom 

Poem: Of Prisoners and Choirboys

Of Prisoners and Choirboys

You look perfectly normal
the burrowing scars unseen,
cankerous reminders
of a journey through madness,
a decent deep, consuming,
painful to remember, impossible
to ignore, and age of imprisonment
so short and dark, it echos
in the night, like a train's whistle
crying, moaning n the night,
calling you.
Calling you,
God's own tears
calling you back to him,
each teardrop like acid
breaking the chains,
so you can flee
back to his sanctuary,
and sing.

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

The title was inspired by Willow of Willow Manor, who just published a chapbook of poems.
The picture was taken in Rome. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Waiting for Restoration

Waiting for Restoration

You sit
alone
on a bench worn
with age
and weather,
rough to the touch.
stripped by winters,
void of paint,
raw
like your soul, worn
to a point near breaking,
yet somehow
still serviceable
because that is what you do,
what you are,
functional in your raw beauty
until you break
at one final weight while
waiting
for restoration.

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

The picture was taken in Northern Vermont this past fall. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Begging

Begging

You are not accustomed to beggars,
and they disturb you,
reminding you of how much you have,
and of your own time as a beggar,

not for money, but for love,
for worth in another's eyes,
for hope to build on,
for things that were never to come,

and less valuable than you believed, less
vital to survival than you imagined, less
yours to earn than another's to grant,

and you remember how it all changed,
not by a gift, but
by your own understanding
that your worth is not another's to judge,

but yours and God's alone.

===========

The photograph was taken in Venice, Italy. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Journey to Beauty

The Journey to Beauty

You remember this house
when it was a shell,
empty windows and doorways
filled with vines, gray and lifeless,

like yourself, drained by time
and wear, abandoned and left
to lie, no one caring enough
to repair or refresh,

not even, ultimately,
yourself.

You remember this house,
and where you began,
not with fresh paint
and glass, but down below,

in the dark grey of the foundation,
replacing the grey stones,
one after another, with stones
square and true, and

not of this world, perfect
because they were not yours, but God's,
waiting, waiting, waiting
for you to secretly lay them where, unseen
they would hold up the world.

You remember this house,
not the way it is seen today,
but as it once was, a ruin,
Aware as few are, to

the long painful path
from the edge of death,
to rebirth and renovation:
the journey to beauty.

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

The picture was taken in Botetourt Country, Va., near Eagle Rock. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Rennovation Blues

Renovation Blues

You peer in the window
of the ancient house,
a survivor for two hundred years
and more, now worn and tattered,

a relic of what once was,
and looking in, you see,
not the fallen stairs
and rippled plaster,
not the raw, scratched floors,
and layers of peeling paint,
but something else.....

You see what could be,
and in your mind you see each step,
the slow, laborious work
that if applied
could transform the house

from ghost to glorious.
You know the path to rennovaton
because you have done this,
rebuilding your own house,
brick by heart breaking brick

in the process of demolition and rebirth
that is the only road
from ghost
to glorious.

You peer in the window,
into the house that is not yours,
knowing that these walls are not yours to break down,
not yours to rebuild,

and you walk away,
crying.

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

I have Willow to thank for reminding me of the power of poetry when read. She recently had Whale Sounds read one of her poems and listening, I thought to myself, "I need to get back to that." and so I've gotten back to it. It may mean poems being a little slower to appear here, as it takes some time to do each one, but that's not all bad.

The picture was taken in Wells, Vermont, not far from my home in West Pawlet. You can click on it to see a larger version.

Take care,

Tom

Poem: Confession

Confession

You stand afraid,
in front of the open door
that calls to you, practically
begging you to enter,

afraid of.... what?
The truth that is already true?
The pain that eats at your soul
in a million tiny bites, none fatal,

each slowly consuming you from within,
a silent cancer?
Condemnation, when you have already
condemned yourself

more
than any God?
Afraid perhaps, most of forgiveness,
and the realization

that you have wasted so much of your life,
living unforgiven, when
it is as simple
as walking through the door.

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

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

Tom

Poem: Song of the Stones

Song of the Stones

Your steps are stone, unchanged,
sure of themselves, self righteous,
incapable of growth,
incapable of transformation,

locked away from humanity
or hope, capable only of hardness
able only to slowly decay
into dust.

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

These words were inspired by a post by my dear friend and pastor at the church I last attended in Virginia, Welspring Presbytarian. In his note he wrote: The thing about self-righteousness is is that it doesn't believe in deep personal transformation - I mean it doesn't believe in the gospel. It doesn't believe in grace. It just simply thinks it can measure up on its own. It says to Jesus, "You can come this close to me... and no further."

The photograph was taken in Rome. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: A Moment in Saint Peter's

A Moment in Saint Peter's

You walk through the ancient chapel,
surrounded by thousands who
walk and gawk at the golden walls,
the mosaic floors and vast Roman archways.

Around you there is laughter and
the sound of lecturers solemnly reciting history
both glorious and horrifying,

and the entire hall is filled with a hum of activity
until you look up
and your eye follows the distant light.

Suddenly all is quiet.
It is you and the God of light,
embracing each other, and you realize

you have a choice
whether your life is a museum or a church,
a place of memories
and exhibition

of the foibles and art of your past,
or an altar of worship and hope.

