Sadness take my heart
and crush it
Squeeze all the water out
till I lay like a limp rag on the floor
Exhausted
Category: Poetry
Wartime Palindrome
In my last post, “The Hiding Place” by Corrie ten Boom, I mentioned my Dutch Opa, a radioman, who refused to continue working for the radio when it was taken over by the Nazis in World War Two. In doing so he risked his life. I wrote this poem for him, to honour his refusal to speak words of hate. May each of us fight the battle to find peace in our hearts, so there can be no more war in the world.
Opa,
your silence in the attic–
a defiance,
a refusal to speak false words.
Your face pale
under dusky skin,
as planes drone over Hilversum
and your children play above you,
innocently distracting the soldiers.
Under the floor boards you hide,
cramped–
radio silence.
Radio silence–
cramped,
you hide under the floor boards.
Innocently distracting the soldiers,
your children play above you,
as planes drone over Hilversum.
Under dusky skin,
your face is pale.
You refuse to speak false words,
your defiance–
your silence in the attic,
Opa.
This Life
This life–
so beautiful and terrible,
so full of horror and sunsets,
of crushing sadness,
kissable babies toes,
and mellow evening skies through the treetops.
This world of ours,
pulsing with life,
yet ever falling into death.
What is is life, Lord, without you,
who holds all things in being,
from inexpressible richness
to indescribable pain,
from grandmother’s smiles
to pizza.
You stretch our caterpillar spirits,
–too often content
to curl up comfortably at home
in our protective layer of fur–
until we become as expansive as butterflies,
wings dancing across the entire sky,
exposed to the sun and wind and starlight,
and intimately close to you–
face to face,
forever.
Dry Bones Blooming
They look like a bowl of dried bones,
cold and lifeless–
a tragic ode to time lost
and utterly incapable of change–
but look more closely!
Within their crinkled-shut hearts,
clenched in the knuckles of their bony hands,
are tiny gems
bursting with possibility!
When the sun’s warm gaze melts
the unfeeling snow
into lovely spring water,
blooms will unfurl
from these dusty bones.
After winter’s grimness,
we’ll see the world in colour again,
and the flowers will laugh
that we thought them dead.
Focused as a Flower
I wish I knew how to grow
with the single-minded purpose of flowers.
Up, up and ever increasing in beauty,
focused on the source of light and
undistracted by the tangle and clutter
of weeds and other plants nearby.
Neither thorns nor thistles
causing them to pause in self-doubt,
or think their mission would be better
if they were holding up
the heavy golden head of some other stem–
richness enough to be oneself.
Haiku 20
Feathery pinwheels–
if we look the other way,
will they start to dance?
Water of Life
Flowers have no muscles
yet they move
open / close
smile at the sun
kiss the sky goodnight
How is it possible?
Have you ever thought about this?
Only through their emptiness
are they able to be filled
The water of life coursing through their veins
gives them strength
Help me remember this
when I am parched and drooping
but refuse to drink
Fill me with this aqua vitae
give my spirit life
make my body rise again
to gaze at the sun
Wild and Free
I grow my garden
wild and free
I do not expect
it bow to me
My joy it is
to watch it bloom
Nor do I wish
its beauty to consume
to cut and cull
alone preserve
no longer in the wind and sun
to dance and curve
Not for me it is
to choose the day
nor the colour it shall bloom
So many shades of beauty
wild and free
Though I was the one
to plant the seeds
my garden does not belong to me
Old Friends
The faces of old friends
grow dearer with each passing year
Every wrinkle a trace of their joy
and sorrow
a reminder of the fragility of life
bittersweet
Precious and dear
the ones we love
Each grey hair adds to their beauty
for time adds to the treasure house of memories
we share with them–
they are ever more familiar
and beloved
Gas Station Saunter
See the woman walking
light as air–
her wings filling up with the wind,
canvas shopping-bag sails dancing in the sun.
An easy, breezy escape
for 10 minutes,
popping over to the corner gas station
–alone!–
to pick up lemonade ice-tea
for her temporarily bed-bound husband
who had this special request.
She walks along in the sun
smelling the city scent of spice and cement,
free enough to notice such things
without the usual tangled parade of double stroller,
the baby in snuggly
and other kids marching two by two.
She wonders what the chances are
that she’ll get to capture
the poetry of this ordinary moment
when she arrives home
to 80,000 questions
like “Why is blood red?
What is the sun made of?
What do we do before we are born?”
and “Can I have a ‘peeburrer samich’ nooooooow?”
An obnoxious car cuts her off to turn through the crosswalk on her light
–keeping it real–
lest in her pondering she float off into the brilliant blue sky
to alight on the snow-covered mountain tops that beckon in the distance
to this winged creature:
a woman alone for a walk.
Just East Of Crazy Land 