Underground
Subtle acts of kindness
flowing in private acts
hidden from public view
Whispers of gentleness
in private conversations
support our kindest actions.
On the surface of things,
the shared city,
day to day exchanges
of commerce and glances.
Sometimes clear public vision
misses
the living motives
from above
and below.
As we lift our mind
towards the sky,
where ideas dance
around the sun
and with the moon;
bring with it
a gentle kindness
that was born
quietly
underground.
The World at Play
Stars spinning in circles,
planets spinning and moving
in circles around them;
moons creating more circles.
Around us trees
are playing at being trees.
The sun plays at shining.
The waves are just laughing.
The skies prefer to be blue,
not sad.
To be as playful as the world,
How pleasant that would be.
Sadness, sleep, and
general weariness,
can break us from the world.
A quiet pause,
away from play and work,
(Work is play if you do it right).
A child I know pretends to be a baker.
Her shop is always full,
and her smile is always wide
-- a game she plays with passers by.
I watched a log pretend to be a boat;
carrying passengers to distant shores.
I watched a bird pretend to fly
and wished I could learn those games.
In our playroom of time and space
we pretend to be, yet always are.
The Light in the Kitchen
The late evening stillness,
shelters the farmhouse
Crops and leaves sleep,
within a starless night.
A light now radiates from the kitchen,
filling the halls and yard with long shadows.
The children are asleep.
As I descend the stairs,
only the clatter of dried plates
answer my footsteps.
I enter the kitchen,
she has taken down her hair;
no need for a costume
when we are alone.
Her hair is often held up,
to be serious in front of children,
to look dutiful in church,
or prepared
in front of dinner guests.
She wore her hair down,
when she was young,
she never needed to pretend,
but was content to play.
I smile as I pick up the towel,
and join her in the evening’s labor.
faces and masks
in the morning the play begins
dressing for roles
parts practiced by experience
habit and reflex
for each enacted moment
in public
staged prompts
get staged answers
how does spontaneity
get lost in mask and costume?
we played these roles before
chatting about weather
and complaining about
what never changes
cause we never change
sometimes it seems
our souls embitter
as they congeal
into cut out dolls
with paper mache faces
the fossilized remains
of the living
fantasy is illusion
but so too are faces
clinging to expression
while struggling for lines
stages tire
a soul
beneath a weighted mask
still the audience remains unseen
behind a wall of black
the emptiness which in we play
lone soliloquy
feigned solitude
even here a critic sees
judgments neither just nor fair
reality based on mood
drop the mask
remove the tired robes
walk without lines
as smiles unthaw tired faces
still carved in yesterday’s expression
roles and cues
just serve a muse
neither confining nor defining
the person or the scene
an unmade face
sees the unmade faces
behind unliving masks
The Hobbit Song
We are just little Hobbits, not much larger than a duck,
With last names like Baggins, and maybe Brandybuck.
Shampooed feet and eating, are our highest goals.
We hang around in meadows, and live in tiny holes.
With no taste for adventures, that is not for us.
Those orcs and trolls and balrogs, create such an awful
fuss.
When you only three feet tall, what else can you do?
‘cept eat seven meals a day,and perhaps a snack or two.
We are round and pudgy hobbits,
eating mushrooms succulent.
Even though they make us
gassy,and slightly flatulent
We dress up every Sunday, by wearing English tweed.
Lounging 'round in forests, and smoking Hobbit weed.
Though for busy people, its such a rarity,
For us tiny hobbits, its just gregarity.
If you come to the Shire, to Hobbiton or Bree,
You can join us for a picnic, we'll be waiting by a tree.
The Holography of Being
How does our soul get imagined?
From the view of a single point?
Or in the fusing of reflections
seen through different eyes?
I think of the good things in me,
and how they emerged,
through gentle contact
with gentle eyes;
and of the dark thoughts,
created by angry stares.
Our eyes can pull things into being,
when we look into each other’s eyes.
Or we can use them
to push our anger,
into someone else’s heart,
where it becomes transformed,
and internalized; sublimated;
spinning into threads of pain,
and self doubt.
Gazing at the stars,
seeing the order emerge;
the revolving beauty of graceful spheres.
Walking beneath the heavens,
hands move gently,
caressing ideas into the world.
The kindness of another's eyes,
stirs the emotion and respect
of those things which are most sacred;
pulling gentle order out of dark chaotic feelings.
The healing vision
of gentle eyes.
A September Day
The sunshine that enters my morning room
wakes me softly from sleeping.
The faint reflections of last night’s visions
evaporate like the morning mist.
An evening wind that blows past the garden,
a soft warning of the coming autumn,
causes me to forget my reading
and join the march toward winter.
Two Trees Talking
Two trees once shared their seasons together,
slightly apart from the forest,
overlooking the valley,
and just glimpsing the vast ocean beyond.
Experience flowed
from root to delicate tip
(feelings to gentle words)
rounding rocks, knots, and,
the remains of branches
(futures not followed);
The upward pull of sunlight
on two upturned faces.
A conversation
where smiles beget smiles
and sadness and grief are granted
compassion and solace.
Emotions flowing through words;
the living circulation through living air, moving
between two trees that share
the same sun and rains, whose roots go down
to the same stony
yet living earth.
The Weaving
Time, motion, sound and rhythm,
interweave thoughts, and
fill empty spaces
with emotions,
both warm and gentle;
overwhelming sensation,
enwrapping
every living thing,
within a universal song.
Each melody is a sample,
struggling to reveal
the intricacies of the universe
to anxious awaiting ears.
Education becomes entertainment,
through kindly metered revelation.
Beauty is the play of light
on the surface of the unknown.
Morning Grooming
Borne softly on gentle waves,
a rower passes,
alone in a single scull.
Head rocking in rhythm,
with strokes,
of a comb through hair.
A mirror set on the water’s edge
reflects the angel in the treetop.
Tie rope is pulled to moorings
and taught with careful force,
to keep cares safe from jostling waves,
and bind a boat to wharf.
Looking out she sees a bird,
As a river runs through her mind softly.
I saw a woman sit alone,
I am the mirror at the water’s edge.
Rock
I am a rock,
who lies by the shore,
growing not an inch
aged by wind and waves.
Once I was a stone,
alone in the desert,
until struck hard by a staff,
I spilled forth water,
and watched the rains.
Was it the sorrow of lonely tears,
or the wrath of an angry god?
Now I wait, immersed in water.
Beside me a be ringing bell,
warns the ships
and summon birds.
I met a man,
one day in a storm,
his ship forsaken,
washed upon me by waves.
Unsheltered he lay,
alone in the parching sun,
arms outstretched,
almost unalive,
without relief;
only water filled with salt.
I would have wept that day,
but a rock no longer sheds tears.
Alone and empty after the driving rains,
I wished to become a great bird,
and carry him to shore
but I remained a rock
destined to betray
despite a warning bell.
So I did what rocks can do:
I waited among the waves
praying for a single dove.
The man returned to me, one day,
to survey a rock,
or forgive a sinful stone.
And beside me the bell rings.
