A Perspective on 9-11

In the end there are no words.
Each soul
alone
reaches in mute reflex,
to touch another.
Seeking comfort in ceremony and song,
we grasp at our religions,
expecting holy tomes to inspire,
praying holy words to heal.

Be still, be still;
Awash in grief, be still.
This is the passing of an Age.
In this darkest nightmare
we have witnessed the duality of Man;
the clash of depravity and heroes.
We have our inspiration.
Triumphantly we claim their
selfless acts,
their final acts,
as our own.
Thus with pride
we define our Freedom.

Afghan children,
precious as our own,
ours is the freedom to choose justice,
not revenge.

The Dove

Lift me from this sadness, Beloved Eternal.
Fold me in your comforting light.
I sense a ruffle of feathers
and the dove lifts its wings to fly.
Thy power is mine.
Let it flow,
let it grow in me
and my joy will be
greater than the ocean and the sky.

Amusing Myself

So, day to day I live
in tolerance and tiredly complaining
of things meaningless,
but keep a good conversation going.
And day to day I laugh,
so amused by little faults of others,
and their mishaps.
They laugh with me,
then later, take their turn,
and laugh at me.

I Dance

I dance the dance of sheer joy
under God's blue sky.
The sun, the moon and the stars
-even the northern lights
shine on me without jealousy.
I open my arms to the silvery rain.
I open my heart to the fickle wind.
See? The trees are celebrating too-
laughing and singing.

A butterfly, delightful thing,
dreams of his next metamorphosis.

The secret of life is proclaimed.
Life itself is proclaimed!

In My Garden

Have you seen how boldly
She flaunts her velvet gown?
No shrinking violet,
this immodest Iris.
And daffodils, since Wordsworth's time
have danced in carefree splendour
refusing steadfast bold,
the humble arts of shame.
I think the blush of Rose
is no shy colouring;
no demure glance or subtle breath of spring.
And in my garden
sing the cardinal, wren and robin.
Do they hush their glorious talents
in sad humility?
I must take a lesson from these little ones,
and accept with open heart,
with joy,
Thy astonishing gifts

Sunrise

Waking at sunrise
left bits of coloured light in me.
no silence is golden
as the morning sun,
spilling over.
Breathe deep
but never filled.
The blue is so vast!
And the joy stays all day,
like perfume,
lingering.

North of Superior

I grew up in that grandeur
-was touched by it, I know,
but did not recognize the holiness of the place.
I did not hear the hymn,
or understand the devotion
of the choir of spruce,
or the thunderous declaration of the granite cliffs;
mighty soaring piles -pink, no less!
Were I a steadfast pine
lifting up my arms -my heart!
or a spray of grass,
golden exclamation
in the verdant landscape.
Were I a mossy carpet
murmuring fervent praise-
Holy, holy, holy...

Superior Lake
rolling water colours,
crashing, sighing,
playing the sun in silver fireworks,
does the birth of our world continue
beneath your waves?

I must return.
I must hear again
The song of my soul
sung by the living earth.