Summer Solstice

Peonies now bow low to the ground,

petals blown apart and dissolving

back into earth after each rainfall.

Meanwhile, the woodpecker knocks

on the oak door of this summer day,

demanding to be let in. Meanwhile,

the day lily blooms a month early,

orange velvet dusted with a trail

of pollen left by some hurried bee. 

And what will we leave behind here 

when we move on to the nectar 

of some other life? I just want to be

remembered as the pond recalls 

the shimmer of noon sun, still holds 

those particles inside its body 

as we leap from the dock at dusk.

—James Crews

Visible Light

You have bought the wrong light bulbs again–

too bright this time. This time you brought

the receipt but first you travel the well-lit aisle

of lighting fixtures. There’s a notice about a ban

on fluorescence which reminds you 

of Ben’s offer for a bioluminescence

paddle in the Salish Sea. You want that–

to glide out into a wash of light, stars and sea

bedazzled. But here in the West Seattle True Value,

you are confused by wattage, the question

of dimming and LED. How many hours 

of light should you expect? The time changed

this week and you hustle home to walk the dog

before nightfall, his vision dimming with age.

In the dark, he runs into lamp posts even as 

they cast a glow and as the neighbors’ televisions pulse

a spectrum of the evening news, the wars brightening

their big screens. You can see into their living

rooms–in a way you never do

during the long summer evenings when you wave

to one another, stop to chat about the weather.

Walking the dog in the gloaming, you feel

an unexpected tenderness for your neighbors, 

a desire to enter their darkened rooms and sit 

beside them watching the televised world.

Maybe you would be silent together.

Or perhaps, someone would turn on a light,

offer a glass of wine. You want that—

to be a reason for light.

-- Heidi Seaborn

Foolishness? No, It's Not

Sometimes I spend all day trying to count

the leaves on a single tree. To do this I

have to climb branch by branch and

write down the numbers in a little book.

So I suppose, from their point of view,

it’s reasonable that my friends say: what

foolishness! She’s got her head in the clouds

again.

But it’s not. Of course I have to give up,

but by then I’m half crazy with the wonder

of it – the abundance of the leaves, the

quietness of the branches, the hopelessness

of my effort. And I am in that delicious

and important place, roaring with laughter,

full of earth-praise.

-- Mary Oliver

Summer Solstice

This is the longest day,

so I guess it's all downhill from here.

The light gradually fades, but

so does the freshness of spring,

and now it's heat and dust until

the rains come, and before you know it,

winter. It seems like somehow

it should be different. But once again

we find ourselves in the world

where flowers fade and leaves

curl and brown and drop.

In spite of our efforts and intentions.

the earth persists in its awkward orbit,

displacing us from our rightful place in the sun.

The endless summers of childhood

live only in imagination, and the world

we proposed has once again failed

to come to pass. Still just this one life,

and the pages continually turning.

While we're on the subject,

our heroes could have been more

reliably virtuous, our parents more

understanding, our children more

devoted. Our bodies did not have

to be so frail, and who decided dogs

would only live a handful of years?

The whole design of it, every part,

leaves something to be desired.

Perhaps I will start by desiring

the roses, the orange-winged moths,

the damp morning grass, the crescent moon.

the succulent peaches, the litany

of transient gifts that persist in arriving.

through absolutely no fault of my own.

-Lynn Ungar 6-20-24

However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names. It is not so bad as you think. It looks poorest when you are richest. The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, difficult as it is...You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.”

~Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

 In a culture that pushes us to focus not on what we can give, but on what we can take, what we tend to take is everything for granted.

--Andrea Gibson

The Lovers

I was always afraid

of the next card

the psychic would turn

over for us—

                              Forgive me

for not knowing

how we were

every card in the deck.

--Timothy Liu

The Healers

You can hear them

moving among the ruins,

hear them by their silence in the noisy crowds.

You can see them, opening

their little bags, opening

the shrapneled hearts of strangers,

crouching before the body of a child

to lean down and whisper her a story,

a story in which what's happening

is not what's happening.

They mend; they stitch; they carry.

They work; they weep; they lose.

And when nothing can be done

among the rubble,

they kneel there as the fires fall around them

and they cradle the face

of the dying,

the life that is trying

to speak to them,

the life that whispers, listen,

and they do.

--Joseph Fasano

Grief Is Not Like the Squirrel in My Garden

that’s been eating all my pansies,

eating them to the roots

so that nothing of beauty remains.

We were able to lure the squirrel

with sunflower seeds and peanut butter

and trap it in a cage and take it far away.

Grief is more like the mice that eat the lure,

then slip through the cage, though the holes

are tiny, the door shut tight.

Grief stays. It takes what I offer and escapes.

But it hasn’t devoured all that is beautiful.

See how the pansies are blooming.

Like the mice, grief makes a nest

in my garden. We live here together.

I’ve put away the cage.

