My Blue Angel

While looking  for the MRI unit on the large hospital directory,

a middle aged black man with grizzled beard and hair and

a smile as radiant as a summer's sunrise, 

asked if he could show me a shortcut.   

He had on a well worn housekeeping uniform and 

was pushing a large pail and mop.    

He led me down a dark passage and then up several steps.  

Directly facing  us was a large silver elevator with a 'to MRI' sign.  

He put his arm around me and said  gently 

"everything's going to be alright, you'll see."  

I gave him a hug and kissed his cheek.  

Then I saw a woman, obviously on chemotherapy, on her way up too.  

His blessing, though given to me, 

enfolded her more deeply still.

There have been a number of angels in my life. 

It's only now with the infirmities of age gathering round  that

I have the vision to recognize them.  

Note: dedicated to Jerry Dworkin, didgeridoo master and kindred spirit.  Given your recent successful renal transplant, you obviously know more angels then I, Jerry!  May the Lord continue to enfold you in His loving protective care and keep you safe.

Ruminations on Samhain

I haven't posted anything since mid July.  Two rejection letters of a submission including a deeply felt poem about my deceased mother, " Pantoum for an Apple Tree," had a depressive effect.  Doubts about my poetic abilities followed me around like a rain cloud.  But, recent happenings have led me to believe that I still have many poems within me and an ideal place to write them.  My brother, Jim, and I moved to an independent  / assisted living facility.  We have a lovely small cottage surrounded by many mature trees.  In the meantime, I was prodded to share the following sonnet by Edna St. Vincent Millay and some thoughts it induced in me.

I came across an essay on Edna St.Vincent Millay by my "Writing the Spiritual  Journey" workshop leader, Randon Noble.  Randon is a kindrid spirit in spite of being years younger than I.  Her teaching style is a gentle and sympathetic drawing out from the often murky depths of the proverbial well.  It enabled me to discern the trajectory of my life which proved to be a revelation; so many moments of grace which were finally recognizable in the crazy quilt patterns of living.  I love this particular excerpt:

"The apples were small and hard and each the size of a small plum.  They were crisp and tart but sweet enough to enjoy – much like Millay, perhaps.  While the playwright finely sliced them, making little armadillo humps in the crust, I read from a collection of Millay’s poems.  They were a little rough to take all at once, and none had anything to do with apples or tarts (not in the culinary sense, anyway).  But I had been working on an essay that explores hauntedness, and it was my last night at the Colony, and I still felt vaguely unsettled by the shrine-like quality of Steepletop.

Sonnet XLIII deeply impressed me:

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply …
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what rickbirds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more."

I have always loved this particular poem -  even more so now that my long summer has passed.  Millay's images are so achingly true.  Yet, I find them strangely comforting.  The listening ghosts and the lonely tree, who knows her boughs are empty now, are still seeking; they haven't given up.  Rather, they are waiting.  Samhain, the Celtic winter, draws me in now as age and progressing Parkinsonism slow my pace.  It's a time for ruminating, but in a larger sense it's a time for looking forward, no matter how near one's physical end may be.  Now my body is like the stark winter landscape with its skeletal trees and mouldering leaves.  But, within the frozen earth that gave them birth lies the dormant potency of their resurrection and mine as well.  Who knows what form it will take?  What a wondrous question to ponder on a snowy afternoon.

I love the Celtic cycle of the year because of its closeness to the earth and all its creatures.  To the ancient ones it was a sacred place.  I find it so also.

