Haunted

The mistakes of our past tend to haunt us, 

Springing up from the depths 

 To point fingers of blame 

For all the things done and left undone 

And all of the ways the choices we made 

Have hurt others. 

Try not to berate yourself too harshly; 

Apologize if it’s appropriate, 

Learn from your missteps, 

And leave those old wounds behind: 

It’s time to step forward 

 Into a more compassionate future.

Seen through a haze

Whatever other lives we view, 

Tend to be seen through a haze of assumptions; 

There’s a mystery to each and every one 

That we will never quite grasp, 

And barriers to understanding which, 

 However porous, 

Always will exist — 

Which doesn’t mean we won’t reach out, 

Or notice and appreciate 

 What beauty we’re permitted to perceive…

United in diversity

True union, I read this morning, 

Gives birth to the glory of differentiation, 

And I thought: How true! 

Those who love us most are the ones 

Who give us space to become 

Our most unique, individual selves. 

Why then, do we fail to understand — 

 And often fear to contemplate — 

The underlying unity 

Which joins us to the earth 

And to one another; 

That endlessly creative unity, 

The oneness of the universe, 

Which continues to produce 

An ever greater multiplicity of life forms, 

No two alike, and yet united in their diversity?

Ships passing

What must it be like, 

To be traveling on so large a ship 

When the rising sun paints the clouds 

 Such glorious colors? 

Do they pause to watch, 

Or take turns steering 

So all eyes may drink their fill?

Geese on a lawn

How is my heart like a flock of geese on a lawn? 

Scattered, yet still all lined up, 

Like ducks in a row, 

Trying to do the right thing 

While yet still some rebellion; 

Some part of me always standing apart, 

Another part clustered for safety 

While other parts, curious, keep looking around 

(For inspiration, or danger? Who knows?) 

All the while gratefully nibbling 

 On the grass nature gives us, 

And happy to rest for a while although knowing 

The long flight awaits us,

 When all parts will gather and fly in formation 

For the long journey home.

Striations

Striations in the leaves, 

So regular they look intentional, 

A grace filled decoration 

That adds to the design, 

 Highlighting natural beauty already in place — 

Almost like wrinkles, adding beauty, 

But speaking of age, 

And of losses yet to come…

Nature vs. nurture

Nature permits us to impose our will, 

But whatever we create or construct — 

Be it barns, relationships, communities, 

Organizations or democracies — 

We must commit to maintain, 

Or nature will conspire to break it down: 

That which we neglect or ignore 

Will gradually, inevitably, 

 Revert to its original non-existence.

The moon wasn’t full

Yes, it was a half moon, 

And my mobile camera couldn’t do it justice, 

But the way it sent light echoes to the stars, 

Highlighted the striations of the clouds 

 While etching the dark strokes of the tree 

Felt like encouragement: 

 To help all those we can; 

To shine a light on both the beauty 

 And the darkness of the world as best we can; 

 Not shrinking from the task 

For fear that some might mock our imperfections.

Flights of inspiration

That which, within us, 

Exults in the flight of the snow geese 

Both remembers and anticipates 

 Our own flights of inspiration; 

Feels that lifting of the heart 

Like the beating of a thousand wings…

Nature comforts

I take comfort in knowing 

The essentials of nature 

Are both ever-changing and unchangeable

 (If that’s a word; my iPhone says it’s not); 

That the water, the grass, and the trees, 

The mountains, the clouds, the mist and the sky 

Still have the power to soothe me 

When I’m unsettled and anxious, 

And I’m grateful.

Rest and remember

Some days we just need to be reminded 

That there is true beauty in the world. 

Sit. Rest. And remember— 

Not the hurts and annoyances of the past 

Or your fears for the future, 

But the moments of pure joy 

That continue to feed your soul.

On being seen

This boat and this buoy, or bomb — 

Whatever it is — 

Have sat in this spot in the park 

For at least 25 years, and probably more. 

I first photographed them in’98, 

While on a weeklong photography class, my first, 

And my first visit to the town where I now live, 

And every time I pass by them 

I remember, so fondly, how that class 

Informed my practice and changed my life, 

And raise a prayer of thanks to the kind man 

Who worked at the photo lab, 

Developing my pictures, 

And encouraged me to step up, 

Admit my gift, and take that course. 

You, too, have a gift: 

I pray there’s someone in your life 

Who sees that, and invites you to explore 

The possibility of offering it to the world.

Asymmetric perfection

More autumnal enchantment: 

The mix of symmetry and asymmetry 

 Adds to the appeal.

 As an artist or a human, 

 It’s easy to forget 

 That perfection’s not the driving force 

Behind beauty, charm, or delight.

The scent of positivity

Though it’s late in the season, 

The rose is still an optimist, 

Sending forth new buds 

And opening her petals to the waning sun 

As it slides lower in the sky. 

Though dark approaches, she still breathes 

Her gift of hope, the scent of positivity 

 To ease the hearts of those of us who fear 

The darkness may be winning 

And the light 

May never come again.

Earth as a sacred text

All of earth is a sacred text 

That heaven keeps transcribing; 

Each cloud an invitation 

 Steeped in divine revelation.

The zigzag path

What is it about a zigzag that’s so appealing? 

Though a straight line might be simpler, 

The choice to provide an angled path 

Allows for a gentler slope, 

More room for those who stand and wait, 

And a longer opportunity 

 For those have to bid farewell 

To watch their loved ones walk away; 

To adjust to that inevitable departure…

Mothering

On looking at these rocks, 

I see the essence of mothering — 

The embrace; the safe harbor we provide, 

From which others may explore their creativity, 

Build strong yet flexible foundations 

From which they launch 

Their journeys into the world. 

