Among Them

What I would have said to you,

is how magnificent,

your mind,

your heart,

the way you see,

the way you feel life,

laughter like raining crystals,

the way you narrow it down,

to an essence.

 

Your eyes,

keen and bright,

seeking nothing more,

than the purest of light,

truth,

leading to love.

 

Nothing wasted,

there wasn’t time,

never enough,

and when you died,

forty years ago today,

my heart grabbed hold

of what was left of you,

and now,

awake early again,

in the deep morning tide of bird song,

I stop to listen,

and imagine,

your voice among them.

With Darkened Talons

There was death here,

a fast flutter of wings,

over quickly,

blood,

feathers,

sinew,

all left in the snowy yard,

and now I wonder,

if they remember,

if caution rides their bones,

as they snatch seeds,

quickly and suddenly,

they pause,

as if an attack is imminent,

I stretch to look,

that hawk perhaps,

perched here a year ago,

but nothing,

they hold still 

as winds buck and roar,

marking frigid time,

 at last,

winter is having its say,

and death,

with darkened talons,

found its prey.

And There They Were

And there they were,

as snow,

wet and heavy,

laced the trees 

with essence of white.

 

They arrived together,

his red,

her brown,

he made sure 

she was fed,

down to the ground,

and up again,

 a seed delivered.

 

And then came others,

black capped,

gray slated,

blue jayed,

darting flakes,

large and full,

filling the yard, 

the trees,

the air.

 

He called,

she listened,

and they were gone,

into white,

and gone.

Pointless

Events not to my liking,

life should go my way,

the ranting starts 

inside my head,

it’s going to be a long, long day.

 

Already I am fighting,

against people, places, things,

too early for this falderal,

there’s just no way to win.

 

I know I should surrender,

Been told that all my life,

retreats,

workshops,

books

and apps,

analysis and deep insights.

 

But sometimes all this knowledge,

stays just outside of reach,

and by the time I get there,

I don’t know what I need.

 

So this I must remember,

everything will change,

get up,

get out,

no fear,

no doubt,

there isn’t time to waste.

I Wake Early

I wake early,

the pull of words and images,

too strong to ignore,

up and out,

of dreams remembered

or not.

 

The house is still,

I find a rhythm,

and within its urging,

accept what comes.

Photo:  Leigh Pumilia

 

You’re Free

I can not grow,

if I don’t feel,

all there is to feel,

the cutting blows,

the lifting highs,

all of it,

is real.

 

But sometimes

I just want to slow,

the pace of life’s demands,

not think or cry,

rail or shout,

let it go,

like shifting sand.

 

Who measures growth?

Who sets the bar?

I think it must be me,

so for right now,

at this early hour,

heart and mind,

you’re free.

To Sharon: Part II

Memories are few,

and even those are suspect,

forty years of life

on top of what came before.

 

But,

there is no doubt,

and never will be,

that my sister, Sharon,

changed this world,

with anything

and everything she could find:

paint,

music, 

words.

 

Moving us,

cracking us open, 

challenging us.

 

 

A short life,

a full life,

a whole life.

 

The memories are few,

and sometimes suspect,

but everything I’ve become 

is built upon this:

 

Sharon Elizabeth Ortlip

January 10, 1958  –  June 18, 1976

To Sharon: Part I

And there she was,

a child born of light

and meteor showers,

aware of more than

these earthly confines,

bound by constrictions 

of body and mind,

never letting them hold her,

from expression,

but unable to be satisfied,

with her attempts at perfection,

as all artists must,

she questioned,

she cried,

she longed for something

never to be found here: 

the source of uncontrollable laughter;

ice-fractured sunlight

that elevates the heart,

to places she called

peak experiences;

the deepest sorrow, 

for those she saw suffering,

her shared sadness,

leveling in its effect.

 

And all of this

became too much,

sometimes.

 

Those of us,

close enough to know,

held on,

and held out what we could

to reassure,

and help her

find the way back,

if only for a little while,

for we knew,

that someday,

she would have to go,

as light does,

into realms beyond these earthly confines,

and that,

we would have to let her.

Photo: Barbara Docktor

 

Another Sky

And then there is this,

another sky,

plenty of it,

again facing west,

two of us,

looking up at the end of day,

as we fill our cars,

the surface of the pond below,

frozen,

a beaver lodge in hushed tones,

fades into what will become

another night,

home then,

dogs are waiting,

and I am tired,

line of cars stretching on and on,

another sky,

two of us,

looking up.

 

Twilight Ride Home

On the twilight ride home,

a quick stop,

to buy cookies,

cravings for sweets

still hanging on,

from the sugar days just past,

and there against the western sky,

emptied of all shadow,

a silhouette,

broken building,

and nothing more,

but stopped,

held motionless for a minute,

to let the scene become something else:

a story,

a source,

an inspiration,

or 

just a stop,

on the twilight ride home.