Garden Table Blessing

At the Garden Table

It is easy to bless the tomatoes

ripening on the vine

bite-size, grape-like

and ready to burst open

in my mouth

Communion



It’s easy to bless the basil

that wafts poetic at every picking

and brush against the water can.

Collard greens

with rainbow stems, easy

potatoes, brown eyes planted

as a science experiment

sprouted purple-white blossoms

with surprising yellow centers

who knew such a lumpy

bumpy mass of starch

would be one and the same

with these delicate stem-y appendages.

 

It is easy to bless all

in this little garden corner:

the maiden hair fern

operatic hibiscus

Mondo grass and morning robins

a concrete Buddha

accompanied by a ceramic, moss-covered rabbit

wind chimes and hummingbirds

even the invading blackberries

challenging the ivy

for ownership of the hillside



What about blessing the old patio furniture

that survived 15 years and 5 moves

or the Terracotta mask

purchased after a year of sobriety

spider webs, neighbors cat droppings

what about the Citronella candle

that chases away mosquitoes

What about the mosquitoes?

Bless the mosquitoes and begin.

Where Do Her Words Go?

“…We encounter each other in words, words

spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,

words to consider, reconsider…”

Excerpt from Praise Song for the Day ~ Elizabeth Alexander



Where Do Her Words Go?


Do they merge with all the other words ~

smooth verbs at the cocktail hour,

bubbling, barbecue babble,

or do they whisper through the equinox ~

emerald-green dusky words

dissipating into starlight?



Where do her words go?

Do they course over a spiny mountain range,

nestle in juniper snags, bridge

like rainbows and trailing blackberries,

or are they slammed in car doors,

rushed along freeways of unknown destinations?



Do her words drift like puffs of Black cottonwood ~

summer snow that lands on the very one

who needs her words the most?

Or do they randomly swim

like those squiggly black lines

behind the closed eyes of the sunbather?



She feels responsible

for these words that come to her

on light-rays, sound and shock waves,

from nerve endings and heartbeats,

weighty little words to consider,

words wanting a wide embrace



Where do her words go?

On yellow freesia vibrations

to pollinate years from here?

Her words, quaint and queer,

are merely a stone’s throw in a river ~

who knows how far the ripples go?

Facilitating Change…Let Grace Come In  

“…through every vicissitude of heat and cold, calm and storm, up-heaving volcanoes and down-grinding glaciers, we see that everything in Nature called destruction must be creation — a change from beauty to beauty.” ~John Muir

Are destruction and creation all part of the same design system? I just finished reading The Only Kayak by Kim Heacox. He references Muir’s quote above and asks, “If the land can heal and begin anew, can we too...[and]…does that which nurtures us in turn deserve our nurturing?” I sit silently in my kayak, my cradle of resilience, stroking the surface of Sparks Lake in Southern Oregon, ready to receive the healing power of water. I listen to the soft slip-slap of the wake on my boat and wonder about reciprocity, about giving back to the water, about the ripple effect of my palm on this place.

I came here to release, to heal, regenerate after four wrestling months of quarantine, questions, passionate protests, and tragic loss. Let grace come in. I came here for Water’s wisdom, her ancient knowledge ~ the survival song of lilies rustling against the side of my boat. Let grace come in. I came here to hear the fledgling herons’ boisterous, prehistoric screech for Mother’s piscine supper of regurgitated carp. Let grace come in. The haunting coos of the Mourning dove, the chipper chicka-dee-dee-dees, and the Red-winged blackbirds’ conk-la-ree-ree-rees all harmonize with the heron and the lilies to create riffles of new song. Let grace come in.

My summer vacation officially started on June 20^th. I had hoped to kayak that first day of vacation, to catch up on my poetry writing, to hike, and explore more of the Pacific Northwest. Instead, I worked. We arts educators are all worried about our jobs next fall. So last week we scrambled to create (and push through to the powers that be) documents that reflected proactive plans for facile and creative transformation of teaching spaces and methods. Simultaneously, I engaged in a new leadership role with TLAN, began leadership coaching with Sea Change Design, and started this facilitation class. I continued to feel energized from the last trimester; I had remained strong, positive, and centered all through the transition to on-line learning — leading the way for arts integration, and facilitating discussions about re-structuring for next fall. But then, the Saturday before the last week of school, my Asst. Principal called. One of our 1^st graders had been murdered by her father, who then took his own life. Where is grace?

