the unlikeliness of it all (i)

still and hardened

its seedhusks

feel like exoskeletons

brittle almost

and yet

inside

the softness of a cottony heart

beats with gossamer tenderness

waiting to burst its playful self

about the landscape of its knowing

acts of love

i like to visit

the little close places

especially those that are filled with

the tiny beautiful details

that to me

are

the most gracious representations

of love

~

love is the crooked thing,

there is nobody wise enough

to find out all that is in it,

for he would be thinking of love

'till the stars had run away

and the shadows eaten the moon

william butler yeats (excerpted from "brown penny")

the rootbound path

one day, in woods about forty kilometres north of here, i came across some low brush and i noticed

an opening in the brush and so of course i went inside.

memories of being a little boy and finding something very similar flooded my mind.

it's the purest magic.

to hide or to be hidden.

what was especially cool is that you could pass through this tunnel and follow its connection to others. the sun dappled the ground as it passed through little openings in the branches above my head. while beneath my feet, the soft-silvered feathery roots coiled and bent their way around each other.

i used the knowledge to my advantage later in the day while playing a game of manhunt with my class. i waited at one of the exits as one after another my boys popped out blinking into the sunlight only to be "captured"!

beneath the skin-deep beauty

of the surface of this world

in the underbrush

under the evergreen brush

is a world

of labyrinthine

rootbound

complexity

tunnels

that have appeared entirely by chance

and which are used

as byways and secret passageways

from one part of this world

to another

november ride

i worked at the university today

so gift of gifts

a quiet, peaceful take-my-time

frosty afternoon bicycle ride

the temperature somewhere below freezing

the birds flutter nervously

beneath clouds skittering

across a scattered sky

i allow the bike

to find its own speed.

the slope

coming southwards

is slightly downwards -

it's an old railway line

paved

a route that must have

enchanted

and enthralled

the people who rode it

now it enchants

and enthralls the many people

who use it

to move quickly

in a human-powered manner

into the countryside

it's lined with quiet waystations

places that beckon

to you as you roll past

and if

you are at all like me

you slow down

and turn your bicycle around

and venture off the trail

into the scrub

and into

these little places

where timelessness

and goodness

are the only tickets you'll need

to travel

to lands beyond

those we know

and where we are known

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

i also write a blog called "cycles: the journey within the journey"

it's for people who ride a bike because they have to

because they love to

and especially because

for undefinable and inexplicable reasons

they need to!

floating

in the syrupy slide

of a barely-formed moon

my thoughts

glide with her glowing body

between the ink-black branches

my heart

my life

floating

in the floating world

the altar

before the altar, bowed, he stands

with empty hands;

upon it perfumed offerings burn

wreathing with smoke

his sole condition

love

and while the moon

swings slow across the sky

he gazes:

his soul

upon the wings

of shimmering moonbeams

"for you.

into the night i toss

my offering to you"

from the altar, bathed in moonlight,

the smoke rises straight in the quiet night.

words selected and juxtaposed from amy lowell's poem "before the altar"

choices

while some ride the winds

and others tumble through the woods

these choose to settle and slowly drift

holding closely

chance encounter

this leaf travelled

some distance

before settling in the pale brown clouds

of a hydrangea

it looks like

they'll winter together

beyond the seen

nothing of the stones

could tell the story of their place

as well

and as kindly

as the tiny eyes

flashing softly

in the whispering shadows

eyes

like clouded crystal puries

sweet pale-green eyes

that peer from beneath

the tumbled grey-black bodies

of those carefully-stacked stones

eyes

that have seen the beginnings

of magic

and the passing

of the talking woods

eyes that have known

the frosted glassy smear

of a winter's morning

and the honeyed buzz

of a summer's day

~

and to the eyes that see beyond the seen

a narrow well-worn path appears

trodden flat

by the countless passings

of tiny shoes

shoes that have gently trodden

past the dried leaves and stalks

of a summer long past

shoes that make no sound

yes,

wait long enough

and a tiny woodfairy

will appear

dressed in the greenest leaves

no matter the season

stitched together

with the finest roots;

silky silver roots

that hum

when they're stroked

and on their feet -

tiny milkweed pods

that make the softest sound -

a tiny breathing sound

as their feet

flatten the soft seedbeds inside

~

listen and look

with care

know that the little part of the world

that we inhabit

and call our own

is so very much

a shared place

and you will know

so much more

of this place

when you see

with eyes

that see

beyond the seen

line of sight

am i like you?

do you have moments of such blinding clarity

that you wonder how you've made my way through life -

with your eyes closed?

sometimes my eyes open wide and then i see

what i wish i could see

all the time.

i think that for the most part

it's like what rabindranath tagore says -

"what you are you do not see,

what you see is your shadow."

