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

A Mirror To The World

A Painting Of Five Horses 

by A.M. Stockhill

There was shuffling and thudding

of hooves, like horses do, when they’re

on the verge of going somewhere.

There’s often some indecision,

but eventually, they make their way.

They know wild.

Some evenings they talk about ghostly winds, 

air of different colors, the flavors of clouds, 

and other puzzling phenomena.

It’s the stuff of Scientific American

and Harper’s that decorates their canvas.

Their heads rose high when they heard

Vaughn Monroe’s version of 

Ghost Riders in the Sky.

A couple of them snorted; 

the others shook their heads; 

they kicked up some dirt

and shifted their bodies.

They think the Burl Ives version is better.

Today they have been pondering

the grassland’s question of whether 

they were of time or simply beyond belief.

There was some tail swishing and head bobbing;

their soft noses lifted to the fragrances 

of wet grasslands and their eyes to the 

astonishing monsoon sky.

They all nodded.

We are who we are and then some.

From: Dreams, Memories, &

Leaps Into The Wilderness

Unpub. MS p. 9

For more information about this artist:

https://amstockhill.com/about/

Becoming Old Folks (Part II)

Epilogue, Part II

ca. 1970-present

We were in love and out, unrequited or used, sometimes 

choosing expediency over what was true and beautiful.

There is a vague nostalgia for our lost innocence, 

a disappointment that will never be reconciled.

Now in our seventies, with successes and failures,

a mix of hope and cynicism, whiskey and wine,

in and out of spiritual realms and practices, settling 

on something comforting as part of our end game.

Children are grown and gone and loved ones have passed.

I am astonished at having made it this far.

But, like wine, the stories we tell of the 

times and places will always improve with age.

From: A Meandering Search for

Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 48

Becoming Old Folks (Part I)

Epilogue, Part I

ca. 1970-present

We entered the world after our protests, 

love-ins, and show-downs, ready to prove ourselves.

We lingered at the university gate, not wanting 

to leave, yet fearful of that first step forward.

Some who lacked a plan asked themselves,

What now? Most figured out something, some didn’t.

Some hoped to apply their idealism to social programs, 

others were sucked into corporate America

never to be seen again; some remained stoned

for a number of years, others plainly floundered.

Many of us did the best we could, getting married, 

raising kids and pets, entering unplanned careers,

remaining involved, at some level, in politics,

social issues, PTA, and our kids’ sports teams.

It added up quickly, it seems, as we saw the future

watching our grandchildren grow into themselves,

while loneliness and vulnerability 

are increasingly an everyday reality.

From: A Meandering Search for

Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 47