I borrow Bob’s mind, it’s bigger than mine
and Bob doesn’t mind.
The world talks loud and bells ring clear
in Bob’s elephant ears.
All things have depth and increase in size
seen through Bob’s eyes.
Desireless wishing’s fulfilled, fear stilled,
inside Bob’s will.
Bob’s a great guy. If you don’t mind to die,
give Bob a try.
Volunteer beans sprouting in the tilled soil
provenance unknown, joining the driveway
tomatoes, last year’s marigolds, and all
the new plantings to make a garden
Groundhogs aplenty, rabbits too many t
o count, racoons eagerly testing the g
arden gate to gauge its sturdiness,
Cardinals alighting on garden stakes
Watchful under her tree, border collie
keeps a tab on the comings and goings
Rabbits look up, pause and keep eating, safe
from the herder, too sleepy to care what
happens in the garden, she dozes on
stalagtites drip water
in caves darker than any other place
in the universe
dancing in the Grand Ballroom
you pulled your partner close
Refiner’s Fire
Standing in the Fire of Holy Spirit’s leadings,
dancing, dancing as fast as I can. My heart pounds.
Then, suddenly I stop. I am stopped. I ask “Where am I, God? Where are we?”
Too much love, too much trust, too much work, too much play,
too many plans, too much life, too much of everything, it seems.
I try so hard, I pray, “Help me, God. Help me Jesus. Holy Spirit, give me direction.”
And then I hear, “Too much, and just right.”
The metal melts and the best rises to the top; God, is that what you are doing with me? So much is going, I can barely do the grief, then more, more of my life is leaving, constantly. Can I do this? Grief whacks like a 2×4.
My mind goes wild, my heart keeps beating, my blood keeps flowing. Life goes on!
I can barely make sense of it. Of course, there is no sense to be made.
So, I thank you, God for another day to do the best I can amidst…
Please heart, keep beating, nerves calm down, it is ok
and I try to believe that. I do believe that.
Just when I give up, thinking I have no dance partners,
something changes, someone new shows up with ideas, with support
wanting to dance with me for a moment. Aren’t moments to dance with one another what we have now? I think maybe so.
Thank you, God, for our ability to dance with you and each other,
as the metal melts and the best rises to the top.
I keep dancing with God through the storms, as refiners do their work.
Thank you, God for another day to do my best.
Thank you, God for all of it, again!
His youngest son carried him in his arms.
Three stents and another major vein they couldn’t reach.
Respirator off for six days. Waiting.
Waited.
What do Andalusian poets sing today?
In what salted grove of olive trees do they search?
What do Andalusian poets feel today?
They sing with men’s voices, but where are the men?
They seek with women’s eyes, but where the women?
They feel with flesh of men’s hearts, but where the men?
Hearing the flowers bud, they sing. But they are alone.
They keep watch. Know when they find, they are alone.
Felt sense of the lilies and the rosebuds. They are alone.
Is there no one left in fallow Andalusia?
Is there no one perhaps in the Andalusian mountains?
No one in the seas and fields of Andalusia?
Is there another who tugs with vigor at the voice of the poet?
Who delves into the heart beyond the poet’s walls?
So much has died, there is not much else but the poet.
Sight your voice high, sound others’ ears valley round.
Look up, compadre, and drink each other’s sight as yours—
pupils spread wide, your brother’s bloody beat.
The poet is not deepest in his dark subfloor, locked.
His song ascends to the most profound when,
taking to the air, it belongs to all of humanity.
Author: Rafael Alberti
Translator: Manny Grimaldi
In June I was singing:
“Was once on a boat
Blue bottom to an aqua top
A sail and a sheet
“We, I, You. We Two
And we sailed up and win’ard
Till we met
“The sun, the sea, the wind and the sand
Carrird us then
And carries us now
It took all I have
to climb this mountain. Nothing
now but wait for you.
(An ekphrastic haiku inspired by this painting by Lexington artist Wylie Caudill. See more of his work at wyliecaudill.com.)
Plan B is in place and working
when some birds find a way into the attic
through a piece of slipped siding,
when empathy is tested on the hardwood floor
after picking up a cell phone with cracks like detours,
when all windows are sealed air tight
and the only way into this happy house is to break something.
Plan B is in place and working
when the wind knocks the wind out of the water heater,
and life is a guessing game of thermocouple nightmares,
a dreaming girl is mighty cold without a pilot light.
The little girl pushes back the swing
As far as she can go
Bum against seat
On tippy, tippy toes
Then comes the release –
For half a moment
She’s weightless
Suspended
Her vision set on blue sky
Then, the swing arcs back
She has to pump her legs to keep it going
It is both work and joy
Work and joy
Work and joy
