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Two

Two

A poem I wrote at this morning’s Deer Isle Writers’ Group gathering …

two leaves
two branches
two towering maples

two owls
two seals
two frolicking weasels

two moose
two geese
two chittering mouses

two wolves
two leopards
two rollicking orcas

two notes
two melodies
two shimmering symphonies

two hours
two days
two sun-drenched mornings

two words
two sentences
two soul-baring prayers

two
two
two

that there are two is a wonder
a communion
a not being alone

I am glad for two
I am glad for two
I am glad for me and you

Figment

Figment

“I will remember that who I am is a figment of my imagination.”
      Then is who you are a figment of your imagination?
      Or is it that you too are a figment of mine?
Is it that all that I can name is a figment of my imagination?
      Homo sapiens, canis lupus, thymus vulgaris, salvelinus fontinalis?
      Mountain, forest, prairie, sea?

I will remember that who I am is a figment of my imagination,
      and that from imagination comes all the rest too:
      me, you, us, them, a world, this world.
If there were no one to imagine, then nothing would be.
      Imagination names and naming identifies and identity is being,
      a clutter of atoms becomes some thing, some one.

In the beginning all was formless and desolate and God said.
      The saying is the making.
      The naming is the birthing.
I will remember that who I am is a figment of God’s imagination,
      I and you, quaking aspen and chipping sparrow, spring tide and aurora borealis,
      all of us, all of this, a figment of God’s imagination.

Thanks be to God.

Maine Poets Reading

Maine Poets Reading

Apparently, I am now qualified as a “Maine poet …” (insert smiley face!)

This Saturday, May 1, as part of a belated poetry month celebration, I will be reading some of my poems along with two other writers for a “Maine Poets Reading” Zoom event sponsored by the Blue Hill Library. Several of the poems I will read have been posted here on my blog. The event is scheduled for 2:00 pm EDT. If you are interested in joining in, you may register and access the Zoom link at the library’s website at https://bhpl.libcal.com/event/7706060.

What if snow were purple?

What if snow were purple?

What if snow were purple or pink
          or robin’s egg blue
painting every spruce and fir with a pastel palette
          pleasing perhaps but pert too pert?

Or what if snow were burnt umber or raw sienna
          or van dyke brown
a seamless segue from November’s leaf-strewn landscape
          to the sucking sepia sloughs of March?

But snow is white wondrously winsomely white
          winter dressed like a bride
earth adorned in beauty and light
          a promise made and kept.

The Hill We Climb

The Hill We Climb

Oh, my … What beauty, what grace, what truth, what timely words for this moment, for us …

Here is the text of the poem …

When day comes we ask ourselves,
where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry,
a sea we must wade
We’ve braved the belly of the beast
We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace
And the norms and notions
of what just is
Isn’t always just-ice
And yet the dawn is ours
before we knew it
Somehow we do it
Somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed
a nation that isn’t broken
but simply unfinished
We the successors of a country and a time
Where a skinny Black girl
descended from slaves and raised by a single mother
can dream of becoming president
only to find herself reciting for one
And yes we are far from polished
far from pristine
but that doesn’t mean we are
striving to form a union that is perfect
We are striving to forge a union with purpose
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and
conditions of man
And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us
but what stands before us
We close the divide because we know, to put our future first,
we must first put our differences aside
We lay down our arms
so we can reach out our arms
to one another
We seek harm to none and harmony for all
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true:
That even as we grieved, we grew
That even as we hurt, we hoped
That even as we tired, we tried
That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious
Not because we will never again know defeat
but because we will never again sow division
Scripture tells us to envision
that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree
And no one shall make them afraid
If we’re to live up to our own time
Then victory won’t lie in the blade
But in all the bridges we’ve made
That is the promise to glade
The hill we climb
If only we dare
It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit,
it’s the past we step into
and how we repair it
We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation
rather than share it
Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy
And this effort very nearly succeeded
But while democracy can be periodically delayed
it can never be permanently defeated
In this truth
in this faith we trust
For while we have our eyes on the future
history has its eyes on us
This is the era of just redemption
We feared at its inception
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs
of such a terrifying hour
but within it we found the power
to author a new chapter
To offer hope and laughter to ourselves
So while once we asked,
how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe?
Now we assert
How could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?
We will not march back to what was
but move to what shall be
A country that is bruised but whole,
benevolent but bold,
fierce and free
We will not be turned around
or interrupted by intimidation
because we know our inaction and inertia
will be the inheritance of the next generation
Our blunders become their burdens
But one thing is certain:
If we merge mercy with might,
and might with right,
then love becomes our legacy
and change our children’s birthright
So let us leave behind a country
better than the one we were left with
Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest,
we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one
We will rise from the gold-limbed hills of the west,
we will rise from the windswept northeast
where our forefathers first realized revolution
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the midwestern states,
we will rise from the sunbaked south
We will rebuild, reconcile and recover
and every known nook of our nation and
every corner called our country,
our people diverse and beautiful will emerge,
battered and beautiful
When day comes we step out of the shade,
aflame and unafraid
The new dawn blooms as we free it
For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it
If only we’re brave enough to be it

