Floral Fantasy

Rose water, pure,

scent cool and clear,

a dab of pink petal

behind the ear . . .

crimson rose on the hair

spritzed fine as dew --

lilac essence wafts in

for a bouquet anew.

Sojourn

In sleepy sojourn

through midday heat,

carpet of grass

cooling my feet,

I wade through

sun's splash

of brilliant white --

impossible sight --

blinding blanket of light . . .

and rest myself there

in the branch-thatched glade,

savoring the romance

between sun and shade.

Sweet Air

Sky bruised
purple-gray,
awaiting release
of all its pain --
cleansing rain. 
Wind rustling
treetops green,
leaves belly-up with 
silvery sheen;
air thinning,
fragrance keen,
"Sturm und Drang" serene.

Two Views

DUSK 

Flaming orange

sets dusk afire,

lush blues and greens conversing deeply

with red accents. 

Twilight's palette ignited,

colors swirl and dance

with restless intensity

like laughing children before bedtime,

leaping

into the eye

of the beholder.

DAYBREAK 

Flaming orange

sets daybreak afire,

lush blues and greens whispering softly

with red accents. 

Dawn's palette ignited,

colors swirl and dance

like sun-kissed children
eager to play,

leaping

into the eye
of the beholder.

                                

Walking with Kateri

My shoes, they crunch upon the gravel,
kicking up the dust,
sunlight spliced between the trees,
inviting wanderlust. 

Blue jay trills and woodpecker drills
in random soliloquy;
my failings and prayers cluster side by side --

restless soul needing wisdom to see.

 

I seek out Kateri, serene Mohawk friend,
perhaps standing beside a tree;
meek, unassuming, her Lily soul blooming,
she will fall in step with me. 

We walk, and we talk (but I hear only me),
the air growing fresh and pure;
I must improve much, but I feel her calm touch
upon me to reassure. 

As she departs, sweet hope springs alive
like a bursting, well-fanned flame;
and I know hope is due to this friend, mirror true
of His Love in her blessed name.  

(Written in honor of Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha, Lily of the Mohawks)

Finding My Place

Singing went unbelievably well today, due to the sweet and demure young woman who sang by my side.  She is a beautiful person by any standard, and in this she is exceptional:  She puts the music above herself.     

Her focus and peaceful demeanor -- not self-contained, but open, loving -- served to root my voice.  Upon this stable and mutually supportive foundation, a miracle happened.  Together, we bowed to the music and sang "as one."  She is a newer singer and has not yet harnessed her own power, but her voice resonates like a perfectly tuned bell.  One barely hears her; yet, every note sung by the rest of us is uplifted by the lovely ring of her sound.  I look around, each time, and see my wonder reflected in other pairs of eyes.  We've been graced with a gentle songbird.

Singing today with this sweet "little sister" half my age, I learned, way down deep in my diaphragm, what I'd been trying to learn for over a year now:  It is imperative that we singers sing simply, as ourselves and no one else.  Every person has a vocal instrument capable of further refinement and growth; and obedience to the most basic rules suffices to fill a song with beauty.  We need only plant the seeds we've been given; God gives the increase.

A split-second before we sang, I had a conversation with myself which went something like this:

"Whatever you do, you will not outshout this girl.  You will not belt, you will not strain.  You will not attempt to perform gymnastic vocal feats.  If you can't accomplish it with ease, you won't do it.  Reverence, reverence.  You will sing on the note required and no other shade of tone.  You will hold that note -- not with force, but with quiet steadiness.  You will "let" -- not "make" -- the tone come through and you will breathe it out in peace.  They don't need your white noise or whatever other fluff creeps in.  They need only the note.  The pure, clean note.  I don't care what else you don't do or can't do.  Just hold that note.  That's all I will permit from this moment on.  That's all I want.  Do you understand?"

I did.  I really did.  But this unassuming young woman, by the grace of God, became the spiritual instrument by which I was finally able to obey myself.

It was the quietest hymn I ever sang.  Ever.  But something lovely began to grow in that space where our two voices met, something higher than both of us -- what one might call "profound agreement."

In that focused atmosphere bathed in peace, I found my truer "range."  I'd been treated as a shoe-in soprano my whole life, but I no longer believe I'm quite that.  One might be tempted, then, to call me a "mezzo soprano" -- and yet, I'm wondering if I might even be a "contralto" (lower natural timbre).  My speaking voice (which is higher than "alto") is not definitive in this kind of assessment, nor is the ability to reach or even "ring" very high notes.  What counts here is the overall timbre and comfort range during singing where one's sound is fullest and clearest -- we start from there.  That's "home."

Such a relief it was (after 18 years of singing as a "shoe-in soprano") to begin to find my vocal "home!"  This young lady -- she is the soprano, proper.  During that quiet hymn, our roles shifted subtly beneath the surface -- and that was the source of the beauty.  Each of us slid into her own true "place," neither one of us straining at the bit.  It was not showy in the least.  It was, in fact, the most honest singing I've ever done in my life.  It was wonderful, even intoxicating, not to be the "raving soprano."  Humbling, fitting, right.

Dirt Road in April

Dirt road in April,

warm, dusty trail,

you are what you are --

no pretense, no veil. 