We form a nest around the water 

 That will always be their home 

To which they always can return 

For rest and healing…

A brief interruption

The cat’s been sleeping contentedly in my lap, 

But suddenly I look up and notice 

The blaze of sunrise, 

 Reflected in the double panes before me, 

So I gently push him off and step outside, 

To capture that bright glory, 

Disturbing the lame and tailless raccoon 

Who’s been enjoying his morning snack 

On the deck outside my door. 

Though I’m sad to disturb the animals,

 I know they’ll be back when I return to my chair, 

And, oh, the vision before me was so worth it! 

Only moments later, all that color has now gone, 

The sky is uniformly gray, 

And the cat is once again sleeping on my lap, 

As if it never happened… 

And what (my husband would ask) 

Have you learned from this? 

(Our children threaten to engrave that question 

On his tombstone.) 

A quote hovers somewhere in my brain,

Though I can’t seem to find its source:

So fast, so short, and then so quickly gone…

When nature unites us

When the bright flame of sky 

Ignites the water 

All our neighbors gather at the cliff,

 Ooh-ing and ah-ing in harmony 

With those gathered on the beach below, 

Each capturing the moment 

On their phones to share with friends 

While Mother Nature smiles quietly to herself, 

Pleased, as any mother would be,

 To see her children sharing and getting along…

Enchanted

I can’t help it: I’m enchanted. 

I’m enchanted every year: 

Those are not my favorite colors — 

Not the ones I paint with, anyway — 

But I’m so drawn to their magnificence — 

Or could it be the process? 

 That ability to set aside your green; 

To throw on this bright cloak of many colors; 

To dance in it upon the wind, 

One last hurrah before you slowly 

Fade to brown and fall 

Without regrets, 

Having rejoiced together 

 With your friends, your fellow leaves,

 You now let go, 

 And drop into eternal oneness.

The pulse of fruition

What if, like the bees, the work we do — 

Whatever it may be 

 That was given us to accomplish —

 Is part of some larger pulse of fruition 

That we, here, are too small to understand; 

What if, like the butterfly, 

The flap of whose wings 

 Spins a tornado into motion 

On the other side of the world, 

The choices we make, to do or not do, 

Have repercussions we could never begin 

To comprehend in the larger course of history?

Toward a brighter future

Driving through the fog on an autumn morning, 

I watch as the trees take shape before me, 

Some loom and threaten, shaking leafy fists 

While others, shaped like the onion domes 

Of Russian Orthodox churches stretch 

In concentrated curves toward the light 

That lies beyond their reach; 

Gentle arrows, pointing toward a brighter future…

Cinderella weeds

All those charming frills and ruffles, 

Topped by such an impressive head dress, 

Almost completely masked 

By their grassy background, 

Like Cinderella, stuck in the kitchen 

When she should be dancing at the ball!

Beauty at the edge

The algae, the rocks, 

The pipe, the post, 

The water, the shadow, the grass, 

The colors — the lime, the rust, and the blues — 

All gather in the morning sun 

To share their subtle gifts with passers by: 

Such beauty thrives at the edges of things…

Multiple personalities

I took so many pictures yesterday 

Of the colors in the trees, 

Why is this the one I chose to post? 

It’s not even that clear a shot, and yet 

The artist in me seems to love the balance — 

The chimney, the reds, the swooping branch… 

But the poet wonders what to say 

And the philosopher is pondering: 

Is there some message here?

Mushrooms

I speak today in praise of mushrooms, 

Who arrange themselves beneath the trees 

So gracefully, as if they know 

An artist might come along and notice 

Their clever composition: 

The cluster of the large and powerful, 

Who dress themselves 

 In jewel-like blackberry leaves 

 But are also broken; 

The purity and isolation of the outliers; 

The one, purest of all,

Who, cut off from the source, 

Lies fallen among dead needles, Earth, and bark…

Autumnal colors

This time of year, I find myself 

Exulting in the colors of the trees, 

The subtle passages from green to yellow, 

Gold to red, and sometimes almost purple… 

So delicious, whether framed 

By a gray sky or a blue; 

Such a gift to warm us 

As the days cool down and summer sheds 

 Her golden blanket to hide among the stars 

Til spring returns…

Each path an adventure

Each path contains within an invitation, 

A challenge to the curious; 

 Even those who know what’s at the end 

Are drawn to continue, 

Whether they see it as a means to that end 

Or a chance to discover 

What mysteries might have evolved 

Since last they passed — 

Because, as you know, 

 Things are always changing: 

The rosehips may have darkened. 

There might be some new frogs 

Chirping their welcome, 

Or a garter snake might slither across 

The ground in front of you, 

Or finally, as the trees part 

To reveal the vista that lies ahead, 

The clouds might have drifted away, 

Leaving the snow that tops the mountain 

In the distance glowing pink in the sunset:

 Each step an opportunity for adventure.

Driftwood fantasy

Ever since the first time I moved to an island,

 I have loved driftwood — 

 It can be so deliciously complex, 

Plus I have a tendency to anthropomorphise… 

I’m not around it much any more, 

But this one caught my eye yesterday 

While I waited for a ferry. 

What do you see? I see an alien mother, 

 Cradling her youngest with one hand 

While checking on or listening to an older child 

Who seems to have fallen. 

Fanciful, I know, and yet 

My own maternal sympathies awaken, and stretch 

To ache for and include 

All the mothers of the world…