On Seeing the Half American Half Confederate Flag Waved above the Capitol Steps

On Seeing the Half American Half Confederate Flag Waved above the Capitol Steps

          it broke my heart seeing the hybrid flag
chimera
          half stars and stripes half southern cross
unholy marriage
          of the promise of human liberty and the obscenity of human bondage
          as if the union Lincoln fought to preserve is no union at all but only a monstrous
amalgam of oxymoronic ideals
          or is my heart is breaking because that is
who we are?

David Walters: “Why doesn’t God like us?”

David Walters: “Why doesn’t God like us?”

The last of the poems I will publish in memory of David Walters’ life and in tribute to the power of his poetic voice, a most timely word for us in a time when we wait “for a promised dawn …”

Why doesn’t God like us?

Have you ever noticed how God deserts you
When you most need Him?
He hangs around for awhile until he’s through,
Then his bright light grows awfully dim.

God reminds me, sadly, of the sun,
Here now, made known, then gone!
Shines his spotlight, it seems, for fun,
Then makes us wait for a promised dawn.

But a patient scientist pointed out to me my error:
The sun, he said, is almost in the same place today
That it was happily playing in yesterday.
It was only the earth and we who moved! So there!

But I, from living, and the logic of each day’s sharp realities,
Remembered when living wells of faith dried up,
And sincere efforts to live and love or to be kind weren’t enough,
Haunting me with their weak and uncompleted activities.

Still, like a desperate soldier, we choose the forlorn hope,
To rush high stone walls that were laid to injure and damn!
It seemed only right then that we become the sacrificial goat.
Only, I decided instead to stand with the one who had already
          died for us as our Passover lamb.

A dear friend helped me see what we too often miss:
God, he reminded me, is always present – right now!!
          – everywhere and in each moment with all of life.
Even when ignorance blinds us so that we will not heed,
          or we are afraid even to risk!
This is the time of constancy as He walks beside us in our dark
          and loneliness, and simply, loves us.

david walters
February 2015

David Walters: “Charlottesville”

David Walters: “Charlottesville”

A poem written by David after the white supremacist demonstrations in Charlottesville. His language is raw and vivid and impassioned, but hopeful, too, always hopeful. And there is even room for pity for the demonstrators themselves: “Were they ever shown loving kindness?”

Charlottesville

Animated ideas rise as gray ghosts in the summer night,
Feral cats prowling littered alleys looking for a fight,
Drawn hungrily to rotting smells of offal’s slippery bed,
Cold bodies dragged up that many had thought dead.

Barefaced lies unearthed approved by Nazi hate,
An archaic power wakens to separate the righteous race
From Jews, blacks, gays, and brown faces,
Eliminate race pollution, keep order, divide to make safe.

Our enraged brothers and sisters wildly brawl pell mell,
Burning lava bursting into bigotry, racism and hot hell!
What terrible wounds torment such desperate souls!
Were they ever shown loving kindness instead of woes?

Will death hunt us all down till there’s no more light?
Or will we bestir ourselves to face white supremacy’s alt right?
Moments come when the living stand up against the cruel,
An ancient remnant remembers that it’s time to speak true.

Declare with untethered strength who God created us to be,
Love’s children strong and creative, tall trees growing free,
It’s not too late! though hounds of Hades loudly bay,
In each age and place we have to begin, today.

david walters
August 2017