Dirt road in April,

Spring's arbor anew

as the bare feet of children

play games upon you. 

Dirt road in April,

trusty old friend,

earthy brown carpet

welcoming those 'round the bend.

Spring Blessing

An intoxicating fragrance

drifts over my window sill,

angels bearing Heaven's scent

perfuming yonder hill.

The Free

Fragile, so fragile

are butterfly's wings!

Of Love's tender freedom

they airily sing,

eluding capture by the

coarsened hand --

Beauty resisting beast's

jealous command. 

The Precious

Butterfly, flee --

escape the net

of those who would dissect you

without regret.

Art's Call

The manly sculpture
wept.

Crowds gathered 'round

as the gallery owner scurried forth.

For days, weeks, months

the masses thronged the hall.

All gazed at the wonder.

Some took photographs.
Magazines and newspapers raved.

"Profound!  A work of genius!" all exclaimed,

peering closely,
seeking to locate the precise cleft in the rock --
the artist's singularly brilliant stroke --
which had released the flow of "hidden liquid."

One day, a child broke through the crowd

and ran right up to the statue.
"Veronica!" her mother gasped.
"High art!  A masterpiece!" the gallery owner cried.  "Do not touch!"

The child never heard.
With her little finger,

she wiped away the statue's tears.

"You came,"

whispered the statue,

and wept no more.

Grace of State

You are truly a bird of splendor

when you demurely fold your wings

at rest as you were designed to do

by the God Who made all things.

When Words Shine

Chain of words,
the finest thread,
repartee woven
between heart and head.

Chain of words,
all links secure,
lifeline extended
that hope may endure.

Chain of words,
reflector of light, 

stalwart companion 

in thick of night.

Chain of words,

strong hand to grasp

in the tear-stained journey

toward Truth at last.

Song of Light

Follow the sun

and you won't go wrong.

Look to the moon

for your bedtime song.

The sun will blaze; the stars will keep you

bathed in beams of light

when clay earth cools 'neath sunset's jewels,

twilight sinking into night.

Thoughts During an October Illness

In the breathtaking 

sunlight

(so beautiful!)

approaching noon,

eyes cringing from the

brightness,

ears buzzing softly,

head in a misty daze . . .

I had the fervent desire

to cry.

********************************************************

 

Sometimes,

it's just games.

Even a smile 

can lie,

when there is no 

real warmth

behind it.

Sometimes,

for the sake of honesty,

we would do much better

to frown.

*********************************************************

If you have one person

who really cares about you,

consider yourself

rich,

because many people find

caring

to be a burden.

I don't know why.

*****************************************************************

Eyes stiff,
vision wobbly,
inflamed brain nearly pounding out of my skull,
I finally gave up writing
to watch an idiosyncratic romance,
laughing my head off
like a crazy person . . . . .
Maybe tonight I'll watch
the Weather Channel.

Claiming the Dawn

"The canvas isn't broad enough!" thought I,

and with the sunrise I jumped up,

taking my hives and my shredded past

out for a ride 

to catch the dawn,

soul expanding with the horizon

to the tunes of pre-Thanksgiving Christmas songs

("Do You Hear What I Hear?"  I do!  I do!),

drumming my pen on the wheel,

wanting to write, drum, and drive all at once;

and the morning bustle was still there

(I had to check) --

trails of cars, headlights streaming in the morning light,

school buses pausing as mine used to do.

Thrilled to be part of the world's pulse was I,

and the clock started ticking again --

this time for me! -- my morning, my sun, my ride --

and back up the driveway I drove,

glowing from the harpsichord rhapsody

of "The Gordian Knot Untied" on 105.9 . . .
needing to celebrate. 

Furtive chase of the dawn completed,

I made the morning coffee

at 8:30 a.m. today 

for the first time in eight years --

two scoops, French Roast organic.

(Better make that four.)

November Spring

Water dripped in sparkles

as the sun,

cushioned in blue and white,

blazed coolly

through the thawing day.

And the knowing went on,

fluid thoughts

cresting in peaks of melting snow,

glistening moments of love

showing up the flat grays

of indifference;

shady spots sheltering

rare snapshots of silence

in its varied states and meanings,

sun-warmed spots holding

tender vignettes of affection.

The knowing moved forward

with the day,

as the light flickered 

from tall window to wall

and leapt with the joyful

motion 

of life living itself.

Beauty, Please Teach Me

Beauty, please teach me your gracious ways:

how to bend and not break,

how to touch and not shatter,

how to rejoice, respecting sorrow,

how to weep, still open to joy,

how to love, never counting the cost . . . 

that I may be richer for knowing you.

Lucid

Weighty words spoken
(ache physical in my heart) . . .
How familiar their sense
I could not express.

I took my full heart
outside
late that night.

The skies were Lenten,

clean black awash with moon,
breath of Spring whispered low,
light and grey shadows
hinting "hope."

Childhood watchful,

alert to this new peace,
left Memory to join me,
trusting.

Soul, Transported

Armenia 
of Ararat

Martyred red
Steeped in hymn

You call my name

and I don't know why

Your language soothes

my ears

Your music arrests

my heart

Your priests cry out

through the winds

from the fields

to the mountains

upon which

in my soul

I pray.