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

The picture was taken, yes, in Saint Peter's in Vatican City. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Psalm 103

Psalm 103

You stand in the dark sanctuary,
gazing towards the door, focused
not on the dark halls,
but on the baptistery,

white marble and glistening
with promise and hope, lit
by a gentle sun that believes
in the promise of our wholeness,
that believes

we are more than our sin,
more than our failures,
much more than we are allowed to believe, for

we are loved tenderly,
made to sparkle
in our father's light.

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

The part of Psalm 103 that inspired this poem reads:

....The Lord is compassionate and gracious,
slow to anger, abounding in love.

He will not always accuse
nor will he harbor his anger forever,

He does not treat us as our sins deserve,
or repay us according to our iniquities,

for as high as the heavens are above the earth,
so great is his love.....

The picture was taken in Venice. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Of Walls and Altars
(Click here to hear the poem read)

It is easy to believe, after a brutal season,
after the walls around you have fallen. When,
eroded by time and wear, by
storms within and without, when

there is nothing standing, only
the whispering, devilish temptation
to believe what you see,
the rubble, the failings, the

destruction, the despair,
for you have seen it all crumble
with your own eyes, seen the weakness
of your walls.

Ah, but beneath it all lies something more,
a foundation, stonelike and solid,
still strong under the rubble, waiting;
waiting for you to begin the painful,

courageous work of pulling each brick aside,
of daring to believe there is more to you
than rubble, that the altar can rise
within you, brick by brick reused,

rebourne, not rebuilding the same structures,
but something stronger,
stronger and more aware that in the end,
no storm is stronger

than a stone foundation, and that,
despite what we insist on believing, the foundation
is not yours or mine to build,
and in that moment of realization,

the new altar rises,
even before you lay the first brick,
for it's promise, and it's strength,
is God's.

And your decision becomes one
of what to build, walls,
or altars, a fortress, or a place
to worship, open to wind, air, and love.

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

Ezra 3:3 reads: " Despite their fear of the peoples around them, they built the altar on its foundation and sacrificed burnt offerings on it to the LORD, both the morning and evening sacrifices." This verse, from my bible reading today, inspired this poem.

The picture was taken a couple of weeks ago in Richmond, Virginia, near Maymont Park. You can click on it for a larger version.

As an aside, it's good to be home. After nearly three weeks traveling, with only a day or two at home the whole time, to sit at my own desk, sleep in my own bed, and read on the front porch while the rain falls and runs down the stones on the quarry across the street, is such a blessing. It's also good, because in times of travel, I seem to write very little, being too involved in the world around me, the work, the newness, to stop and do what is best for my soul... write.

Take care,

Tom

Poem: Sunset on Newport Beach

Sunset on Newport Beach

You walk the shoreline of a strange, rocky sea,
flotsam of storms and rocky coasts,
broken against the outlying outcroppings
of stone, half underneath the surface,
sure as sin, and just as deadly,

broken, but not destroyed, made instead
into something softer, like driftwood
or river stones, a thing of weatherworm beauty,
able to appreciate the peace of this moment

in a way others, less storm tossed, less broken,
can not.

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

The picture was taken in Newport Beach, Rhode Island. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Nightfall

Nightfall

Slowly the night falls,
draining the color from the sky,
until, shortly, all light will be
no more than a memory

to cling to in the black hours
that come like clockwork.
So easy to forget the day,
to forget the bright colors

of failing day, yet this is God's gift
and reminder that night
is only a passing fancy,
a time to renew, not fret,

To look into our soul
for the spark of God
and his direction,
not into our minds

to dance like madmen
in darkness.

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

The picture was taken in Botetourt County, Virgina. You can click on it for a larger version.

The poem was inspired by this morning's bible reading - Exodous 13:23: By day the LORD went ahead of them in a pillar of cloud to guide them on their way and by night in a pillar of fire to give them light, so that they could travel by day or night

Tom

Poem: The Cold Fields

The Cold Fields

Lined like soldiers,
like graves,
the tiny stalks of summer corn
line up in the snow,
straw men in perfect rows, yet
in their perfection, a certain kind of death,
black and still, void
of the wild green fronds,
the dancing tassles of summer, void
of the sweet white corn, void
forever,

except for those who know God's secret,
that there is no death,
that life and love can be planted anew,
harvested anew,
and the cold fields of death
can dance again,
wild in the summer sun.

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

The picture was taken along the road to Pawlet, a few miles from my house. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Redemption

Redemption

The room is done.
The walls near perfect,
their golden yellow hues
bright in the early morning light,
their floors warm
with the grain of cypress and hickory,
the furniture in place.

It is a room now
that you would gladly show
to company- friends and strangers alike,
beautiful, warm, near enough
to perfect that you can feel pride,

not of the perfection,
but of the journey, aware
where others are not, of
the condition and brokeness
from a lifetime of neglect and wear,
of no one before you noticing
or caring

for your inner rooms, until
after the walls fell down around you
at the slightest touch,
you began, step by step,
day by day, month and years
to rebuild, and so today

while near perfection surrounds you,
you know the truth: how things fall apart,
and more, how they can always,
always,
be reborn.

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

OK, I lied. THIS is the last of the renovation poems. A few of you have suggested I make a book of such poems. I am thinking of doing that, either as an e-book, or a regular book. Stay tuned.

And obviously the picture is an "in progress" shot. Hopefully this weekend I'll get out some and get some snow shots. It's lovely up here this time of year, and I want to capture some more of it.

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.

======

The picture was taken in Sandgate, Vermont. 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: 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