In flower language Geranium means folly. Probably some outrage in Restoration drama, a fluke, Cad, a missing comma In a perfumed letter -- A rebuke then, better left To the past than any future Time might emit and call Us here, where it seems so clear. Geranium means sprouts Where other cuttings wither, Stems jammed back in earth Issue threads, thrive, neither Conquered nor dead but Quite the reverse --if this is Folly, we could do worse.
Born deep in another Century --what did I feel and do? I'd wake and sleep In sun and night --in Light of other days, Like you, in what is real. I felt time take me Here, where we are In hope and dream. It does not seem so far.
(I found this Calderon scene slightly more fun than Hamlet and Horatio unearthing Yorick's skull in the graveyard. Have always wished the old jester had a line in Shakespeare's play, but ventriloquism with a skull would be a bit morbid)
This shell of holes and hinges Doth in disinterment turn Bold and impart timeless Secrets to thee --lives in discussion, Not aristocracy, want thought And not decree-- in guilds and Trades, list, oh list: the human Mind seeks rationality, the sublime, To combine and and set it free.
["Mother and two baby birds, if you can find them in the darkness"--Norma]
We wait on trellis arches For faces in ivy leaves-- Whether eye-patched pirate or Jesus-- what we see and sees us-- What one believes depends On angle, light, on sundown Shadow --impressions one Receives change in setting sun. In all, whatever runs this Process, we are doves, and Even nightfall brings us love.
I have climbed the stairs, An astonished child. I have left the lull of illusion. You and I and a tremor of time Climb brimming bright along the shore. I am not only myself anymore. We are a wave Holding sunlight and life, A rolling glow, music and more-- More than the sum of ourselves before We gave our gift to time. We stepped our separate stairs To a door upon the earth. It is open. We have a simple hold, A touch, a wash of fanning sea Over a swath of sand, a boulder, A lace of foam, a stairway of waves-- A lyric on land. When songs mingle, they sing Among themselves, winding gift With gift where new-winged dreams Drift, melodies touch. We touched, We joined ways, and to That touch entrusted all our days.
I watch a lizard scale a Sunbleached rail and learn. "Are you leaving our Garden?" I ask --he turns From his task and answers. "Where I go, the garden is. So no, I cannot leave, nor Can you; you are part Of the garden too."
[I'd like to thank William at Looking For Jack,for identifying my little garden friend as a Western Fence Lizard. Go see his blog. It rewards attention!]
For Poetry Monday, I decided to add a picture and large print to a poem posted 12/13/09, stemming from one of many myths about King Midas. The myth, in brief: Apollo had a dispute with Midas and punished him with
donkey ears. Midas was understandably embarrassed and hid them under a
turban. His barber knew the secret but it burdened him, so he went to a meadow, dug a hole, whispered the story into it, then
back-filled --hoping to be rid of it. Reeds grew in the meadow, and
began whispering "King Midas has ass-ears." Wind carried the news
On A bridge
(Sunday, December 13, 2009)
I am amazed at What things mean. Devices, by which The impossible is Seen, surround the soul. What is secret when Wind and rattling reeds Repeat what is Whispered in a hole?
We have love and Minds to be out of. We are not alone At the brink Of reason, kindness. Anything less, Sanity revokes Into cosmic jokes -- We miss what we had. No defense except I haven't intelligence To go mad--neither Do you-- I suggest We start anew.
Spider encounters Sunflower from its web in the Void --time employed Unfolding futures. Past unravels illusion-- No older, no younger. Spider roams its design, Legs spread like petals Around a hunger, defines What is in curious travels To settle what was. It always does.
Far-ranging pollinators, Butterflies return what They ate as caterpillars. Pupae attached to tree, Rose , wait secure;from Chrysalis eclose, unfurl. Finally wings sail air. I remember clothesline Bed sheets whipping on Windy days when I was A child --same sound, Done in little in the wild.
Not even nothing can
Exist in a vacuum where,
In quantum concert, waves
Of possibility, virtual, in
Space and time --irreducible--
Result in you and me.
Nothing unreal lasts
For very long in forces
Around weak or strong
Charges in disturbance--
Light orphaned in dance
Springs from timeless nowhere.
I do not know if it
Can wholly return there.
Sow bugs found
In fallen wood,
Touched in curiosity,
Curl around into pills --a
Skill in sow bugs everywhere
That humans sadly lack.
We can't get under
Our own backs and hide there,
Or disappear inside
An armored sphere.
We watch them from above,
Do nothing, which is
Awfully close to love.
Surface: Cross-section of All space; each event Transmits its sphere And, where patterns Interfere, a new Event emerges. Each puddle Verges upon an Infinite geometry Of raindrops in Random endeavor And it doesn't End, not ever.