The Globe
 
 
The globe stands in its measure
            of light,
            basking in its
            artificial sun,
            moving to and fro
            in its wooden orbit
            alongside wooden portraits
            of other planets.
 
It is waiting,
            There, in a dusty corner
            of the museum,
            with its nineteenth century map
of a forgotten world.
 
It is waiting,
            to be moved,
            to move,
            to spin,
            to rotate,
            and to wobble,
 
In its own universe
            caught, like Earth itself,
            in one nanosecond of reality
            that will never come again.
           

I used to look at clouds even when I was young.  I would see them on the horizon -- they were inviting and far away.  I especially liked to see them over the ocean. I would look at that tiny line between infinite sea and infinite air -- all bathed in sunshine -- and I would say to myself "the world is wide"... It was my call to myself to begin a journey, to take a first step toward the adventures I always longed for. .  Even today, I look at clouds and yearn  to be past them, past the horizon to where there are more clouds I cannot see -- to the places on the globe I want to explore: Venice -- my favorite place in all the world, and Hawaii swimming along the Napali Coast in the hidden coves filled with turquoise water, or to ancient castles hidden on the coast Turkey or the gray and brooding coast at Tintagel in Cornwall. I yearn for a secret sanctuary in Cuba where the iguanas grow to 6 feet and the water is as blue and clear as cut crystal.  Sometimes, I yearn to be at Shakespeare and Company in Paris, on the second floor, by the dusty stacks where I once found an old copy of A Moveable Feast by Hemingway.  As to that, I yearn to sit on the stool he used to useat his favorite bar in Key West or to buy another $20 bloody mary at Harry's Bar in Venice where Heminigway's ways were notorious.  I also long for quiet places.. like Tokeiji Temple in Kamakura, and the Orthodox Chapel in Monreal, Italy, the Buddhist Temple in the hills of Korea.  I am older.  It is true. But age makes me appreciate these places and experiences all the more. Even now, the words "the world is wide" echo in my head and my heart as I begin to plan for my next adventure.

The Cup
 
 
A few blades of sun pierce
            through the ebony pools of darkness
            that flood the corners of the cell
            and splash out beyond  the edges of walls,
            leaving the interior black; deep and dank and dark.
 
Asleep on the hard floor, Joseph shivers under his cloak.
There are no blankets, here –
            no meager ration of bread;
            no water to quench his thirst;    
            no words of comfort;
            no kindness.
There is only the dull clanking of the guards checking the locks
            and the stamp of their sandals on dirt floors.
He is alone.
He listens to his heart beat.
He watches for a sign of life beyond the stone walls.
 
Sometimes a honey bee flies in, and then, seeking light,
            flies out again.
Sometimes the petal of a flower drifts in through the bars
            and lands silently in the dust.
Sometimes, a single feather floats through the window slats
            and settles on the ledge.
Mostly, there is silence and darkness and prayer.
Joseph stirs, drifting out of dreams, and shifts back into sleep.
 
At the center of the room, a light the size of a pinhead
            floats above his slumbering form.
It hovers, and then begins to expand, radiating energy
            from Its microscopic source.
It splays out in iridescent rays – a light sprinkler,
            a glowing orb that dances and rests
            and lingers in midair.
Joseph wakes, his wide eyes opening in fascination.
 
The Light begins to shift, flowing into amorphous shapes,
            stretching out through the space of the cell,
            finally resting in the shape of a man –
            The Living God.
Christ steps forth to offer the Cup.
 
All things are contained in this Grail – the object of transformation;
            the catalyst for creation;
            the seed of imagination.
“With faith, every spark of energy in everything
            can become any other thing.
There is no death, only change;
            no destruction, only a reordering of matter.
Every spiritual being lives forever.
Every material thing becomes new.
Life after life, rebirth after rebirth.
Everything Is. Everything is and God is.
Everything is God.”
 
Jesus places the Cup into Joseph’s hand.
“It could be any cup;
            any ordinary cup;
The power lies in belief.”
 
Instantly the cell is black,
            except for one small reflection –
            a light from nowhere
            that bounces off the curved,smooth rim.

Everyone follows their grail.  Sometimes it is that career that always seems to be years ahead and possible to achieve with just a little more education or preparation. Sometimes it is that relationship, that communion with a person who is The One. Sometimes, it is the touch of a tiny finger that curls around a thumb. Sometimes, it is a whisper of hope in the rustling of the leaves.  Sometimes, it is that tiny still place inside that becomes a universe large enough to contain the Divine.

The Gargoyle (I)
 
 
 
He peers down from his lofty perch,
            above the windows
            above the doorframe.
 
