Let’s celebrate
               the everyday poetry
of clouds and pavement
               where sky meets earth
in watery reflection
               becoming one wisp
of heavenly ground
               in patches and flecks
of blue and white
               awaiting the first golden
stars of night
               tiny celestial lamps
lighting the path homeward.

In each of us
are seeds bursting to sprout
then green
heralding buds to blossoms
whispering flourish
now. 

I.

Our arms linked, parent and child
we walk straight, then zig-zag
amidst a frenzy of shoppers
our breath white, floating
shoulders scrunched
hands tucked in pockets, sheathed
in comfortable gloves
our cheeks taut, tingling with cold.
Red and white window signs
tempt, taunt
Holiday Sales !
40 % off all merchandise
offering more and more
perfect gifts
fulfillment promised
in the tangible.

 II.

Every one to two blocks,
they sit on broken cardboard boxes
dirty blankets or sleeping bags
begging silently with paper cups, a black cap
disheveled sentinels of another reality.
A few coins are visible,
here or there a paper dollar
as most of us rush by, eyes level
unwilling or unable to look down
to see
life on the fray,
as if denial could make them irrelevant,
as if the labels homeless or beggar
strip away identities
transmute humanity.
Their presence
as accepted as pigeons
in a city landscape.

III.

Only three steps away
he sits cross-legged, head bowed
and covered with a grey hood,
his hands tucked up sleeves
hiding from frost bite.
His shoulders are neither slumped
or firm, as if still deciding
on a life position.
There is a box on the sidewalk-
small, wooden, open
with the word love
written inside the cover
and I remember

he is someone’s son,

     was a boy who ran
     elbows arcing with speed
     lifting his face to the sky
     at least once

               fell in love
               at least once

                         fell down
                         at least once

and now sits
head bowed
to remind us.

 to blossom
from heart center
requires light
space
breath~
a gentle intention and
simple willingness
to allow
true essence to emerge
petal by golden, glowing
petal

blossoming heart

                    Landscapes

Feathery mauve clouds
fading to plum and charcoal wisps
brush cobalt sky
a living watercolor
while bare branches etch
a November horizon
tree tips fluttering in the mildest of breezes               

the trunks solid, holding, quiet.
Then a spark bursts—
flames quivering and spreading
unmatched by a river
the abandoned ocean                              

watercolor skies. 
External and internal landscapes
collide, a rush of beauty
irreducible truths, fast glowing tears
the everyday ache
for something just out-of-reach
landing on the page
captured in one of six photographs
as the last light drains from the sky
pools briefly in her heart
lavender comfort
evoking the never-forgotten salt air
her homecoming.

Santa tripped over jack-o-lantern bags trying to arrive before Tom Turkey…

and was flumoxed by the tree in a holiday tangle of Halloween and Christmas twinkly lights, circling Easter bunnies, and one lonely, garish Easter egg and wondered…is there ever a day that’s not a holiday?

Mt. Philo Rd., November 13th

viagra

  lighting the clouds

     The human heart continues to dream of a state of wholeness, a place where everything comes together, where loss will be made good, where blindness will be transformed into vision, where damage will be made whole, where the clenched question will open in the house of surprise, where the travails of a life’s journey will enjoy a homecoming. . .                                            

                                                                                                    John O’Donohue

     Between global and national politics and the palpable strife infused in the air, as well as the personal observation of loved ones tending to frail parents, or being present to the death of a mother or a friend, it seems necessary to look for heart-centered words of comfort and hope.

         Today was one of the last comfortable days to bike in Vermont.  There was a ”winter-is-coming” chill still penetrable by the sun.  I headed out for two hours on my beater bike with doubled-up pants, three shirt-coat layers, fingerless gloves and a camera.  While many trees are starkly bare or have lingering fringes or patches, others are fully blazing with berries or leaves.   Here are some of my favorite catches of the day, although truly the best part was: fresh air + sun + looking closely + solitude  = bliss.   That’s about as much math as you’ll get out of me.  At least in this venue.   

  Shelburne  Bay up close.

   Sun-streaked stone and flower. 

  Ablaze in blue.

 

http://www.vtiff.org/films/to-be-heardThe following is taken from the link (emphasis added):

“To Be Heard is the story of three teens from the South Bronx whose struggle to change their lives begins when they start to write poetry. As writing and reciting become vehicles for the expression of love, friendship, frustration, and hope, we watch them emerge as accomplished self-aware artists, who use their creativity to alter their circumstances. A verité film, intimately shot over four years, To Be Heard is also the story of three friends-Karina, Pearl, and Anthony-and how they build a bond based on language, respect, and the need to survive. Embedded in the story is the source of their inspiration: a radical poetry class, called Power Writing, taught by a trio of outsider teachers. Not a part of any school faculty or formal curriculum, these three come bearing a simple gift in the form of a motto-If you don’t learn to write your own life story, someone else will write it for you.”

     Saw this yesterday with my teenage daughter.  Heart-ripping, fist-gripping, and soul-inspiring.  Pearl, a student, and Amy, one of the teachers, were present at the end for Q & A.  I asked Pearl for a recent poem and she slayed us, each line, chosen pause, and skillful intonation a beating pulse of raw truth.  Great burst of the suburban, white-out bubble of Vermont in which we live. Coming to your neighborhood or chance to rent?  JUMP ON IT!  A fresh story, or stories within a story, about the power of words, poetry, and deep listening to heal and empower lives.

     Drink in beauty.  From the time it takes to leave a building and walk through a pot-holed parking lot,  the sky can unfold in bands and dabs of color, an adjacent river can sing in rushes and flows over rocks, and every “next task” can melt away into the opening, the opportunity to be refreshed by the simple elegance of nature.