The Outcast

Like the lepers of old

he shuffles along  alone

mumbling to himself

His  dissheveled aura is

his warning bell 

A head too large, a deep

scar gouging  his neck,

Multiple  tumors cover his body like 

misshapen mushrooms on a tree trunk

NF1 they called it and walked away

Betrayed by his father, his body,

thoughtless others

Those authority figures who

ignored his impairments or

used them against him

Still he persisted,

two college degrees but

low level employment for years

He kept on trying until

the final rejection proved too much

Over the years  he drew more deeply

into his own private fortress like

an ancient mummy interred

in a hidden tomb

His funerary items include 

a lifetime of pent up hurt and

rage at the world and God, if

there was one, which

he very much doubted

The chamber is almost

sealed now 

I, his sister, watch and stop trying

to redeem him because 

this unbeliever and his Calvary 

of a life has always been

one of the Lord's uniquely beloved

A Very Unusual Visitor

I stepped away from my favorite reading perch

for a moment when

my cat snuggle buddy found

a tiny fly-like insect 

His body was almost transparent except

for tiny bulging black eyes

I saved him from the feline menace and

he spent several hours with me

exploring my surface anatomy

extensively and finally

jumped onto the page I was reading

He remained there almost motionless for

nearly twenty minutes

I believe as the ancient Hindu texts teach

that the small creature has a soul like mine

Perhaps he was aware of it too

In any event I relished reading with this

miniscule companion

Rabbit in the Grass

An early morning in summer

Sky clear but air heavy

In the dewy grass a lone rabbit feeds slowly, contentedly

in my back yard

My hunter cat notified me of his presence

I sipped my tea inside so as not to disturb him

I remembered when he was so small

he could fit into my tea cup

Now he is full grown, about the size

of a cat with beautiful light brown fur, large black eyes  and

ears so large they would give a hare pause

As I gazed at him, I recalled a similar morning 

some years ago when I was able to walk

I  was ambling along a nature trail when

I heard a piercing scream nearby

As I reached the area a falcon

was tearing apart a freshly caught rabbit 

Such things are part of nature's balancing act,

but they never cease to cut me to the heart 

Back in the kitchen I slowly pushed myself up

and began my small unsteady steps into

the living room, picked up purse and

car keys, and left for still another doctor's visit

A quick brutal death versus a painful lingering one 

If I had a choice, I think I would choose the former

No, I must take that back

Watching my body deteriorate slowly has

yielded priceless gifts of spirit

I now see with different eyes formed by 

suffering

It tore away at my ego, my false self, and

gave me a glimpse of my pristine true self 

My new eyes discerned  what the rest of my

life will entail,  despite the pain and myriad losses

Acceptance, compassion, and  the deep knowledge 

that I am truly loved 

Keeper of the Winds

On a soft summer eve I beheld

old Aeolus pursing his lips and 

softly puffing small spurts of wind like

a cigar connoisseur savoring an Arturo Fuente

I was mesmerized in a timeless interlude

dreaming of Odysseus with his bag of winds,

a gift of the blowzy old god to sail home, but

his crew tore it open, fating all to a long voyage

My loss was less acute than his

The cumulus cloud just drifted away

and my whimsical reverie evaporated

like those pent up clouds in the infamous bag

I couldn't let go of that image,

a huge Falstaffian face in the sky

This product of my imagination 

gave me pause

What could be lurking in my subconscious?

A Jungian archetype, of course,  but

why surface now?

Or, perhaps I crave an Arturo Fuente?

Birthday, June 11

"If my mind gets trapped inside/Just roll me to my sky-wide view/Where I will feast on cumulous and light/And tell you that art with just my eyes."
  -  Jane Krainin,  with irrepressible spirit, anticipating the toll of ALS

Last year's birthday was a tranquil interlude
on a long circuitous journey
Now I walk on glass
Each step gingerly taken while
my hands clench the walker

I think about what the future holds
as a degenerative illness erodes body
and mind, but not spirit, never spirit
not that it doesn't dim occasionally
But, it's uncanny how a gift of grace
always appears
Jane's wondrous poem this time

I will walk slowly now, better to
see the world through quiet eyes,
time to converse with the ignored ones,
the old, sick, and homeless
and then to ponder all I have seen
with my new eyes

I will do my best to emulate Jane,
trying to make the last part of my life
a benediction
I have no doubt that this is my mission now,
my work of art

Lauds

The full moon is still 

shining as the morning bird

begins his bright song

Sang-froid

sinuous tail floats

 a feline premier danseur 

pure insouciance

Casual Encounter

We rode down the elevator together,

I standing and he in a wheelchair.

As we got off, I asked if I could wheel him.

He declined with thanks. 

As we moved down the hallway together,

 I noticed his right foot had been 

amputated and his left leg badly swollen.

He was a diabetic and said

'I will get through this because I must.

My disabled sister needs me.

I wish you could meet her; she's so wonderful.'

He turned the corner toward physical therapy.

I had my own session there earlier.

My pain felt like a benediction for

an angel had crossed my path.

April Dusk by Patrick Kavanagh

It is tragic to be a poet now
And not a lover
Paradised under the mutest bough.

I look through my window and see
The ghost of life flitting bat-winged.
O I am as old as a sage can even be,
O I am as lonely as the first fool kinged.

The horse in his stall turns away
From the hay-filled manger, dreaming of grass
Soft and cool in hollows. Does he neigh
Jealousy-words for John MacGuigan's ass
That never was civilised in stall or trace.

An unmusical ploughboy whistles down the lane
Not worried at all about the fate of Europe.
While I sit here feeling the subtle pain
Of one whose Tree of God has been uprooted. 
Note: I have just discovered the poetry of a native Irishman, Patrick Kavanagh.  He was a farmer for many years and a self-taught poet.  In the last years of his life he taught at University College Dublin.  He died in 1967.  His poetry has an unmistakeable lyric quality which I love.

