through the mist

mist over
     unharvested corn
cloud descending
     swallowing the land

I drive forward
    trusting the straight road
won't bend

that the path I know
     will be faithful
as I move blindly

aren't we all
      just one bend away
from madness?

does the sky-blanket
    protect us
from seeing too much?

we put names
    on things we cannot
understand

build boxes
     and containers
for clouds
      wind

trying to lay claim
     to the grass
          the water
                 the sun

and the trees
      just laugh

the waters flood
      the wind destroys
            the fire consumes

we shake our fists
      at the impersonal skies

we're all dancing
       on the edges of insanity
           and wonder why

someone falls
       taking hundreds, thousands
               with them

no one wants
     --after all--
          to perish alone

but I whisper a prayer
        to the Morning

move boldly
      toward the mists
           enveloping cloud

trusting the wind
          giving thanks for the sun
                embracing the mystery

all is calm
      all is bright
               today

I am alive
         I go forward
               against the fear

lunch break

cool breeze
tousles my hair
through the car window

like a lover
caressing my face
focused only on me

a young boy
sits across
from his father

at a picnic table
playing a game
stealing a moment

to make it matter

for now
this morning
the boy can be

a boy

the father
can be
his Dad

no pressure
to be cool
in front of the guys

no need
to play a role
that's expected

for now
just
beauty

we're all
escaping
to the park 

to be
what we really
want to be

I breathe in
I breathe out
I float

on the fresh
summer breeze
of sabbath

children screaming
laughing
a song of abandon

living, receiving
the sheer joy
of being

no thinking
no wondering
or fearing

I smile
in mischief
in gratitude

that we're all
getting away

with it. 

to the morning

(When I was in middle school, my parents owned a little house in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania.  We went there to get away when we were able, and I spent hours wandering in the woods, writing poetry and picking up orange salamanders...)

 

 

the path

is spongy

beneath my feet

from morning dew

 

moisture enclosed

by walls and a

ceiling of trees

housing the dawn

 

it's as if I

crossed a threshold

between

here and there

 

a field of dreams

and an ordinary

backyard

or

 

an antique wardrobe

that opens out

onto

a snowy pathway

 

in the woods

 

but it's not winter here

the trees whisper

their greeting

a chipmunk says

 

"good morning"

 

I sit on a rock

brush my hand

over the carpet

of moss

 

catching a salamander

organe and soft

its tiny claws

bearing no weight

 

on my hand

 

I dip my toes

in iced water

flowing over

slick, mossy stones

 

fishes darting away

from my giant feet

distrubing their

morning routine

 

it is quiet

still

a world innocent

and fresh

 

a place

to believe again

in new beginnings

in goodness

 

and a God

who keeps it all

together

 

it is here

as a child

I became a poet

a connosseur of beauty

 

where I learned

to meditate

before I'd heard

the concept

 

it is here

among the salamanders

chipmunks

and feet-numbing brooks

 

that I learned

to worship

sing silent praise

to the morning

 

and

be

whole.  

ageless

Bingo and Rummikub
on today's agenda
exercise in the morning
kicking the giant beach ball

an elderly pastor sits
Bible open
white and purple-haired ladies
huddled close

listening for the Word

my host, voice shaking
her head jerking slightly
from a Parkinsonian tic
leads me outside

to brag about her musk melons
growing like an epidemic
in the resident garden
ripe for the picking

sweetness waiting
to be broken open
indulged
like ambrosia of the gods

there are peppers and
onions
tomatoes
and cucumbers

tilled faithfully
harvested and shared
giving slower days
the pleasure of accomplishment

I see the images of my own
many fears
of "me, someday"
the slow deterioration

uselessness of body
and often mind

a woman glides by
leaning on a walker
shoed with tennis balls
to make the trip smoother

she smiles at me
her wrinkles rearranging
around the relentless
sparkle in her rheumy eyes

then there's music
my host brightens
and grabs my arm
with arthritic fingers

leading me toward
the joyful sound
coming from a far corner
as if in another dimension

an old man slouched
over the keyboard
absorbed
fingers dancing on the keys

a distant smile
on his aged face
remembering, perhaps
a dance, a woman, a different life

tunes far too old
to be of my memory
perhaps WWI or II
a pub in France or Germany

a time, a moment
away from guns and bombs
romance amidst the ruins
joy amidst the sorrow

my host sways and claps
with delight
and I am taken with the music
the absolute joyful abandon

on the old man's face

so much joy amidst decay
dancing, at least in spirit
amdist arthritic joints
and edemic ankles

the little old ladies
on the couch,
resting from the journey
from dining hall to "home"

smile dreamily
feet tapping, heads
keeping time with the music
that takes them back

the old man
oblivious to an audience
playing for life
playing for relief

for not only remembering
but experiencing again
as if no time had passed
so cruelly upon his body

experiencing grace
love eternal and romantic
life against all odds
in defiance of death. 


