It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.

– Wendell Berry

It's raining seed pods in Hampton

It's raining seed pods in Hampton
Tiny sails with a genetic payload
They fly to do battle with entropy
Their roots will grasp chaos
Their branches will thrust upwards
And a new fleet will be born to continue the battle

from here

Sonnet

"I finally realized that friendship is not a remedy for loneliness. Loneliness is a part of our experience and if we are looking for relief from loneliness in friendship, we are only going to frustrate the friendship. Friendship, camaraderie, intimacy, all those things, and loneliness live together in the same experience." -Rich Mullins

My instrument, singing a lonely strain
Reaching of her voice, clear and sharp to tell.
To bring in tune, in step, to make her tame
No need there; her brave music does not quell

And yet I see, beauty in harmony
His low tones join, two voices pitch'd as one.
Tandem, complex tones, grace is plain to see
What can be said when two are joined, and hum

Yet even as we two this newness do
Create he cannot carry me, or save.
Mistakes of mine, they are my own to choose
My hands do grasp, and each to our own clave*.

In life's repasts, companion and alone
These two do live together: familiar and unknown.


*clave, n: one of a pair of wooden sticks or blocks that are held one in each hand and are struck together to accompany music and dancing.

the unknown names of everyday objects

did you know, that smell of rain on dry earth
two australian botanists once gave it a name: petrichor.
and the space
between thumb
and forefinger
lexicographers will tell you is called the purlicue.
if i ever were
to tattoo your name upon my body, i would do it there
the meeting place of grasping
the smooth and pliable curve of my hand

another word: desire path.
synonym: shortcut.
unpaved, but clear: the worn earth cuts from point
to point, fashioned by nonconforming feet

although there is much i do not know
words i cannot speak, for i have not yet learned them
still i can walk my own desire path
the shortest distance from where i am
to where i want to be.
please come: we'll go.

in the golden light

in the golden light they meet running
Father, son, and son
the littlest one, toddling with swift speed behind
brothers do not wait, brother does not ask it

in the golden light, pure joy
distilled and drifting from the sky like
the yellow autumn leaves that lend
their radiance to this setting sun

in the golden light, my one desire
the father loving, the sons rejoicing
mother standing at a distance, smiling
this moment I would make my own.

in the golden light, my heart swelling
the instant fades, I must press on
joy will only last a moment
autumn leaves
setting sun
nature constant moving
in the golden light, i trust a hope:
someday: my sun rising.

Autumn Sonnet

If I can let you go as trees let go
Their leaves, so casually, one by one,
If I can come to know what they do know,
That fall is the release, the consummation,
Then fear of time and the uncertain fruit
Would not distemper the great lucid skies
This strangest autumn, mellow and acute.
If I can take the dark with open eyes
And call it seasonal, not harsh or strange
(For love itself may need a time of sleep),
And, treelike, stand unmoved before the change,
Lose what I lose to keep what I can keep,
The strong root still alive under the snow,
Love will endure -- if I can let you go.

-May Sarton

The Source, from Jonathan Elias's American River

by the time it has wound its way to Gulf of Mexico
the Rio Grande has carved the borderline between Texas and old Mexico
from El Paso down to Brownsville
where the muddy water is heavy with the rich aluminum soil
it brings life in abundance to the fertile lower Rio Grande valley
and a dangerous crossing for the hungry wetbacks
who brave the treacherous currents and quicksand
to work the fields and feeds
and what began as a crystalline stream in the mountains of colardo
becomes a breath of Eden in an arid land

the source of the American river is the pure
clear
dream
of freedom
and justice
and mercy.
lifeblood of a visionary embodiment of human hunger for a better life
the powerful curent of this notion, this nation
indelibly carving its course into the landscape of the world
and neither world nor river would ever be the same
and neither world nor river would ever be the same

It can be a highway
Or a barrier.
Life to a thirsty world
Or a killer.
And it can be diverted
by the weaknesses of men
And it can be polluted
by men without vision.

ancient writers of the river gave her the resepct she deserves
as they did all life.
modern men have used and abused her
and shown precious little respect for any kind of life.
The old man closed his sad eyes.
"This country is split wide open," he said,
"right down the middle.
And it's never gonna come together
Because it was built on the bones of slaves
and the blood of natives."
He spat in the dust.
"We have not evolved."

a dream is harder to kill than a dreamer but once it's forgotten, it's gone.
remember, the source of the american river is the
pure
clear
dream
of freedom
and justice
and mercy.

freedom
and justice
and mercy.

Don't Hesitate

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happened better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

-Mary Oliver

i carry your heart

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

-e.e. cummings

the history of my stupidity

the history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.

some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
would have tended nevertheless toward the candle’s flame.

others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
the little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.

i would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
the time when i was among their adherents
who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.

but all of them would have one subject, desire,
if only my own—but no, not at all; alas,
i was driven because i wanted to be like others.
i was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.

the history of my stupidity will not be written.
for one thing, it’s late. and the truth is laborious.

if we were created

if we were created in god’s image
then when god was a child,
he smushed fire ants with his fingertips
and avoided tough questions.
there are ways around being the go-to person, everybody,
even for ourselves.
even when the answer is clear
like the holy water gentiles would drink
before they realized forgiveness
is the release of all hope for a better past.

forgiveness,
forgiveness
is for anybody
who needs a safe passage through my mind.

if i really was created in god’s image,
well then when god was a boy
he wanted to grow up to be a man,
a good man
and when god was a man,
a good man,
he started telling the truth in order to get honest responses.

-buddy wakefield