{Morning interlude of contentment}

No, this is nice

this is nice

this is nice

1. On the windowseat, stretched on stomach.

2. Reading, and there is poetry.

3. iPad playing soothing classical music.

4. Soft snowflakes falling softly beside my head.

Soon

I will get up and brush my teeth

Which are fuzzy because I wasn't allowed to go to sleep

until really late, and then I just ate an apple instead of brushing.

Maybe after that I will do yesterday's dishes.

If stacked with skill, there is room on my kitchen counter.

There is a demon knocking

but I will keep my mind

on

this is nice

this is nice

this is nice

So I do the pray.

Hallowed name, kingdom of love.

Then like a rude and untaught child

An interrupting voice in me:

"Why why why, God?"

Too loud. I try to shush.

But the child has noticed the presence

And will not be made to whisper.

My worship disturbed,

I apologetically turn my mind to

Give, forgive, lead us not,

But the child is right here disrupting,

"But why why why?"

I can only cling to

Thine is the kingdom and power

As I try to console

The restless child I hold in my breast.

Last summer's oak leaves hang in a cluster
like silent bells above my head.
I stand beneath them gazing upward
in this season of hope and dread.
So much rather ear will listen
to the shiny ringing bell
than attend to withered fragile
crumbling leaf with silent knell.
What is left to seek or hope for
when the loss is cold nail driven
into emptied faith like a coffin?
I accept as gift the leaves I'm given.

The winter wonder landed
in micro masterpiece,
a miracle of matter,
a brilliant crystal sign,
unseen except by children
and the foolish dreaming kind.

There is no quick walk in the woods for me.

No brisk arm swinging march that rushes by.

Each moment some new wonders catch my eye;

I stand astonished, or on bended knee.

A sun pierced leaf, exquisite artistry,

Like stained glass shard flung from cathedral sky,

Or grounded oak leaf tucked in snow to die,

Its honest brown writ fine with filigree.

Some crystal clear and perfect curl of ice,

Or frost encrusted seed head hanging low,

On view to all who come, asking no price:

Such masterpiece should have a wider show

Though my admiration swells, it can't suffice.
I offer gratitude, and footsteps in the snow.

 

 

I take comfort in the dying of the year: the brightest leaf will fall.

And then the long white-blanketed sleep of winter.

I cannot think we step from this life to instantly dance with Jesus.

Give me a season to rest from what is past,

To rest for what's ahead:

A new beginning of eternal spring.

 My husband and I have a somewhat traditional relationship. When it comes to the farm work, he does most of the outdoor stuff, and when it comes to matters in the house, I do the cooking, the cleaning (although sporadically), the laundry. We have different ways of dealing with stress, or difficulties in life. Sometimes reading is my escape, my mental rest for a time until I can face the day again. And sometimes just a glance into a book will hook me with no aforethought, and I will be entranced for a while...

Yes, yes, there will be cake that I will make.

But now there is book and I must look

Into what's in it, just for a minute

Or maybe an hour, a day, a year,

Forget for a while what's now and here.

Yes, yes, I will clean, fill the washing machine,

But think of the words skimming like birds

And taking me far from where we are

To wonderful, frightening or spellbinding places

New worlds and old stories and familiar faces.

There will be food put on table again,

But I'm reading now and can't promise when.

The good news is I have found a new Good Book. I first heard of it from a distant (in miles) blogging Friend (you know who you are). I found it at a used book sale, and it stayed for a while in the corner of the living room in the stack of books on the floor, waiting for the long awaited expansion of bookshelf space. I kept putting off reading it because of a (false) impression I had gotten, of possible foreignness and dry subject matter, from the unfortunate back cover description.

I picked it from the stack and started reading it this week, and have been swept away into that too rare state of being torn between wanting to abandon all else in life to just read it, and wanting to read for ten minutes and put it away for a while. In the same way I always eat chocolates in the slowly melted in mouth method, to prolong the pleasure.

I don't usually recommend a book before I even finish it, and it may disappoint by the ending, but I seriously doubt it. There are references to opera music, which I like to find on YouTube and play as I read, dramatically enhancing my reading enjoyment.

What a good feeling, being in the middle of a new Good Book.

In the dark

there is no help from false lights.

I don't mean to blow yours out

but your sketch of pretty candles

will not guide you in the dark,

in the shadow of the dark,

in the pit below the shadow of the raging rolling dark.

You will know the dark is winning

if you find yourself so low.

Only hold, you can,

to memory of knowledge of a light,

and hope someday to catch

a flicker

of a lighter shadow shown

and by intuition known:

that somewhere beyond the darkness

an almost unknown distant light,

and that you are in its sight.

Oct 2, 2013 5:45-6:00 am, after a dream of oppression from confining and restricting societal laws, and anger, and gang danger, including a poem duel and then I woke up with the first two lines, having seen a knife drawn. (Even in my dream I was struck by the novelty of a poem fight, hoping I had a good sonnet or two in my holster. But after the unfair introduction of a knife, oh well!)

Are you afraid of life?

Is your head still ringing from the last blow dealt?

And have you seen his blade?

Have you seen the blood where the last one knelt?

And does your pulse pound out,

does your breath come gasping and your sight grow dim?

Does the dizziness and the nausea come

at the knowing you have no chance against him?

Will you stand up tall?

Will your quaking legs hold you up through it all?

Or will fear of pain

Lay you down with a whimper and a sob as you fall?