(I learned later that the piano player just turned 101).

Angel Girl

Little Girl
don't you know
you're beautiful?

There are so many
stars in your eyes

as you dance to music
in your own soul

oblivious to judges
with ratings in their hands

a 4, a 2, an 8
it doesn't matter

because you move,
like you know you're a "10"

pudgy cheeks
piercing blue eyes

hair that doesn't curl
for nothing or no one

oh my god
I can't believe

the world goes on

people do dishes
watch the evening news

as if there is no
extraordinary love-angel
in their midst

how could they miss it?
your light would have blinded them

made them turn aside
to revel in your wonder

but you danced anyway
and stored that freedom away

as your feet got bigger
and you folded in on yourself

lived in the shadows
terrified to be seen

lest someone ransack
your treasure chest

yet little by little
you began to whisper

no

took one more little step
into the light

and you remembered the words
to your own song

and Boom! Baby, Baby
those big feet found their rythem

that sweet voice
started to sing

your whisper became a shout!

and others came out
of the dark too

(if SHE can do it, maybe I...)

and the music got richer
the angelic choir got fuller

and the light grew bright
from within your soul

oh, my Dear One
you didn't come here to hide

you are Here
to sing your song

to add your voice, your line
to the Poem

Angel Girl,
you came here to

Shine.

Shine on...

Being Quiet

      It's not a disease.  It's not a character defect.  It's not a maladjustment.  It's not abnormal or immoral.  It just is.  Sometimes it's even a gift.  It took me about 40 years to figure that out.

      It's a very talkative world we live in.  When I was in elementary school and the teachers wrote comments in those boxes  on your report card, I always got the comments:  "Susan (my childhood name) is very quiet.  Doesn't talk much."  I "played well with others."  I even "worked well with others."  I got a lot of Outstandings in my schoolwork, and no UNSatisfactories.  But still, it was if they had to say something, find some concern.  "Susan is very quiet."  Year after year.  Or those adolescent-nightmare moments when the teacher called on me and said,  "Susan, you're very quiet, what do you think?"  and I wanted to melt right into the linoleum. 

       As I got into high school, college and even seminary, it was still apparently a problem.  "Why are you so quiet?"  I was asked repeatedly by teachers, students and friends.  It only caused me more anxiety to try to be something I wasn't:  talkative.   Of course, in college and seminary especially, part of my grade was based on class participation, and so no matter how smart I was or how well I did in the coursework,  I always got graded down because of my lack of speaking out.  I was terrified of speaking in front of large groups, especially without a script!  And I was never really encouraged to think for myself growing up, or to have an opinion worth sharing, so I wasn't ready to share anything that I thought, lest it be torn apart.  On a high school choir trip, I was voted "Quietest Member on the Trip," and given a whistle as a prize.  I was mortified.  At church camp, I was asked to lead a prayer group and my first night, I simply froze up.  Couldn't think of a thing to say, and was therefore ashamed that I couldn't be a good Christian example.  Fortunately, in that case, I had a very kind, gracious pastor-camp counselor who understood that my gifts lay elsewhere, and he assigned me things to do more in accordance with my personality.  He assured me that being quiet was not a character defect and certainly didn't make me less of a Christian or beloved child of God.  He was probably the first adult in my life that made me feel truly accepted and valued for who I was.  His name is Ed.  We still keep in touch, 33 years later.  You just don't forget something like that.

     Obviously when I became a pastor, I had to start speaking.  I clearly remember my first sermon 23 years ago.  I was trembling, nauseous, sweating profusely, my hands were ice cold and I could barely breathe.  But I made it, and got a lot of praise for that first sermon.  That gave me confidence, and I went on to preach for 20 years.  It became one of the biggest gifts that brought me more out of myself and made me feel strong.  I loved preaching!  It was a high.  It was a chance to step out a little more, be more verbally expressive, even use a little drama and flair.  It wasn't that I was being someone else;  obviously preaching was a big part of me, it was a gift.   But outside of the pulpit, I was less expressive.  I was still quiet.  I still felt more comfortable with people one on one rather than big groups.  I wasn't one to "work a crowd."  I'd sit down with a few and visit.  Some people thought I was snotty.  Some accused me of being rude, or "she talked to so-and-so but didn't talk to me..."  I gravitated toward kind faces. 