He stares with quizzical eyes;
            maybe angry
            maybe amused
            maybe bitter.
 
He has the look of an elf,
            large pointed ears,
            a flat nose.
 
He seems to laugh at everyone
            one moment,
            and sneers the next.
 
A flicker of sunlight
            catches his brow          
            and one is certain
            he will come alive
            at any moment –
 
To bestow a blessing
            Or a curse.

There are moments in all of our lives when we feel the hot breath of The Gargoyle upon us, with his casual laugh, his instant snarl, and his glaring eyes burning into us. .  We wait and we listen for the sound of footsteps, or the sliding of limbs crawling across a sidewalk or a wooden floor. It is not like we have done anything to deserve the prowling, just gone about our usual business.  Yet, everywhere, The Gargoyle watches for that instant of opportunity to bite us in the back or send a broken piece of roofing sailng down on our heads.  Even in our dreams, he snatches our confidence and then waits at his post on the ledge of some building, hoping to see us fall and shatter into pieces.The trick is that we have to see beyond his illusion, to his true self, to the cold, inanimate object imprisoned forever in stone. 

Aston Hall
            (for my ancestors)
 
The gables brood over
            the manicured lawn,
dark red brick, imposing;
            the towers stand menacing.
Clouds move over the estate,
            swift and foreboding.
One can image the specters
            of Sleepy Hollow,
flashing from one room
            to another,
over the old man’s portrait,
            gray and dirty with smoke,
over the dining hall
            with its polished table
through hallways reaching
            like fingers into bedchambers.
The doorway is immense,
            dark cedar and brass,
a twelve-foot high gaping mouth,
            devouring all who enter.
 

Looking up one's ancestors is always a serious venture.  Like Forest Gump's mother said " you never know what you are going to get."  In my case I got some of everything -- some patriots on both sides of the English Civil War and some patriots on both sides of the American Civil War.  Some patriots in World Wars I and II.  I also found tales of daughters who refused to marry unwelcome suitors, one scandalous divorce in the early years of the colonies in America, a tale of two twins who became priests and an ancestor who may have murdered his chef.  There were some Catholics persecuted by Protestants and some Protestants persecuted by Catholics and many ancestors who just boarded big ships and set off for distant places.  I also found Ashton Hall, a place located near Birmingham, England, which was probably one of the homes of my ancestors -- and said to be the inspiration for Washington Irving's Sleepy Hollow.  It was an excellent example of Tudor architecture, both Gothic and fascinating, gloomy and mysterious.  There were stories in every room that whispered with sound of footfalls on carpets, breezes rustling curtains in windows, and the silence from the portraits staring down at unwanted distant relations.  

Poem for an Unknown Saint
 
 
 
His robe ripples like
            waves in water,
            his arms tucked under
            the flowing robes.
 
His crown is intricate,
            rises into a peak,
            positioned with care
            under an arch of carved lace.
 
But his face is blank;
            no heavenly halo,
            no quizzical smile,
            no brooding glance
            no eyes of compassion.
 
His face is blank,
            the blank of white stone
            the blank of weathered rock
            the blank of polished brick.
 
The Unknown Saint
            looms over this world,
            the world of money,
            of glitter and credit cards.
 
The Unknown Saint
            hangs, suspended,  as if
his power emanates
            from the beauty of the curve
            of  his cape
            and the flutter of his hem.
 
Only his ears remain open,
            detailed and intact,
            as if he is still
            listening for the Divine

There are times when I think The Unknown Saint walks with me, a flash, a glint of light today, a shadow tomorrow.  We never know if the trace of movement around the corner is the remembrance of a life we have known somewhere in our ancient past or the premonition of a future flight.  There are always shadows that we must run from or face.  Sometimes The Unknown Saint is our guide, the smile on the face of the "jersey cow" kitten;  Sometimes merely a distraction in the glimmer of the olive green hummingbird's wings.

Stillness
 
The surface of the water is still.
Here and there, a pattern of ripples
                tickles the broad lily pads.
 
It is like a shining mirror of indigo blue
                that reflects the whole of the Universe.
 
Now, turquoise.
Soon, deep violet.
Later, black with images of stars
                dancing in the dark.
 
It is a cosmos of creation,
                a place where light and spirit,
                water and carbon combine
                into endless spirals of life.
 
It explodes with lavender blossoms
                and fans of green leaves.
 
Underneath the surface,
                everything is transfiguring;
                starlight becomes stamen,
                sunlight becomes bud,
                the infinity of water becomes cell,
                then liquid, then cell again.
 
Everywhere, spirit churns the elements into essence,
                and the flowers burst open in the sun.
 

