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: The Limits of Power

The Limits of Power

Oh, you can change things.
Don't get me wrong.
Of course you can.

You can repaint a room,
get a new job,
change your mind,
open your heart,
or close it like a wall of stone.
You can tremble in fear,
or decide to stand firm
in the midst of that same fear.
You have the power to be vulnerable,
strong, or both
at the same time.
You have the power to claim your vision,
to dare to dream,
or not.

You can use your power,
offer it to another,
lock in a closet for safekeeping,
or squander it wildly like a summer thunderstorm.
You can aim it like a weapon,
or with mercy, be gentle
like a mother's arms, touching others, offering
love, or healing, or hate,

But that is where it ends.
With you.

Anything else is an illusion,
a rainbow, a beautiful lie
without end, ephemeral,
a dream,
and nothing more.

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

The keys are from a big box of keys that Rona bought my son at auction. You can click on the picture 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

Death and Easter

We forget, when we see the fresh garden,
that resurrection begins with death,
cold and harsh,
a piecing with thorns,
love itself, shattered and broken
emptied of life,
gray and broken,
every shred of life
taken,
ripped by violence from the earth,
or neglected into brokenness.
No matter the method,
the result is the same.

Only then, emptied and torn,
are we ready
to be filled with something more,
hopeful and bright,
Not life renewed or improved,
but fresh, a new thing,
bright with new color,
fresh with new love,
a chance finally to be gilded
by the master's hand
to resurrection
as real and certain as spring.

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

The picture is of a lamp I bought at auction for a couple of bucks, that I am just beginning to restore. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poetry: Stripping floors

Stripping Floors

You have to choose,
whether to strip the paint
in a flurry of sanding and dust and violence,
ripping every trace of the past
in a whirlwind of work
until the floors are pristine
and perfect, a showpiece
for magazine covers and people
who will never know anything different
than the presentation of perfection.

do it slowly,
pulling each layer of paint
off with paste and a scraper,
on your knees, prayer like
for days, knowing
the final result will be imperfect,
that flecks of paint past
will lie forever deep in the grain,
but at the same time, saving
the patina of the past
that reflects the past 200 years,
and shows the beauty of the journey.

You have to choose.

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

The picture is of the first level of stripping of my living room/dining room floors. They are unusual, with the outer rim of flooring being spruce (shown) and the inner section (where you would lay carpet) being hickory (a rougher grain wood). You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Therapy

Therapy

You thought you were finished
when you looked down
and saw the tiny patch of truth,
the tidbit of the original spruce flooring,
rich with color and grain,
rich with the true beauty
that lay beneath 25 years
of paint.

You are sure that those that came before
thought the paint an improvement,
and for a time, perhaps, it was
bright and new, full of color
that gleamed under the morning light.

But that paint no matter how carefully put on,
wears,
becomes scratched, and all the layers
of all the years, cannot forever
hide what is real,
and you may fight it,
or choose to open yourself to it.

It is hard work either way. more paint,
to hide the truth that lies beneath,
or taking the time to strip these floors
back to their beauty,
to embrace their age and scars,
their original beauty,
and you know

that you want that beauty in your life,
want it so badly you will do the work,
endure the chaos and smell and pain and time
to have it.

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

No, that is not abstract art in the photograph. It is instead a tiny patch of worn flooring in the living/dining/library room I have been painting. The paint is done and I was going to move the furniture in this weekend. But she who I live, suggested I do the floors too while I had the room apart and the house in chaos. I resisted it, until I saw this little patch and saw what the floors were underneath. A richly grained spruce. Beautiful stuff. So I will live in chaos a little longer. It will be worth it to truly finish the room and have that gorgeous flooring to look at each day. (and yes, like the others, you can click on it to get a larger version.)

As I thought about that, it made me think of therapy, and how it is so much the same way. You make progress. You feel like you are there, but you keep finding places of potential truth and beauty in your life, and so you push forward. No wonder it takes years. And no wonder so many people give up. But for those who persist.... such rewards!

And so the remodeling poems continue for another week or two anyway. The photographs may not be art, but I am enjoying them.

Off to church.

Tom

Poem: Therapy

Therapy

It is so much more than a new coat of paint.
You have to look hard at the room,
at the cracks in the plaster,
the color, the light,
the holes poked and never repaired
because they became nearly invisible,
part of the landscape
in the clutter of life that fills a place
over a lifetime.

You look at the foundation
to see where the shifts came,
and when and why, to prepare
the room to absorb the use,
wear and tear of the next twenty years.

You reflect on the white walls
and consider color: what hues do you want
to punctuate your days and night.
You want to be careful,
for in middle age you are more aware
how one room leads to the next
and how, as you examine everything,
your entire history of renovation,
this room will punctuate the next and the next, and.....

And so it takes you perhaps longer
than makes sense to those on the outside
who thought your room warm enough,
for you want more in your life
than a coat of paint,
you want renovation
from the plaster and lathe,
each hole patched,
each color looked at for long stretches
of time before choosing,
and two coats, not one,
of the best paint your meager budget can afford
to bring your brightness and preserve it
for a lifetime, leaving you with
the perfect palette
to live in for years and years
to come.

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

The painting continues, and with it, new poems. Hopefully I will be moving furniture back in next weekend.

Tom