"arise the other" tissue collage karen stefano

"dectesuque" tissue collage karen stefano

she talked through the night

she talked through the night

through the stars

through the etched

inkblot trees

through the paper-dry leaves

tumbling

in their rustling passage

along empty streets

she talked through her breath

heavy

with the fumbling blind darkness

softly packed

into the doorways

and alleys

carefully

avoiding

the quick sulfur bloom

of the lights

she talked

until suddenly

ensnared

in the tree's

fingers

and do you know -

she lowered her voice

and whispered

an old song

about the time when the sun

and the moon

and the earth

were all one

and there was nothing else

but a wish

and even

as i stared at her

stopped there

in the spindly branches

even

as the thought

formed in my mouth

and shaped my lips

to ask

about the wish

the fingers of a breeze

pulled the branches apart

and she slipped free

across

a sky

suddenly

heavy with stars

and laden with hopefulness

some blessed hope

the birds are singing as i write this

their bodies are fluffed up

to hold out the frost

and perhaps more practically -

to hold in the efforts of their hearts

a reminder to me

to always let my own heart sing

no matter the world

~

thomas hardy wrote of a similar moment

at once a voice arose among

the bleak twigs overhead,

in a full-hearted evensong

of joy illimited.

an aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small,

with blast-beruffled plume,

had chosen thus to fling his soul

upon the growing gloom.

so little cause for carolings

of such ecstatic sound

was written on terrestrial things

afar or nigh around,

that i could think there trembled through

his happy good-night air

some blessed hope, whereof he knew,

and i was unaware.

thomas hardy (excerpted from "the darkling thrush")

in all her giving

my great-grandmother struggled through adversity of a sort i have never known.

i would have liked to thank her for giving birth to my mother's father who in turn

helped bring my mother into this world.

i know the very barest of her life, for knowledge of her has been filtered through my mother's father who was understandably circumspect about the terms and conditions

by which his own mother experienced this world.

~

she cries out

for silence

but the memory

of his absent

beer-slurred voice

cuts through the

thick hardened depths

of their candlelit room

as somewhere

in the great cold house

a clock

chimes

eleven hollow gongs

one for each of her children

still hiding behind

or clinging to

her skirt

and no chimes

for the five

who have already

left

for them

only the silent spaces

full rich

and mute

for her the kitchen oven

the gas already hissing

a soft doorway

to another

more beautiful world

other responses to the visual prompt for this writing can be found at

magpie tales hosted by the exceptional "willow"

thankyou - wherever you are

morning kiss

triangles of light;

soft fractals

of a sun

i watch

climb across

a milky blue threadbare sky

a sky

as washed-out

and thin

as old sheets

light

falls

on autumn's dried husks

also

fallen

on the winter blue

of a river pebble

a morning kiss

for reya and jo

silent stories

where the autumn morning sun

passes over the pale rocks

the frosted ribbons

of summer

lie still

in their crisply-formed

calligraphy

soften

dry-leafed trees

sift

pale grey rays of light

pushing through

the envelope of a sky

not quite sealed shut

to

soften the day

soften the heart

the little snow

it arrives under cover of rain

a cold thin rain

that passes through you

rather than around you

(happily

the rain passes quickly

through

a thin man

like myself)

then the snow

arrives -

a surreptitious

undercover movement

that sees silver streaks and white flakes

fall earthwards

side-by-side

until suddenly

and very obviously

there is only snow

and the kids run to the window

as if it was their

first time viewing

and i find myself right beside them

out on the playing field

my tongue out

lunging for the quick candy goodness

of its impossible

and shocking cold

~

i wonder at the tiny islands

of ice

clinging to the little

leafy brown rafts

sailing from autumn's shore

waiting

this small pale blue leaf

dotted with melted snowflakes

waiting for winter

and beautiful thoughtful words from my generous friend dan

blue leaf wears water

jewels reflecting the sky

gives upside down smile

light and gold

do you know this place?

