Who Will Find Me

Who will find me
hidden away in the warmth
of this dark winter cave?
Dreams to be dreamt,
visions to be honored,
the slow eating of fat
and the quiet, quiet heartbeat.
When the first salmon toil
over rock bedded streams,
when snow falls from the full
laden branches of evergreen,
when sun finds its way
along the great arc north
then I will stretch and uncurl
from this lightless comfort
and sing once more my hunger.

 

 

Photograph by John Shaw

 


You May Let Go

The bright light of autumn
shines on the yellowing trees,
a steady breeze stirring
the leaves with awakening.
We’ve come round on the season
so many times before
yet each time it’s new,
as if we’ve never seen
this flutter of gold.
There’s freedom in the air
to rise or fall
as you might choose,
to follow the path
known only to yourself.
Quiet those voices
that wish to limit you.
Take their counsel if you will
but know you may let go
from the thin stem
holding you to the old bark
and take off into the air
of your future.

 

 

photograph by Sandy Brown Jensen

 


Hidden by the Dawn

Somewhere in the night you’re waking,
feeling the press of the world
while in the arc above you
shines the morning star.
The sky brightens pale blue
as you stir in the long transit
back from the dreamtime.
You assemble the pieces
careworn and fragile
of the person you’ve become
to navigate this life.
Cup of coffee, piece of toast,
perhaps now you’re ready
to show your face
to the world’s hunger.
As you break the darkness
with your road weary lamps
give a thought to the star
that guided you in sleep
and is with you now,
hidden by the dawn
yet burning with the knowledge
of your original self.

 

 

 


Thread of the Eternal

Who can take your crown
said the sun rising in the south?
The earth is your lover, the deep sea
and morning star your friends.
Why give yourself to desolation?
As if awakening from a dream,
one filled with sorrow and despair,
I let the great power enter once more,
the golden thread of the eternal
pour down into this humble clay.
Lifted up, what shone forth
was like the earth, the sea
and the bright morning star,
the one and only glory
freely given and received
of thankfulness.

 

 

 


Yet Blank Pages

Now I’ll gather from the darkness
for you my old friend and ally
a tracing of what may come
untarnished out of the east.
Too easy to lament,
to break down on the journey
while out on the edges
a lone hawk waits high in a tree,
a silver salmon breaks with salt
and begins his last trial.
The ledger where your name is written
and the yet blank pages of your story,
what will you write?
May the deep night guide you
and find you unbroken
with the promise of new light.

 

 

 


photo by Willard Walch

 


Seeds of the Future

Bare branches call to me,
striven of their summer glory
by the winds of autumn.
Crows mock their barrenness
from nearby rooftops
as burnt orange remnants
cling for these last few days
before falling to earth.
Below the asphalt
there is another dark
where lifeblood drops
into the old patience.
There time is for dreaming,
gathering strength
amidst the loss
of what once flowered
as roots sink deep
to the inner life
of stone and soil
and seeds of the future
wait in darkness.

 

 

 


Veins of Joy

Standing like a tree in autumn,
rain in my face with light fading,
I search down into my roots,
wondering if the veins of joy
will gift me again.
Those lonely people
in their thatched roof cottages,
the rail thin boy walking the roads
with a stream of dumb cattle,
sleeping in the rain, hungry
and cold to the bone.
The deeper veins are past them,
this I know, so like the giant evergreens
I send my tap root even further,
through clay and stones,
seeking the elixir, not once
but many times, day after day
if I am to lift my face to heaven.
Their words come to me then
in the dark of my searching –
you are not alone;
the vein you seek
you seek for many.
They keep me company,
bringing me back to the warm room
and the leaves of the maple tree
turning gold in November light.
The joy I’ve found,
hard wrought from the earth
and delicate as a feather
against the weight of trouble,
at least I know as my own.

 

 

photograph by Louis MacKenzie

 


Behind the Gate

Fog settles on the valley
as bright autumn fades,
leaves turn and fall
in the time of letting go.
I sit warm by the fire,
at peace in the change
like an old monk
preferring the calm,
the descent into root.
The world calls this empty,
the slow slip into darkness,
yet here in the quiet morning
soft light etches the fog
and the well of life flows full
behind the gate of silence.

 

 

 

 


Deep Rock Island

The night is a mystery
with tides swelling past
in dark shadow,
Mars a red pearl shining,

 

the dew so heavy
each blade of grass
beads luminescent.

 

The trees awake
with sun gone down,
sharing knowledge
with the stars.

 

I could drop into the sea,
wrap myself in darkness
or journey with the trees
to distant light.

 

Instead I’ll sleep
and struggle in dreams,
a stone for my pillow.

 

Morning comes,
great father rises in the sky,
birds flutter about
as wind brushes the shore.

 

I live in light and dark,
opening my throat
for the song from within,

 

lost and found once more
on the deep rock island.

 

 

 


The Search for Joy

I searched for joy, I did,
sometimes in the wrong places
and some that held a measure.
I searched in the sorrow
of what passed
and painful births
of what was to come.
The trees gave to me
in their unheard voices,
as did the streams
and rock strewn hills.
I thought I’d find it
defeating enemies
but even in victory
joy escaped.
I found it in two daughters
and see it still
in their shining eyes
and in a partner
whose blesses our steps
into each day.
I still search in the night,
walking among the trees
in the blanketing darkness
and on the point beside the sea
as the sun slowly rises.
Yet now that I’m old
I’ve found the hidden place
where it rested all along
like calm water and a fresh breeze
lifting me from within.