The Rules of Engaging Grief

In Starbucks the other morning, I wondered about poetry and its impact on me — and perhaps you as well.

Decoys

Writing poetry is
Like carving decoys
From sun-bleached wood
That invite you rushing
Overhead to pause,

Be still on clear water,
Listen and yes be struck,
Mortally wounded,
To glance-less flight
And there now see.

I was thinking about India the other day and this poem is the result of that reflection.

Yet to Pass

Years past I smoked
Madrasi cigars
Hand-rolled by
Brown-skinned girls;

From tall dark bottles
With residue settling
Drank beer brewed by
A mischievous Jesuit;

Reclined in a seven-foot
Hot tub steaming
Tired muscles for
Competition next;

Lingered in conversation
Long into darkness,
Seeking communion,
If not enlightenment;

Rode polo ponies at dawn
Across withering fields,
Along jungle trails,
Wild monkey paths;

Trekked heaven’s domain
Amidst the Himalayas,
Drank from an ice cold green
Glacier stream long life;

Loved luxuriously,
Laughed endlessly,
Even cried in a present
That has yet to pass.

I love this poem because in it I am wrestling with the thought — what am I doing falling in love as a biblical elder. In it I attempt to craft a response to the question that says — at least to me — that who I am has no relation to biological age. Isn’t that a neat thought/inspiration. Who we are is not affected by our age! Startling! Simple! Loving! Encouraging!

As an encore to this poem, I think I will race down the beach barefoot, allowing the surf to cool me, with no thought as to whether I will make it to the end — because as you might have guessed there is no end.

Contemplation

If I am present
I cannot contemplate
My death – that’s good.

Each present moment
With you is full – not was,
Or something that will be.

Those who observe us,
Project their future,
Even judge what’s past –

Seek to order our actions
According to a pattern
Ill fit to who we are.

All for you and me to be
Is to protect our present
With love until our death,

Not contemplated,
Releases shared presence
Into Your embrace.

Observing a Sandpiper on a desolate beach inspired these words –

“Intuition”

How does a Sandpiper
Calculate wave speed – depth
As it scrounges food,
Pursues retreating crabs
On still wet sand?

Are its eyes fixed back?
Do tail sensors catch sound,
Vibrations – salt smell,
Short twig stems feel rush,
Tarrying not instant late?

Is focus the answer,
Hunger desire challenge
Excitement completion,
Or does intuition extend
Us all to realms mysterious?