That news broke me ~ I trembled and sobbed with shock, grief, and anger, but then went right back to work. In my TLA facilitator role, I provided poetry and resources to my colleagues in addition to designing a virtual field day for students’ last week of school. Two weeks later, I tried to write my own grief poem amidst the cacophony that is my most inhospitable workspace (and my brain). I could not do it, all my reserves were spent, and I cried again from exhaustion, so much loss, and grief. Let grace come in.

 

“Nothing is lost, only forgotten…the land remembers us in an enduring embrace.” [1] During this quarantine, I had forgotten Nature’s power to heal and restore me. I had forgotten the importance of going outside, the value of my bare feet in the grass, the sun and rain on my skin, the lilacs and lavender, and thrum of hummingbirds dive-bombing the scarlet columbine. Let grace come in. Joy commented in the podcast that birds are singing more now. The robins wake me at 4:30 and I don’t really mind. Let grace come in. Ironically, in the last months while humans stayed indoors, the out-of-doors started to heal: flora and fauna thriving instead of just surviving, pollution began to clear around the world, an unintended, unimagined consequence of our quarantine. Let grace come in. By doing less, we gave more to Nature. Let grace come in. I really could not fully grasp the irony of that, but I knew that I had forgotten about the healing power of Nature for me. I knew I needed the enduring embrace of land and water. I closed my work computer and headed for Sparks Lake. Let grace come in. …

Awake Now

from a gloomy hibernation,

I notice columbine in bloom

and last year’s barren apple tree

bearing spurs. Anna’s hummingbird

flits merely feet away from me ~

her name is Joy.

 

She was, all winter, an always

presence of possibility,

but my eyes were closed, my mind shut

to her iridescent green crown,

ruby-throated chirping contrast

to my gray song.

 

 

Today, following a season

of black, I wear scarlet again,

the red that attracts her to me,

beating vehemently between

honeysuckle and apple trees.

The hummingbird

 

in crimson pursuit, reminds me

of my power to fly backward

or forward, or to just flutter

my wings in place, pollinating

and consuming all the honey

nectar of now.

---

[1] from Portland Nez Perce/Cherokee Educator and herbalist, Judy BlueHorse Skelton 

For Geraldine Pearson

“…There’s a poem in this place—in the heavy grace…” *

of the “do not resuscitate” notice

tacked to the mudroom door

at Blackberry Hill Farm —

a heavy grace in the stained country curtains

on the kitchen window, open for flies

to buzz in from the barn

and land on the breakfast, uneaten.

There is a poem in this place

where flies can dine freely on home-made pies

before dying on sticky strips hanging

above the kitchen table.

There is a poem in this place

where a lamb nestles at your feet

under that same kitchen table,

while another lamb is served for Easter dinner.

There is a poem of heavy grace in this place.



Death is daily and unsentimental

on Blackberry Hill. Foxes in the hen house,

cows stuck in the mud, bummer lambs

abandoned by ewes, and ponies neglected

by their driver who chose to die at home.

A heavy grace in vulnerable surrender —

a pastoral release to swollen, weakening limbs,

to broken branches, dried leaves, and lips

unkissed, and scars softening where breasts had been.

A release to humming out of key, love songs

from apple orchards in the 30s.



There’s a poem in this place and a heavy grace

in finger tips limply reaching out from the hospice bed,

eyes averted, the Oregon horse woman whispers,

“luv you guys” for the first and last time.

A heavy grace, an end to that grooming criticism

of who one should be. In death, there is poetry

and there is ice melting in the last crystal glass

of Hendrick’s gin. Tonic soothes and our chapter ends,

giving way to the cliché, trite, simple, surrender —

the poetry of loving one just for who one is,

or is that “whom”? Loving for the first and last time.

No goodbye, just a wisp of a hand hold, dry

skin on skin, fingerprint to fingerprint

an acknowledgement of this heavy grace.




*Excerpted from Amanda Gorman, In This Place (An American Lyric)

Lupine

Beleven Lupine

 

Belief, be-lieve, be leaves. I believe

you can eat the greens of Oregon Sorrel

like a Shamrock salad, and you won’t die.

I believe in bleeding heart blossoms,

the power of Salmonberries to make me smile

and ah the awe of a single raindrop

in a wide lupine cup. But I don’t believe

that skunk cabbage really stinks

(even though I know it does).

 

I believe in rolling rivers and peacock blue twilight.

I believe hoot owls are wiser than we.