—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

The Pandemic Halo

The first time I saw it was above the head

of an old Lab. He was being walked, as usual, at 7 AM

by his young owner. Lots of lamppost stops, as usual.

There it was: faint at first, then hovering at a rakish tilt

above his silky head. I thought maybe it was a weird trick of light —

the day was bright — but then the next morning the nurse who parks

across the street, in the now almost empty lot, was trotting along

on her way to the clinic that is just below my window. She had it, too.

I don’t think she noticed it at all. She was moving quickly, late

to work. I imagine that’s what was on her mind, not holiness.

The third day a young man in a red cap with a backpack slouched past.

I had never seen him before. You could see he was seriously depressed,

looking down at the sidewalk. But there it was, firmly in place

above him, so he couldn’t see how beautiful

he really was. By now the pandemic halo is well recorded.

We almost take it for granted, what once seemed so amazing.

After the pandemic is over, they say, the halo effect will disappear.

They say we will return to life as usual. We won’t need it.

I have my doubts. I think we might need it more than ever.

I think we might be saying things like “Remember how incredible it was

during the pandemic, how everyone had a halo,

how grief and holiness were all we knew of the world

and the sight of a dog at a lamppost could bring us to tears?”

-- Jim Moore

From The Sun Magazine

To be alive: not just the carcass

But the spark.

That's crudely put, but…

If we're not supposed to dance,

Why all this music?

~Gregory Orr

Nostos

There was an apple tree in the yard-

this would have been

forty years ago-behind,

only meadow. Drifts

of crocus in the damp grass.

I stood at that window:

late April. Spring

flowers in the neighbor's yard.

How many times, really, did the tree

flower on my birthday,

the exact day, not

before, not after? Substitution

of the immutable

for the shifting, the evolving.

Substitution of the image

for relentless earth. What

do I know of this place,

the role of the tree for decades

taken by a bonsai, voices

rising from the tennis courts-

Fields. Smell of the tall grass, new cut.

As one expects of a lyric poet.

We look at the world once, in childhood.

The rest is memory.

--Louise Glück

“The sun is perfect and you woke this morning. You have enough language in your mouth to be understood. You have a name, and someone wants to call it. Five fingers on your hand and someone wants to hold it. If we start there, every beautify thing that has existed, and will ever exist is possible. If we start there, everything for a moment is right in the world.”

--Warsan Shire

Meeting the Light Completely

Even the long-beloved

was once

an unrecognized stranger.

Just so,

the chipped lip

of a blue-glazed cup,

blown field

of a yellow curtain,

might also,

flooding and falling,

ruin your heart.

A table painted with roses.

An empty clothesline.

Each time,

the found world surprises—

that is its nature.

And then

what is said by all lovers:

"What fools we were, not to have seen."

--Jane Hirshfield

All that's required of you

Did you know

there will be poppies

again this year?

It's true. I've seen

their muted green fractals

stockpiling sunlight,

distilling it down

to its purest essence

before igniting into

slow motion fireworks.

In the end, isn't this all

that's required of you?

To drink in what you love,

to concentrate it

in the crucible of your body,

and, finally, to bloom.

--James A Pearson

A Litany for Survival

For those of us who live at the shoreline

standing upon the constant edges of decision

crucial and alone

for those of us who cannot indulge

the passing dreams of choice

who love in doorways coming and going

in the hours between dawns

looking inward and outward

at once before and after

seeking a now that can breed

futures

like bread in our children's mouths

so their dreams will not reflect

the death of ours;

We were never meant to survive.

For those of us

who were imprinted with fear

like a faint line in the center of our foreheads

learning to be afraid with our mother's milk

for by this weapon

this illusion of some safety to be found

the heavy-footed hoped to silence us

For all of us

this instant and this triumph

And when the sun rises we are afraid

it might not remain

when the sun sets we are afraid

it might not rise in the morning

when our stomachs are full we are afraid

of indigestion

when our stomachs are empty we are afraid

we may never eat again

when we are loved we are afraid

love will vanish

when we are alone we are afraid

love will never return

and when we speak we are afraid

our words will not be heard

nor welcomed

but when we are silent

we are still afraid

So it is better to speak

remembering

we were never meant to survive.

--Audre Lorde 

In a Friend’s Garden

“I want to be here to see

the poppies open,” my friend says,

telling me why she never travels

anymore in the middle of summer.

We each hold one of the heavy buds

whose petals already ache to break

free and spread, bursting red at the seams.

The mulch is warm beneath our feet,

and sunlight shimmers pink in the

shifting leaves of the Japanese maple.

I keep hearing her words—I want

to be here—and feel something new

leaning toward the light inside me too,

some seed of need just to be rooted

right where I am for each small pleasure,

every rippling wave of sorrow.

She wraps an arm around me, and we 

go inside for tea. There is nothing

to escape from, but our own desire

to escape at all.

