Shearing the Willows

I wrote this poem a few years ago when I passed this ancient willow in the town where I grew up. Someone had decided to cut the ancient lady down, and as I saw them preparing to make the first cuts a powerful wind blew up and carried much of her 'hair' away, to be blown about the workmen. A deep melancholy filled the air, as though in pause, the whole of the land were bidding farewell.

I, too, was swept up in this moment of remembrance as images from my childhood and the sight of that tree merged. I remembered driving past it so many times as a teen, not noticing it in my haste to be where I was headed. I remembered being driven past as a young child on my way to my grandparents house and watching the tree fade, wondering why it was so much bigger than the others that grew near. And I remembered that many years later, when I first returned to the area of my youth, passing that tree and smiling because it was still there.

I was overwhelmed with the autumnal feeling of letting go, loss, and a deep melancholy. So powerful were these feelings that words came swift but short, taking my breath and squeezing from my eyes the tears that the land could not shed for her.

Golden tresses blowing

flowing in the breeze

Little yellow locks

falling where they please

Covering grasses

in masses

of coins, fallen from trees.

And yesterday is gone

And tomorrow's never here

And today is covered over

With Autumn's last shear

And today is covered over

With Autumn's last shear...

Hope in Dreams

Late in the evening before father's day, after our son had finally settled to his rest, I watched Susan slip quietly into her own slumber. To watch the stress she carries melt away, as she let go, was its own sort of gift.
I spend many days watching the two of them in their dance; he testing every boundary, and she weaving a tapestry of patience and safety for him. It is these quiet moments between their needs that I find my own repose. I reflected further upon my role as a father, as a husband, as the me I have found in both and the me I am in these unobserved moments, when I can let go of my own spell that I weave.

Cool clouds settle upon the evening; a wispy blanket for the moon,

whilst peeping stars flash symphonic in a quickly fading sky.

And you slumber, again spent by the patient spell you have woven.

Beside, our son wrestles with fancies, and promises of fresh hewn grass.

On the morrow, you will wake and likely wish me well,

never realizing the gift you have already given in your silent sleep;

that peace glimpsed upon your brow.

What wonders you wear, when you dream.

and I wonder, do I trip as often there?

Or is that the place where grace finds my tongue?

One can hope. One can hope.

Transcendent Lies

After spending most of a day wandering the hills and woodlands of the Monadnock region I sat beneath a languid moon. Illumined by the night sky and not much else except for a candle, I spent the evening in repose and contemplation. Struck by thoughts of what it must have been like before we made all our "progress," I began to lament what we have lost when we began to believe that there was some "out there" to aspire to.

Later this inspired me to rites of connection; a reclaiming of what has been left in the stifled shadows of our cultural awareness. That, as they is, is a tale for another time. This is about what inspires my search and work in the unseen world that sits squarely before and around us...

 

Majestic moon, take hold

in me, make bold, and fire the soul

freeing spirits, old and young.

Once sprung from dark forest,

the dead best speak.

From owls beak and frost's rime,

breaking bonds of time and fate's troth.

How doth I listen well?

Speech, fell and fair, of tomorrow's days.

In night's gaze, I wander lost,

and wonder at the cost we pay

for limitless play at ether's games.

Whilst forgetten names of old Gods fade

in dusty shades of forgotten tomes.

Our ancient homes and circles broken.

Leaving only token words, easily blown

and covered; o'ergrown, and tossed.

Considered dross by modern eyes,

taken in by transcendent lies.

Peace is pieces

Back when I was training to be a Taoist priest, when I thought of myself in that framework, I was asked to contemplate peace. As was usual, and what distinguished me as so very much not a typical monastic, this contemplation took the form of a poem. In the spirit of Li Po, I give you peace is pieces.

Peace is
pieces;
a little of this
in quietude, that.
Filling a vessel
while it empties in cracks.
Desperate to hold
a limitless view,
yet where is the person
you think of as you?
Peace is
the pieces
woven with mind
yet shatter the vessel
and what do you find?
Peace is
the pieces
you make of a life,
thinking is conflict
and being is strife.
Where are the pieces
that create a peace?
Peace is pieces
Make your own relief

You asked me why I love you...