in remembering

it is an undeniable

and sorrowful

feature of our existence

that war

and the suffering

that blooms from its presence

continues to exist

despite the efforts

of men and women

who could and can

see beyond

the characterization

of entire nations and races of people

as "good" or "bad"

"right" or "wrong"

~

there is no place

for war

in my life

or in the lives of anyone

who values the blessings

of this place

we so briefly inhabit

a place

to which

we should endeavour

to bring grace

and goodness

and a lasting love

that transcends

the vagaries

of our bodies and minds

likes and dislikes

a love

that embraces

and celebrates

through its very existence

the love

that connects all and everything

~

on this day

when we and i

honour the memories

and sacrifices

of all people

who died

for their beliefs

or for the beliefs

of someone they believed in

i also

honour the memories

of those

who worked

and are working

to undo the unnecessary sorrow

and suffering

attendant

to the human condition

as expressed through war

peace

compassion

care

gratitude

grace

kindness

goodness

thoughtfulness

love

mid autumn

james thomas watts a forest glade in bettws-y-coed, north wales

falling and tumbling

like sackcloth angels

their faces

no longer turned to the sky

earthbound they glide

on dry-veined wings

eyes wide

mouth’s open

singing

autumn’s plainsong

from branch

to forest floor

i watch their return

to the inside

of the coil

the helix

that stands outside of time

the dance

without a drummer

the coil rewound

from life to rebirth

i see their pursed ochre lips

kissing

the frosted forehead

of autumn’s becoming

as i lose my self

in the eyes

of an ice-gilded pond

edward wilkins waite the end of autumn

life's sky

i'm feeling

and appreciating

the gentlest

edges

of dusk

as i pass across

the face

of my life's sky

ringing the changes

leaving in the morning

the little lights

on my bicycle

winking

"please see me" messages

through the dark dawn fog

the day

a blur of expectations

not so many hopes

expressed

fewer wishes

and even fewer dreams

i find myself

sensing

that it's not so much about

who or what i am

as it is about

what i can do

so coming home

to this softly earnest

fully present

and wholly joyful

flowerchild

softens

the crisp edges

of my own presence

such that when i look skyward

and see the great feathered clouds

winging

northeast

and fading fast

as the autumn skies

are wont

i'm reminded

by my own

voice

to be grateful

and to accept

without condition

or concern

even the darkest tones

of the bells

that ring the changes

of my being

the wind

the wind

is so like a secret

heard and not seen

sometimes i feel it

like little fingers

sometimes

like a great soft hand

sometimes it's warm

as grandma's baking

sometimes cold

as the flagstones

on her kitchen floor

in the autumn

it becomes a playground

for the leaves

who dance on the wind's back

and then gather

around my house

like little islands

little islands

of such colourful abundance

of such beautiful decay

i found all these leaves by my front door, swirling and eddying up little invisible vortices.

sail with me

elegance

was never a feature

of the lexicon of my presence

grace

-long internalized-

only now

finds a place

a voice

in the telling of

my knowing of this place

a voice akin

to the raised call

of someone passing

on a river

in a small sailboat

in their voice

the reassurance

of companionship

care

a shared joy

an understanding

that in the night

as you drift downriver

while you sleep alone

you

will meet

if nowhere else

at least

in

the dreamworld

"sunset glow at tone river"

the kind of rain

the almost

very last of the leaves

blowing down the street

are stuck in the glimmer

of a night rain

a november rain

a cold

thin

pin-you-to-the-ground

rain

the kind of rain

that arrives

on long thin strands of wind

and leaves

in the short white puffs

of slow pursed lip exhalations

that look like smoke

the kind of rain

that arrives on silver strings

and leaves

in gold flakes

that rise from the pavement

hand-in-hand

somewhere high above

the clouds are being stroked

by the moon's soft fingers

closer

there are

hundreds and thousands

of coloured drifters

passing through

on their way back to earth

they stop outside

my front door

in raspy little clusters

sometimes

the rain pins them

to the ground

and they shine!