—James Crews

Yes, We Can Talk

Having loved enough and lost enough,

I am no longer searching,

just opening.

No longer trying to make sense of pain,

but trying to be a soft and sturdy home

in which real things can land.

These are the irritations that rub into a pearl

So we can talk awhile

but then we must listen,

the way rocks listen tot he sea

And we can churn at all that goes wrong

but then we must lay all distractions down,

and water every living seed.

And yes, on nights like tonight

I too feel alone. but seldom do I

face it squarely enough

to see that it is a door

into the endless breath

that has no breather

into the surf that human shells

call god.

--Mark Nepo

An invitation to a brave space

Together we will create brave space

Because there is no such thing as a "safe space"

We exist in the real world

We all carry scars and we have all caused wounds.

In this space

We seek to turn down the volume of the outside world.

We amplify voices that fight to be heard elsewhere,

We call each other to more truth and love

We have the right to start somewhere and continue to grow.

We have the responsibility to examine what we think we know.

We will not be perfect.

It will not always be what we wish it to be

But

It will be our brave space together,

And

We will work on it side by side.

-by Micky Scottbey Jones

Messages from Everywhere

light up our backyard.

A bird that flew five thousand miles

is trilling six bright notes.

This bird flew over mountains and valleys

and tiny dolls and pencils

of children I will never see.

Because this bird is singing to me,

I belong to the wide wind,

the people far away who share

the air and the clouds.

Together we are looking up

into all we do not own

and we are listening.

--Naomi Shihab Nye

I forgive 

you 

~ to release me from you 

for so so 

long 

I’ve been holding my breath

waiting on an apology that will

not ever come 

~ it turns out that 

mercy for you 

is mercy for me 

I didn’t need a confession

  ~ just an admission that being 

a human is a messy venture 

and we can often get it all wrong 

but sometimes our 

tongues get 

knotted by pride

~ so I’m letting go for the both of us 

and the scar you left on me 

will be a reminder

of all the ones 

I’ve given others 

I forgive you

I forgive you

I forgive you

     and now I’m the breeze

and I hope you remember 

me fondly whenever you see the 

waves whip and whirl 

under a whistling windy sky 

~ john roedel 

You will never make anybody's life better

by agreeing to not be yourself.

Denying who you are will never

bring any other person true peace.

Though it may not seem so from the outside,

every soul in the universe is invested

in every other soul living inline with their truth.

Therefore, anyone asking you

to live in opposition to your essence,

to who you really are,

is not speaking from their soul.

They are speaking from their

learned biases, hatreds, and fears.

So, to be you is not only to be the guardian

of your own spirit, but also to be the guardian

of the spirits of those who mistakenly think

their lives would be better if you would

agree to be someone other than you are.

--Andrea Gibson

No Wrong Way

Pay attention to the interruptions, the wrong turns, 

the plans gone awry. 

Bow to the rude waiter, the overdue bill, 

All of the ways this world disappoints you.

This is the marrow of the practice, 

the heartwood: knowing how to love an imperfect life.

Still your mind, slow your breath. 

And witness the messy miracle of this moment 

revealing itself to you 

now

            and now

                                    and now.

--Stephen Pradarelli  August 11, 2023

Briefcases

Fifteen years ago I found my father's

    in the family attic, so used

       the shoemaker had to

repair it, and I kept it like love

until it couldn't be kept anymore.

    Then my father-in-law died

       and I got his, almost

identical, just the wrong initials

embossed in gold. It's forty years old,

    falling apart, soon

       there'll be nothing

that smells of father-love and that difficulty

of living with fathers, but I'd prefer

    a paper bag to those

       new briefcases

made for men living fast-forward

or those attaché cases that match

    your raincoat and spring open

       like a salute

and a click of heels. I'm going

to put an ad in the paper, "Wanted:

    Old briefcase, accordion style,"

       and I won't care

whose father it belonged to

if it's brown and the divider keeps

    things on their proper side.

       Like an adoption

it's sure to feel natural before long—

a son without a father, but with this

    one briefcase carrying

       a replica

comfortably into the future,

something for an empty hand, sentimental

    the way keeping is

       sentimental, for keep-

sake, with clarity and without tears.

-- Stephen Dunn

From New and Selected Poems 1974-1994

Better

We'll meet, yes - of course we will.

But not tomorrow or the week after.

Because work is hectic, or the kids unwell

or if we're honest, we're too tired or too lazy.

And haven't we all the time in the world?

Until we hadn't.

My last memory of you is singing

in the Hibernia Bar to an unruly crowd.

And above the clamour of barroom chatter

you dedicated every song to your audience of one,

who left before the set's closure

because there'd always be another.

And I wonder what right have I to mourn

when others did so much better?

Maintained the meetups, the texts, the calls.

Failed to let time slip by like we did.

Waiting for a better hour, a better day.

But grief does not discriminate.

--Tanya Farrelly