Quartet

I have stood on many beaches staring

at the oceans’ promiscuous turbulence,

astonished by their vitality and exuberance.

In their seeming chaos, they were reassuring and calming.

I secretly wanted in despite their obvious warnings,

but the message was astoundingly clear.

Just wait—your time will come.

*

In the third grade

Lora Lee ambushed me with a kiss.

I had no idea what happened but it was exciting.

Today, I marvel at how a kiss of love is exhilarating, 

becoming suspended in a place of no time,

in a time of no place.

*

In our later years, 

we begin to acknowledge 

the frustrations of our youth, 

having left unpicked so many beautiful blossoms.

Too eager to pluck the easy ones and be ‘finished,’

we ignored what we really wanted, fearing the blossoms 

that were more elaborate and mysterious.

*

The world changes rapidly;

the usefulness of stuff is fleeting.

We accumulate more than we care to admit,

but how our hearts speak to us is obscured 

by the possession of glittery things,

sacrificing the Grace of intimate love.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 8

Wandering In The Dreamscape

The Paintings of  Philip C. Curtis

It became dusky, then darker the moment I leaped 

off the path of conjecture into this imaginarium.

Looking out and up, confused faces stared back at me.

My call for the North Star to appear in a blank sky 

went unanswered.

It doesn’t matter where I look in this alien landscape,

my blood pulses loneliness, my anxiety deepens.

There was endless slogging through sand and 

staged scenarios of broken wagons, 

useless train station platforms, solitary baby carriages, 

more loneliness, pointless tea parties, 

and a woman running from some unknown danger,

leaving her hanging laundry to snap in the wind.

In fear of this wasteland, I saw nowhere to go,

yet an endless, hopeless, incoherent road enticed me.

I made my way through the wrinkles of pastures,

the tilt of bones, and leaves drinking moonlight.

Dodging partiers on stilts, I staggered the way of stones 

and gravel, almost to infinity, until, at the precipice of nowhere,

in a panic, I made my escape, loosed my anxieties,

leaped blind into darkness nearing dawn,

into the welcoming warmth of sheet and blanket,

and the familiar creaks and groans of my body and house.

Outside, an owl hooted; the coyotes barked.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 40

For more about this artist, see

https://phxart.org/artists/philip-curtis/

Things That Matter

Love matters most of all.

And hope.

Children and Family.

Stories, poetry,

and music.

Art in all its forms.

And friends, too.

The seen and unseen.

And Kindness.

And just showing up.

Faith and Charity.

Hard work.

Truth.

And Silence matters.

Listening for 

the unexplainable,

the unknowable,

the incomprehensible,

and all that nature offers;

listening with the ears of your heart

to the pain and joy of others.

Walking in the way of peace,

toward a goal,

even if the goal is 

simply to rest.

That matters, too.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 46

Like Prayer

Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 5

in E minor, Op. 64

From the moment the orchestra begins 

until the last magnificent chord,

I am playing and being played,

stretching myself from low notes to high notes.

It is wine from the glass into my mouth,

a rambunctious exuberance,

stirred in a realm of detached frenzy.

What is the way to pray

when there is no translation?

When I would have so much to say?

I’m left with only the continuous rhythm 

of my aching, pounding heart.

From: In Transition

Unpub. MS p. 29

Pondering

If yellow turns into rocks,

will rocks blossom in the fall?

If hope springs eternal,

from where does infinity spring?

Earth sings duets with the moon,

but how does Mars stay well read?

What kind of wine is made from

meteors dropped from a stellar vineyard?

If a rose has collected too many thorns,

will the extras be donated to Good Will?

The ocean’s wild surf asked me,

Where is passion most wasted?

From: Shorts: Short Poems On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 10

The Silence Of Wild Places

Mill Creek Campground, 

Northern California

After two days of driving,

feeling odd and out of sorts,

finally camping, I craved

to know the silence of wild places.

That afternoon I put my ear to the forest floor,

listening for the rumble of Creation

only to come face to face 

with a bright yellow five-inch banana slug,

shouting to all the world,

Here I am.

Its eye stalks moved right and left,

up and down, independent of one another.

Its lower tentacles sniffed for food,

scraped into its mouth by its toothy tongue.

Down here it seemed so much larger

(along with everything else),

a little creepy but not so menacing.

It wasn’t intimidated by whatever

light and shadow I resembled.

It moved silently and fearlessly

over the forest debris.

That night, while gazing

at the mass of the Milky Way,

I thought the one thing I would like

to see before I died would be a supernova.

Yet I was astonished that the most elegant

thing I saw that day was the banana slug

and the reservoir of silence 

that was the forest floor.

From: Memories And The Things Left Behind

Unpub. MS p. 16

Stormy Weather

Borderlands, Southeastern Arizona

When the sky is indistinguishable

from landscapes anywhere,

and lightning becomes heavy-booted,

belligerent winds roil the Sonoran deserts,

and dust surges from its places

before the sky plunges to Earth,

isn’t there a compelling sense 

of being irresistibly pulled into something

huge, magnificent, and dangerous?

Yes. A truly great storm,

wild and primal,

humbling and frightening.

A little like falling in love.

From: In Transition

MS in progress, p. 20