A Believer's Journal

               change direction

it may be an amiable suggestion
               try something new
               expand your horizons
               see the other side

it may be an urgent warning
               run from danger
               flee the peril
               turn round before it is too late

it may be an insidious enticement
               ditch your commitments
               ignore your duties
               put yourself first

it may be a gracious command
               repent
               turn away from foolishness and sin
               find the path that leads to life

it may utter randomness
               be here be there be anywhere
               yield to the chaos
               abide no rules no design no intent

it may be an invitation to dance
               imbibe the rhythm
               flow with your partner
               exult in the delight of the movement

               change direction

it is yours to choose
               a path, a way, a way of being
               not remaining stuck, not acceding to powerlessness
               but dancing, dancing, dancing to the music of God

When every spruce and fir are painted white,
the wintry scene dispenses pure delight
and all the world seems surely put to right,
but it is not so.

Where glistening shards of ice append the spout,
my curious dog approaches with her snout
and wonder wants to displace the dread and doubt,
but it cannot be so.

While pensive writers conjure enchanting tales,
their words and thoughts are shaped to allay travails,
the looming specter of terror inexorably pales,
but it must not be so.

Of angels among us we’re prompted to recall,
At least for a moment the enveloping shadows forestall,
Lest hopelessness leave us bereft of faith at all,
but it will not be so.

I don’t remember the name of the first
        Hail Mary, perhaps, or Scottish Fantasy
        Lavender Illusion or Gregorian Chant
I know that Blueberry Muffin and Giggle Creek
        didn’t come until later
        until after

After those first few bedraggled scapes
        were tenderly pushed into holes
        freshly dug in the red clay
pioneers lovingly chosen
        from among Don Church’s many children
        hidden behind tall juniper hedges

After the once alder-choked bank
        sloping gently above the Bar Harbor stones
        had been painstakingly cleared
trunks and branches and roots and rocks
        all pulled out to make of wild scrub a garden
        and of this acreage a home

They are the ones who made it ours
        Big Dolly and Lady Liz
        Grape Ice and Velvet Thunder
flaunting vibrant July colors
        on improbably thick petals
        filling the landscape, and us, with joy

Now there are thirty
        bearing seventeen different names
        some of them divided several times over
delightfully delicate daylilies
        their dazzling presence declaring
        they belong here and so do we

I am not one but two
a soul filled with wonder and
a soul filled with horror
delight and dread
gratitude and grief
unfathomable gratitude and inconsolable grief

diamonds of sunlight dance on wavelets
as cool autumn breezes waft over the Reach
while air choked and cloying weighs over
ruptured bodies in Tel Aviv and Gaza City

black-clad dancers lilt and whirl
bringing a cello suite to rapturous life
while khaki-clad militants fire round after round
composing their own discordant symphony of death

squash pear soup and Tinder Hearth bread
attend tender conversation with kind-hearted neighbors
while tortured screams and violent sobbing
wash over the rubbled remnants of a family home

delight and dread
wonder and horror
gratitude and grief
wholehearted gratitude and heart-wrenching grief
I am not one but two
Kyrie eleison …

into the chill grey dawn
over the dew-dripped lawn
treacled a half-grown fawn
out of the stillness

gunmetal sky hangs low
caressing birch below
as north winds gently blow
over the stillness

out of grey oaks so tall
from branches big and small
numberless acorns fall
into the stillness

slate-colored stone ledge curls
softened by green thyme swirls
under the gamboling squirrels
goading the stillness

all too soon morning blooms
and day’s agenda looms
but my soul still communes
with the stillness

sisters
as are wont
more different than alike

the elder
drawn and angular
hooked nose, bent fingers, spiked chin, flattened eyes
straight hair tautly pulled back from her face
sharp-cornered elbows echoed in the sharp corners of her somber-hued sweater
perturbed, inquiet, brooding, unpresent

the younger
all curves
round eyes, curved chin, curled fingers, arched brows
untamed swirls of softly-curled hair spilling over her forehead
warmly-bright lips reflected in the oranges and reds of her warmly-bright sweater
languid, dreamy, receptive, guileless

sisters
as are wont
brought close by fashion, but of different worlds
moon and sun, Chione and Persephone, Martha and Mary
one burdened by what she has seen, the other keen for what she has yet to see
one already dying, the other pregnant with possibility

sisters
in this moment caught together
but in the next and always and forever
apart

 

(N.B.  Since writing the poem this morning, I have discovered that the two depicted in the portrait are indeed a man and a woman, “Harlequin and his companion,” though I still see sisters!)

long damp grass grabs at the edges of my sandals
wetting the tops of my feet between leather straps with clammy coolness
        and I am grateful
hobbled obliging dog lurches over the lawn doing his jobs
dragging a sock-booted paw behind him
        and I am grateful
gangly Big Dolly flaunts its luxuriously swooping yellow and coral blossoms
drawing attention from the barren deer-bitten lilies surrounding it
        and I am grateful
dingy spent blossoms still glom to the severed laurel dangling from my hand
recalling the brilliant candy cane display that just days before had brought such delight
        and I am grateful
viscous mist rolls up from the Reach clinging to stark spruces and greyed blueberry barrens
belying persistent memories of sun-drenched and dazzling Maine summers
        and I am grateful