      I have never been good at small talk.  Being in the ministry for 20 years I had to cultivate some skill at it, mind you, but I still don't like it.  I'd rather be honest, real, talk about things that are important to me or the other person.  I still don't like big crowds.  I'd much rather visit with a small group of friends, play a game, have a nice dinner, or play badminton or something.  Even if I did drink more than an occasional glass of wine, I wouldn't feel comfortable in a bar scene where it's noisy and people get loud.  I tried karoake once when it was still a new thing, and I may as well have stood up there in my underwear for how comfortable I felt.  I let a guy get me drunk once just to see what the fuss was all about, and I didn't get it.  I never felt so sick in my life, and I didn't understand why anyone would do it on purpose. 

     My idea of a good time is a Friday night at home with my family, or a couple of good friends, talking, dinner, maybe a game.  We watch a lot of movies.  I could spend hours reading, sitting outside.  Spending a whole weekend with my husband and my daughter is pure heaven for me.  We don't even have to do much.  Home is my refuge.  There I can let it all out.  I can be myself completely and know that I am loved for who I am.  I can be goofy and silly.  If I'm mad, I can express that, or I can cry and complain.  I can curl up with one or all of my three cats and experience pure bliss. 

    Call me boring.  Call me weird (many people have over the years).  I still get accused of being a snob, or "hard to get to know" (I hate that one-- ask me anything, I might just tell you), or just the tiresome old one, "too quiet."  How can one be "too quiet"?  I usually only speak when I have something to say, which I have found to be a very wise practice.  Too many people talk for the sake of hearing themselves talk, and usually say a lot of dumb things-- even hurtful, painful things.  If you talk less, you tend to listen more.  You notice more about what's going on.  It's taken me till the middle of my life to realize that being quiet is just who I am.  Because of it, I'm also known as a good listener.  People trust me, for the most part.  I don't like to be around a lot of talkative people for too long, I get a headache and I need to go someplace quiet and breathe.  I am very uncomfortable in loud, noisy, crowded places.  I don't fit in in most places.  But I've realized, I'm not meant to fit in, I'm meant to be me.  And I am quiet.

      I don't dislike loud people or talkative people.  Some of my closest friends are talkative.  The word of the day is Extrovert, and I am Introvert.  It's Yin and Yang.  You need both of us.  One is not better than the other.  We're just different.  You can go to your party and dance on the tables if you enjoy that, but don't be offended if I'd rather have a quiet dinner with my family or friends or spend hours reading a good book, or listening to fabulous music.  I am not "too quiet,"  Mrs. Grade School Teacher,  Ms. Cheerleader or Mrs. Class President.  I am me.  I'm a Poet, a Writer, a Singer, a Reader, a Good Friend,  a Thinker, a Muser, a Mystic, a Pray-er, etc.  There's even a Preacher/Public Speaker lurking in me if you wake it up in me, but the Poet is bigger.  So I'll have my glass of wine at home in my living room and tell you a fun story about the time I sang "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" after several beers many years ago with a guy I barely knew and didn't need to know after that, but I won't relive it.  Though I may write a hell of a story about it.

Between the Veils

her head

popped up

amidst tall grass

gentleness incarnate

 

large ears antennae

searching for

danger

cause for alarm

 

eyes like marbles

deep, brown

eyelashes of a starlet

her whole body taut

 

 I think

how dangerous

the world

for gentle souls

 

how harsh the landscape

for passionate artists

always on alert

forever aching

 

for understanding

 

Rocky Mountain Highs

not easy to ascend

proven to be that lost horizon

for the courageous pilgrim

 

those gentle souls

walking a labyrinth of violence

open wounds in rivers

of antiseptic

 

run, my heart says

to the creature

in alliance

run, protect yourself

 

it is sometimes hell

for dreamers

a battlefield for those

who don't want to fight

 

this world burns up

the passionate

those who stand

between the veils

 

but they sing

their songs

and leave us

their poetry

 

their burnt offering

their firstborn

on the altar

as they go down

 

in the flames

still hoping to rise again

from the ashes

to the world of their dreams.