I believe in the mystery of the silent moth

forever circling, circling, circling a flickering flame.

I believe in deathly attraction ~

loving hard, to the bone, then letting go.

I believe in the majesty of towering cedar

and that the knots in wooden fences

eventually all fall out, leaving peep holes

for the curious and the brave.

But I don’t believe in fences or pearly gates.

I do believe that death is just a simple part of life,

but I’m not so sure that Jesus died just for us

I believe in the blessed resurrection of trillium

every March, every year, after the woodland violets

and just before Solomon’s seal and I believe

in emerald lupine with regal purple stalks

and pods filled with seedy promise.

Beleven is a Dutch word meaning to experience, live, go through, or openly profess/practice a faith or conviction.

Morning on Bronze Pond

There they go, wild geese of peace —
making form of time

while wood ducks bob for breakfast feasts

there they go, wild geese of peace.

But the flicker’s staccato drumming will not cease

until I wake to the day’s rhythm and rhyme.

There they go, wild geese of peace —

making form of time.

What determines a morning end?
When hummingbirds beat frenzy into the day,

or when cattails burst and willows bend?

What determines a morning end?

When wood ducks, through reeds, weave and wend,

or the heron, on one leg, begins to sway?

What determines a morning end?

When hummingbirds beat frenzy into the day.

In 2017 I rented an apartment for a few months at the Caswell Gardens in Troutdale. Bronze Pond was surrounded by bronze sculptures. It was the best apartment ever. I wrote every morning out by the pond.

Spider Web

One web spun,

ceaseless and lucid as the rising sun

simple as morning worms

invisible as today’s breeze

waiting, waiting to catch me in a sticky pause

A web sturdy as the ant’s back,

the one who carries away my frosted flake

A web shimmering only in the right light

            at just the right angle

            or right time of day, of year, of life

This web, intricate and complicated

beyond my capacity to design,

brushed away as an irritant

            an annoyance

            or was that fear?

I break this web’s anchor from fence post and tree limb

and yet it is spun again through the night, every night,

and yet the impenetrable pattern

that ambiguous weaving

an obscure path

so unclear to me, until today,

when a particular ray of the sun, a hint of first light,

cuts through this one web

so simply, so rightly

into my dawn.

Water way

Follow

the riverbed

wash clean dust and debris

purified triviality

cleanse me

Arrive

in peace

through streams of green

and humming bees

Mitigated silence

so much easier here

between pine trees and idleness

amid effortless lakeside purl

to hear

your Beloved

il bel far niente

light riffles round us shadows fall

day rests with cricket calls

lullaby psalms

be still

Hummingbird and Columbine

Awake Now

from a gloomy hibernation,

I notice columbine in bloom

and last year’s barren apple tree

bearing spurs. Anna’s hummingbird

flits merely feet away from me ~

her name is Joy.

She was, all winter, an always

presence of possibility,

but my eyes were closed, my mind shut

to her iridescent green crown,

ruby-throated chirping contrast

to my gray song.

Today, following a season

of black, I wear scarlet again,

the red that attracts her to me,

beating vehemently between

honeysuckle and apple trees.

The hummingbird

in crimson pursuit, reminds me

of my power to fly backward

or forward, or to just flutter

my wings in place, pollinating

and consuming all the honey

nectar of now.

Trillium

Trillium

Trinity of forest floors, remind me

as I cling in this spring of uncertainty,

with desire to claim, possess as mine,

heightened by daily news and little sign

of peace.  I seek your lesson, wood lily ~

Rife and wild, you are ever meant to be

white wake robin, shaded, yes. Sheltered, but free

from harsh winds and warring lives entwined

Trinity of forest floors, remind me

that if I pluck violet-veined petals, nestled in ivy,

to vase as mine, for seven years I will not see

your flower, in patches of promise, divine

golden centers of hope in precarious times.

Behold, but not hold any blossom too tightly.

Trinity of forest floors, remind me.

A note: I first posted this in 2006, but wrote it 2003 when we were entering a war. Seventeen years later, as we are quarantined from Covid-19, I felt the need to repost.

After the Storm

After the Storm

I leave the polished black waters

of resentment and greed

to walk this muddy path

strewn with fallen greens

and pink veined trillium

folded in on themselves

from the weight of a drenching rain

I walk this path again

past abandoned wildflower bouquets

to the circle of cedar

and my leaning tree

the mourning dove cries

her hollow song

simply

hear me

please

please

please

please