Premature Blooms, a Tanka

falling petals from
early blooming cherry tree
floating like snow flakes 
upon the warm earth beneath
afflictions of age thwarted

City Echoes

 I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young,
some suffer so much, I recall the  experience sweet and sad...
                                     --Walt Whitman, "The Wound Dresser"

On a brilliant spring morning,
Union Army soldiers and sailors march
across the old Pension Building
with caissons, horses, even long boats.
A general in full military regalia, astride his horse,
leads his command, raised and life-like,
around the frieze-- 
implacable, ever marching.

Where are the dead and wounded here?
At the Dupont Circle station across town,
Walt Whitman's words, incised
in stone, speak for them.

On a winter's night, a lone man
kneels by a legless soldier's cot,
one of many he will visit.
He moves among them 
washing and dressing wounds, writing letters,
speaking softly, his touch gentle.
He sits with the dead through the long night,
bearing witness.

I recall his words, filled with sorrow
for the young men who tasted life
so briefly.
The general orders his men to charge 
into a hell of fear, agony, and death, 
a scene that repeats untold times
like the perpetual marchers on the frieze.

Note: this poem was previously titled Echoes.  It received further revision in May and was recently submitted to the Baltimore Review.

Metanoia

A secluded chapel,

it's vaulted ceiling and cool stone
walls,
serene and cocoon-like

Facing the altar table, a plain wooden
cross hangs
It holds a bronze crucifix within
a simple circle

A rough hewn figure of Christ leans
down to embrace a limp human one
resting in His arms
My eyes riveted,
I intuit the bottomless well
 of love

Stiff muscles loosen like
unspooling rope
My pain lessens
While I sit in silence,
the thin veil parts and
I too am upheld

As a fine blade is tempered
in blazing fire, my suffering
transforms into something
sublime

Note: The word metanoia is of Greek derivation and means a spiritual transformation.  This poem is a major revision of one previously posted which has been removed.  I feel privileged to post it now, on the eve of Good Friday.  The chapel, dedicated to St. Augustine of Hippo, is in Washington National Cathedral's Cathedral College (formerly the College of Preachers).  The crucifix sculpture is by Gurdon Brewster, a retired Episcpalian priest and professional sculptor.  It is entitled "Welcome Home."

Gift in Time

Shining morning snow 

Early Spring's brief tapestry

Gift of nature's prime

Wise Crone

Full moon's wise crone's face

Crossed over by brash jet plane

One more pesky gnat

My Red Haiku

Lavish red blossoms

on last Autumn's maple tree

So many lifetimes

Early Spring Haiku

Small buds on spare trees
Look up to leaden gray skies
Silent surety

Lessons from an Old Friend

In a clear indigo sky the moon waxes full

Her brightness makes me squint through my binoculars

I visit her often,  her arid seas and cratered face 

As I get older, she's become a wise old friend, without

inhibitions,

who bares her infirmities for all to see

I have difficulty thinking of her as a dead world

Her incandescent light reaches my low wattage

inner taper

The sensation is perceptible

It intensifies my connection to

our infinite cosmic home,

ever ancient, ever new

Indra's Net

One day in  early autumn, as the waning night 
quivered before dawn,
a crescent moon, chin up,
welcomed brilliant Venus, the morning star
The illuminated planet sparkled, 
a melange of mirrors,
like Indra's boundless net
of reflecting pearls
They reveal all that ever was and
will be
A small spider's web seemed to float 
upon the bedewed grass beneath
Every node was encased by a
tiny dew drop which 
reflected all of its neighbors
Fleeting intimation of the eternal

Note:  "When the Hindu god Indra fashioned the world, he made it as a web, and at every knot in the web is tied a pearl. Everything that exists, or has ever existed, every idea that can be thought about, every datum that is true—every dharma, in the language of Indian philosophy—is a pearl in Indra's net. Not only is every pearl tied to every other pearl by virtue of the web on which they hang, but on the surface of every pearl is reflected every other jewel on the net. Everything that exists in Indra's web implies all else that exists."  Ref: from Wikipedia.  This is a second revision.

Tenacity

Single leaf on tree

Winter winds cannot dislodge

Fortitude or fear?

January haiku

Young twin pine branches 

lie on sun dappled sidewalk

 Premature passing

A Celtic Prayer for My Walking

As I slowly start down the stony steps,
     guide my balance O Lord.
With every unsteady step,
     I am upheld by your strong but gentle arm.
Give me the grace to learn with Bridget the treasured lessons of
     equanimity and compassion.
Bless my strivings as well as my discouragements.
O Protector of the wounded, enfold me 
in your loving protective care and keep me safe.
    

Adieu

Lake girded by fire

Lowering cyan clouds rise

Sun's hasty adieu