One night after a particularly difficult discussion, where neither Susan nor I were at our best, I decided to sit and give this question a thorough think. Susan had gone to bed, probably as aching from our difficulty as I was. We try to make our relationship about communication, and there are times that our various wounds, and uncertainties, and fears make that communication hard, and filled with growing pains.
In the course of my think this is what I came up with for an answer to her question. I hoped it would help the healing process...


You asked me why I love you.
I could tell you that you are the finest person I know, and it would be a good reason.

Yet, even when you are not your very best self, I love you no less.
I could tell you that you are beautiful, and it would sound sweet.
Yet, I have seen you at your worst, early morning moments;

your hair defying gravity and making no sense of itself.
And I love you no less.
I could say that I was drawn to your kindness, your patience or your compassion.
Yet I have seen you angry, at me and at others and lose all of these.
And I love you no less.

So it seems to me that my love defies reason.
One might as easily ask;
Why do stars love the night,
or flowers, the sun?
They were made that way.
And so was I made; for loving you.
It is as simple and pure as that.
I need no reason, though I have many.
My love for you does not depend upon how you fulfill expectation,
For I have none.
I love you as you are, for the anger and the joy.
For your moments of beauty and your moments of disarray.
I love you, because I must. Because I choose to allow myself to.
Because the stars shine in the night, and because you are you.

Widdershins Walk

    This was inspired by my work with the writings of Robin Artisson, particularly The Witching Way of the Hollow Hill. There is a deep current that runs through all his work that inspires me to explore the shadows that go unnoticed; to make reversals of usual awareness. This brings me to a deep state of dreaming awake that allows me to clearly see in the space that hides between what is and what is possible, and betwixt what is hidden and what is simply subtle. Sublime when I can get there, undistracted by myself.

Twice around the willow wand

and once around again.

Widdershins, I walked,

when I went around the bend.

Across the stoney field,

and o'er the forest's edge.

Between the Wild and the Wood,

I rode the thorny hedge.

Into the blanket night

without stars, nor even moon.

I listened to the toad,

and the owl began to croon.

First, it was the crickets

that silence fell upon.

Then it was the wind,

and I wondered how far I'd gone.

Cavorting shadows crept

and fed upon my fear.

Whilst my mortal heart, it wept,

and I knew that she drew near.

That unseen pallid beauty,

whose footsteps no ears can hear.

But I felt her fiddling fingers

at the heart of my deepest fears.

The supple queen of elfhame;

sovereign of the dark.

That lady of the air

had woven, on a lark,

a spell on mortal man

who'd gone further than was wise.

She blessed him with a curse,

and opened up his eyes.

Now, when the moon is dark,

and when it is full, gleaming;

Mortal lands and mortal hands

seem nothing more than seemings.

To darkened fanes and verdure bowers,

transfixed in glamour's hand.

Wide eyed, I wander hours

into the shadowlands

Along the thorny hedge,

betwixt the wild and the wood;

I wake and wonder when I'll find

the master in the hood.

Forever Days

  Today I spent an afternoon playing with my son in giant piles of leaves that we had together raked. A nostalgia for my own early childhood sidled up beside me with the crisp scent of autumn and the chill that wove its spell on us both. The abandon of play is something that it is so easy to forget, and in this, it is he that leads the way.

      Time wafted by us; one of those forever moments that hangs and waits for you to catch up. His laughter filled our yard and told me that today, at least, was a day to remember.

Winter's hand holds hard to Autumn.

When crystalline lace whitens the pale morning,

I remember loss in the days when hours were months;

a farewell to color for the ages.

Now, as years have both dulled and enhanced my eyes

I gaze in wonder upon innocence at play.

Looking forward seems easy

when all you have is forward times.

The endless yesterday but a dream,

giving minimal form to the moment.

Farewell to Summer

Fare thee well to the summer dawn

Watch as the trees are drawn to slumber

Leaving in umber, red, and gold

Whilst edging cold slips in morning mist

To linger, frosty kiss on grass

Summer has past, long live summer