Birds of a Feather
Oh my, oh my,
how the days go rushing by.
It’s like watching birds that fly
or feathers falling from the sky
to lie at tree foot where you must
just let them lie to gather dust.
Click for Roger’s reading on Anchor.
Birds of a Feather
Knowledge
“Knowledge: that which passes
from my notes to your notes
without going through anyone’s head.”
aka
“Filling empty heads.”
I came here a beggar, begging bowl
in hand, begging for knowledge,
at the seat of all knowledge,
from the hands of those who knew.
They fed me, taught me,
brought me into knowledge,
as they knew it, but I yearned
for more, so much more.
I found it, one morning,
in my morning mirror, shaving.
I looked into my own eyes and asked:
“What are you teaching?”
My answer: words and empty words,
formulae handed down to me
over generations of people
who thought they thought because
they repeated what others had thought.
This was not what I sought.
Then, and only then, did I look
into the eyes of those I taught,
those who sought knowledge from me,
in all my worthlessness,
and I asked them what did they need,
what did they want to know,
and why did they want this knowledge.
Then I asked them how I could help them
to attain that knowledge for themselves
and to use it to construct their own lives,
on their own, without interference and shame
as I had never done.
Then, and only then, did I know
I had become a teacher in the true sense
of the word, and that together with me,
my students had learned to teach themselves
multiple ways in which to grow.
Listen to Roger’s reading on Anchor.
Knowledge
Monarch
I saw a monarch butterfly today.
A slow soul at summer’s end
slipping, fluttering quietly away.
This has become a regular trend:
scanning the obituaries every morning
in search of yet another lost friend.
Sad, this morning, to be mourning
the passing of someone I never knew,
a butterfly, lost, at the day’s dawning.
The news brings few things that are new,
with talk show hosts, all self-engrossed,
going on and on about the privileged few.
Monarchs and butterflies will perish too.
I soon will join them. Just like you.
Listen to Roger’s reading on Anchor.
Monarch
Losing Language
To lose your language
is to lose your dignity and your muse.
It’s to lose the power of self-expression
and to frustrate the longing soul
that flutters like a butterfly
striving to reach for the beauty of light
yet frustrated by the weight
of its now useless wings
unable to rise.
So much the soul sees at night,
wandering in dreams among the stars.
Memories of former rooms
where the old inhabitants still dwell,
shadows among the shadows,
some still gifted with limited
powers of speech,
but others, tongue-tied and silent,
and our chatter reduced
to a net of butterfly buzz words.
Oh for the freedom of flight,
for the liberty of my language found anew
and capable still of shaping and recreating
the world of silence in which I now live.
Based on a Welsh Poem by Harri Webb
Colli iaith a cholli urddas.
Click here for Roger’s reading on Anchor.
Losing Language
Redemption
I had no paper with me in the car
and wrote this on a bottle redemption slip.
Redemption:
that’s what I seek
and some days it seeks me.
A double need this need to redeem
and be redeemed. A double need too
this god I need, the god who needs me.
Lonely he will be without me,
and I without him.
Knock and the door will open.
Seek and ye shall find.
I look and, yes, he’s there,
him within me and me within him.
This redemption slip is all I need:
empty bottles on the one hand,
my empty heart on the other,
both now redeemed.
All of this while I sit in the car.
outside Wendy’s or outside Taco Bell,
sitting quite still and ready to wait,
not knowing my upcoming fate.
Listen to Roger’s reading on Anchor.
Redemption.
Floribundia
Words grow like flowers, invasive, cruel, beautiful, cutting, and when cut, they wither and fade, just like flowers. Catch them while you can, I say. Catch them, hold them tight, press them to you heart, for time is voracious and will soon devour them, swallowing them down in the black holes of forgetfulness, carelessness, and memory loss. Shine a light on your words. Underline them, grace them with stars, think about them, carefully. And remember, the word once spoken or written can never, ever be recalled.
Joy of Light
I wait for words to descend, soft, peaceful.
They brush my mind with the soft touch of a grey
jay’s wings. When they refuse to come, I know
that silence is golden. Sunshine spreads its early
morning light, upwards, under the blinds, into
my room and my eyelashes radiate its rainbow.
Light from the rose window in Chartres
once spread its spectrum over my hands,
and I rejoiced in the glory of its speckled glow.
I spread my fingers before my face and marveled
at the suit of lights clothing my body. In such
splendour mortal things like words cease to flow.
Words are inadequate. They cannot express what I feel
when I breathe in color and light and my heart
expands into an everlasting rose, as red as dawn,
as bright as a blushing sunrise over Minister’s Island.
Flowers burst into bloom. A sense of immanent beauty
fills me as light, and warmth, and joy disperse night’s gloom.
Click to hear Roger’s reading on Anchor.
Floribundia & Joy of Light
Shadow
“- sometimes we live in the shadows –
sometimes we live in the sun –
but even when the sun is shining –
a shadow can fall on anyone -“
Flower Power
The hollyhocks are back. A little bit late, but just starting to reveal themselves in all their glory. It’s been a strange spring, with frost warnings (and two actual frosts) in June, heavy rain, T-Storms, a tornado watch, extra hot days and, thankfully cold nights with the temperatures at +4C, even this month, July.
The yucca plant is flowering again, with three flourishing stems this time. It only started to flower late last week, but it, too, is full of promise. Somehow, while there are flowers, there is still some hope, some beauty, and some time and space for rejoicing.
Ah, daffodils, my favourite flowers.
Daffodils
Winter’s chill lingers well into spring.
I buy daffodils to encourage the sun
to return and shine in the kitchen.
Tight-clenched fists their buds,
they sit on the table and I wait
for them to open.
For ten long days the daffodils
endured, bringing to vase and breakfast-
table stored up sunshine and the silky
softness of their golden gift.
Their scent grew stronger as they
gathered strength from the sugar
we placed in their water, but now
they have withered and their day is done.
Dry and shriveled they stand paper-
thin and brown, crisp to the touch.
They hang their heads as their time
runs out and death weighs them down.
Click here for Roger’s reading on Anchor.
Daffodils
Vis brevis, ars longa – life is short but art endures. Maybe my daffodils will last longer than the yucca and the hollyhocks. They will certainly outlive this year’s bloom. Time and tide wait for no man, and flowers too are subject to the waxing and the waning of the moon. That’s life, I guess. Long may it last.
To Meditate is No Disgrace
The Water Tower
16
There comes a time when you can do no more.
You need to take a break, to step aside and wait
for the tide to turn and energy to flow.
The hard yards may be behind you,
but there’s hard yards waiting round the bend,
waiting for the break to end.
And you, you might bend and take a break,
but you must never break.
No one else can see what you see
or do what you do.
Nobody can take your place.
To take a break
and meditate is no disgrace.
Click here for Roger’s Reading on Anchor.
To Meditate is no Disgrace
My Morning Coffee
The Water Tower
15
“The only photo I took today was of my morning coffee.
Looks calm and peaceful, doesn’t it? It wasn’t!
The wind gusts were unrelenting, with just
enough moments of calm and warmth from the sun
to give me hope.
There was also some rain, snow, and a little hail,
just enough to get me running for cover.
A wise man once told me that
‘some days you’ll be the hammer,
and others the nail.’
Today I was the nail.”