I always think of the Buddha when I see water lilies. I guess it is because of the stories that everywhere he walked lotus flowers would spring up. I can watch the lily pads floating on the surface of the water for hours.  It is like a visual meditation, an asymmetric mandala.  Since humans are 65% water, and most of the material in a living cell is water, water is the basis for all life (along with carbon -- the same kind that is in that pencil on your desk).  So what sparks the weaving of the elements into that DNA? ( In almost all faiths, water holds enough significance to be part of ritual. Every drop is immortal.  One drop splashes on the ground from the rain. It evaporates, but it is still here, in the universe in some form. It rises to the atmosphere, connects with other drops, then falls again. This time it becomes part of the sea, and then part of a cell of an octopus, then part of the intake of a fish, which is caught and eaten and becomes part of you.)  Back to the DNA, how can we explain it?  In my favorite movie, The Razor's Edge (based on the novel of the same name by Somerset Maugham) , Larry Darrell (played by the overwhelming attractive Tyrone Power) asks what is life about.  Is there some meaning to it or "is it all just a stupid blunder?" In the movie, Larry figures it out.  I am still pondering at the side of the pond,

  Magdalene
 
 
 
She opens her jar and looks out
            at the passersby.
 
She offers balm
            and perfume
            to sooth weary souls. 
 
Her face is beautiful – young, lively,
            compassionate.
 
Her sculpted hair spills out over
            the folds of her mantle.
 
She moves forward on one foot,
            eternally ready to serve
            the God in everyone.

I took this photo in Barcelona, Spain at the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya which has an amazing collection of medieval art This picture makes the Magdalene come alive for me.  It is almost as if she is offering me some comfort as she leans forward with her jar. We are all in need of comfort -- a little TLC, someone to tell us to "just put up your feet, don't worry about anything, I will take care of it for you."  Our complicated lives don't even offer us much time to comfort ourselves. We need rethink the situation -- to stop the spinning wheel of responsibility and pressure that whirls us around like hamsters inside the invisible cage of responsibilities and other people's demands. Sometimes, we have to say "just stop.... this is my time!! It's time for me to take a breath and do what is best for me." It is hard to do, but we owe it to ourselves to put up the boundaries so we can began living instead of treading.

The People of the Glass
 
 
Figures move against
            a blue sky,
            hands in prayer,
            eyes in adoration,
            lips in explanation;
 
Halos shimmer
            over blue mantles,
            crimson cloaks,
             and robes of gray.
 
Under slate clouds,
            the air is peopled
            with stained glass devotees.
 
In the light between the
            rivers of darkness,
            the world within the world,
            creation is suspended
            in midair.
 
The people of the glass
            are living forever
            in translucent jewel heaven;
            created by the hot breath
            of God on the sand.

I am back.  I have been gone awhile because, well, life was just crazy.  Bad things happening in Houston ... flooding, flooding; homes torn apart, vehicles washed into rivers with 12 people in them, and all the dead horses. . Bad things happening all over the world, too.  So much sadness. . I think in another life, I must have been a nun, cloistered in some abbey with my books, and my pens, and my prayers and my contemplation.  When life swirls around me, like a funnel cloud, throwing things at me and tearing them away, scrambling everything, my first thought is to withdraw and just hide away from the world and all the bad news that flickers on every screen, and all those people and responsibilities.  Some folks say that those of faith (of any religion) must find a way to be of the world but not in it. I am still searching for that way.  Poetry helps and prayer, too.    Like Franklin Delano Roosevelt, "All we have to fear is fear itself".  We must go on daily with our lives and our love and keep that faith that somewhere there is answer. . 

The Vessel
 
 
Universe is held here,
            immense and minuscule,
            brilliant and shadowed,
            tangible and ephemeral.
 
Here, in the glass orb,
            hovering, like a grail,
            above the mundane surface
            a world exists beyond
            imagining;
 
A world where the illumination
            of the Light
            dances like a God,
            in the amber air,
 
A world where the curvilinear
            spiral of reality
            bends at the pleasure
            of the Observer;
 
A world where everything is relative
            to the heat of passion
            a galaxy in glass,
            a universe where time and space
            are only reflections of
            unobservable Light.

It has been awhile since my last post. Sometimes the dreary days of life intervene and I find myself unable to speak with my spirit or my heart.  I find myself just plodding along in a long line people who trudge through their days waiting for the bend in the road to reveal a new prospect -- a new perspective on old things.  I have been working too hard.  Now, I am taking some time to go back through the old poetry and stories and photographs, to find the treasures I have forgotten. Sometimes, it just takes a glimmer of golden sun to wash the world with new hope.