Reflections

My restless reckless imagination
Searches my myths for solutions.
Listening to the minstrels sing
Songs from love’s poetry

The lid rattles constantly
On the cauldron of my past
A simmering soup,
Heated by my experiences.
Shared, or private;
Mostly joyous;
Thou not all are so

Such are the rewards of a full life
That is possibly complete and yet.
This child strides ahead on wiser legs
Still curious, eyes open, allowing, waiting

Last spring’s leaves rustle dryly,
Tumbling along uneven ground,
While lonely winter winds search
For Sabbaths to observe.
Not knowing the questions,
Leads to unknown answers
That fill unheard sermons.

The congregation nods politely
Tithing their righteous dues.
Conforming would be easier
Than asking the next question
While finding my own truth.

I am comfortable rattling along
Inside this odyssey.
It is who I am.

Aspirations

In nature a plant
Grows and displays
Its beauty to the world
And in time

Where flowers bloomed
New fruit ripens
Knowing nothing else
The plant rests fulfilled

Today I shall be
A bearded Iris
Dressed in purple and white
A perennial
This is a good choice

Nature is the great teacher

Love's Candle

The candle drips its molten tears
Of promise expiring
Flame chasing its lifeline
Consuming as it follows
A descending path

Gasping its last illusion
Love’s twin puppets,
Hope and Despair
Dance their shadows
Silently upon the walls
A child’s ballroom fantasy
Shown in vague glimpses

Moving in rhythm to
My breath
A fragile light pushes
Away all that is lonely
At the fringes of wonder
Courage builds in the
Chilled face of doubt

We may believe in romance
If we believe in God
And have forgotten self
At its most fulfilling moment
Love best expressed and
Demonstrated by this soft
Amber glow

A Poem by Wendell Berry

I often read fiction and poetry. I read this poem this morning and was moved to share it. I hope you approve.

Published in "A Timbered Choir, the Sabbath Poems 1979-1997" by Wendel Berry

1994, II
Finally will it not be enough,
after much living, after
much love, after much dying
of those you have loved,
to sit on the porch near sundown
with your eyes simply open,
watching the wind shape the clouds
into the shapes of clouds?

Even then you will remember
the history of love, shaped
in the shapes of flesh, ever changing
as the clouds of past, the blessed
yearning of body for body,
unending light.
You will remember, watching
the clouds, the future of love