Ah, to be the calm before the storm
and, even in its wake. . .
to be the reconnaissance fly
into the hurricane’s eye
for the sake
of warning when and where
everyone can be
for safety. . .
to carry on
when it seems so much has,
and can, and will go wrong,
is the only way
I can firmly claim my stake
in being me.
What can I say?
In several hours,
we will see. . .
or if not see,
nor feel,
perhaps at least
according to our analyzing charts
and thought
just note
a fleeting moment
when neither pole
of our great Earth
does point toward the sun,
which shines then
for the briefest second
straight from
earth’s equator above,
after which
we move into
a kind of switch,
when length of day
to less than night
proceeds to shrink,
and moon and stars
shall have on us
the greater sway.
A time
that, long ago,
was marked
by quiet candlelight,
a flame to light
our pondering
on what and who has passed,
and where we surrender
to the need
for greater time and space
for rest and restoration,
Which renders us ourselves
more strong and wise and well,
through the year’s slide to and through winter,
so, come spring,
we have the power to emerge
to set ourselves
and our big world
at least a little bit
more right.
Which night?
That good night?
Tonight?
That doesn’t sound right. . .
A little soon
according to my head,
the drummer that I think I march to,
and the drummed-to tune,
that, more or less,
has stood me
in good stead.
Which night, again?
THAT night?
What kind of night?
A good night?
But, how so good?
If the light is dying
and there’s raging vying,
to have it be some other way. . .
or even if the night
is just quite hard,
and brings no rest,
even if one lives through
to see the light of day?
‘Twere not that
rather bad,
for night?
Well, whatever
THAT night is
or when’t shall be,
there’s just one night
that’s actually
in front of me,
as sun arcs down
horizon-low,
and it is the one,
that I may only
from moment to moment know,
as I go,
seem it pass smooth and fast
or dreadful slow. . .
Yes, that one, the one night
will be
tonight,
it’s one
particular, but also
likely rather ordinary
mid-September night,
close to the time
when hours dark
do twin
the hours light. . .
A night, I guess,
that’s apt to bring
similar things
to these few nights
most newly past
and those few nights
quite soon to come,
harboring such creatures
as the autumn brings,
as crickets–
not slangy online silent ones,
but real creepy, crawly, hopping ones,
that chirp and soothe,
as long as there’s
not TOO too many of ’em.
But what, overall,
does this night
hold secretly in store?
I pray, deep sleep,
and healing rest,
and peace
nourished by a shadowed-over moon,
and the whispering emanations
from a vasty congregation
of benevolent stars,
from the most near,
to the one,
among all those our naked eye no more can see,
most far.
The cinquefoil petals
of a little pink-white blossom
of a purely ornamental plum
whose later fruit
will dangle from a tree branch stem,
and in outward hue and form
plump to seem
quite like a cherry
seem very like
the petals
of the blossom
of the viny, thorny
invasive but
nonetheless
quite sweet and juicy
blackberry. . .
both show beauty
fit to make feasts
for two glad eyes,
which tempts the seeking soul
to stare, to linger,
and
more than a moment tarry. . .
But only one
is fit to eat
and is very apt to make
both mouth
and tummy merry.
Blood
and breath
and mud
and bones and flesh
all could be said
to carry fear
and maybe even
pave the way
to death. . .
By their very nature,
they may
with this
or with that happenstance,
quite easily collide,
get out of hand
or
make an awful mess.
But,
Blood and breath
and mud
and bones and flesh
also harbor, nurture,
grow and carry life. . .
A coin has always got two sides,
and even if a blade’s got just one edge,
it can cut or shape
or smooth or spread
a thousand different ways,
depending how you see
and choose to wield it.
Those sleepy sunshiny
September Sundays.
The kind you can see
but feel
only through
some sort of mute setting.
And though these are some facts,
that, oft-times,
we would rather be forgetting,
You know
that the length of day
is rapidly slipping,
and it will be so
that soon,
each twenty four hours
of ours
will be ruled less by the warmth of the sun
and more by the chill of the night
and the changing faces of the moon,
and, if we are very lucky,
by the sight and the feel
of at least a few
of the distant but myriad
sparkling stars–
similar in character,
but appearing so different,
from where we sit,
from that today-sunshiny Sunday
and the fireball
that lights it up
and of which we form a part,
initially having been kindled
and kept burning
from and by
its life-giving powers.
When you feel that you’re under
a certain
kind of a spell,
it is hot
and it burns
so much so
that it makes you squirm,
and, from your environs
as over hot coals or hot irons
it seems that you’ve limited power
to greet with glee what you need,
and “Good riddance!” to tell
to those things
among the many
from your life
that you no longer
or maybe never did
need,
which you sense,
it is time,
back out across your boundary lines,
forthwith to expel–
The which,
to continue to carry,
or even to hold on to,
as, paused on your way,
you may continue to tarry.
prevents you from growing and bringing
the gifts and connections
to the spirits, values, and people
that you crave or you love,
and in some very deep way
that you need
or you want,
which make you remember
the love and the magic
you were wont to receive
from some creatively generous
or from some magical,
spiritual, many-blessings-bringing-
into-your-young-life
aunt.
The waking of a self,
a full grown,
slower, but still growing thing,
in the same vessel
where once did dwell
a very often smiling, playful,
happy little elf.
The waking of a body
to greet the bright late summer sun
flooding through the nearest windows,
inviting one
to choose what works
for joy and satisfaction,
and/or for momentary fun.
The waking of a mind
that sometimes stalls
while seeking the next step
to get us there,
in a way,
at junctures varied,
now gentle, and then vigorous
whatever in the moment
would be fit and due<
to be to
us and other folk
and beings
most considerate and kind.
The waking of a soul,
that can advance
with thoughtful,
present-taken breath
and breath released back out. . .
The bending of a wrist,
the opening of a hand
that can gather what
a soul needs. . .
The fist from which
a finger flick
can send some of what
soul doesn’t need,
and may have long been carrying,
back out.
Let me write
let me right
what needs setting
back aright–
at least the subset of all that,
which will agree
to bend thus to my will–
unlike
the already earthward sagging
weeping willow
or the night flight or relentless calling,
of a whippoorwill.
Let me write
a little piece
to bring some peace
to me,
and maybe some other little piece
of this big world.
Let my words
whisper
like the rainbow colors
hidden in the white blinding of our sun,
or like the sliver of a baby moon,
or perhaps the faintest twinkle
of the farthest star our eye
can possibly discern,
among the legion stars
that shine towards mountaintops
or pierce through
city street lamps’ glow
or thick,
commercial, dirty haze,
so bright and brave
that they yet
show themselves alike
to those
who roam, out and about,
or to those who gaze
even from the warmth and cush
of some cozy chair
from which they can peer
out through the little panes
that rise up from their window sill.
The Danforth Anchor 