This Rain

Love is shown in many ways.

This first spring rain
calling ahead its blessing
fresh, and placing no blame on winter
all melted now and down
soaking the last frost
from tulip bulbs
and narcissus.
This rain, gentle and welcome
as the hand of my lover.

Some human, some divine.

On Patches

I saw it the other morning on the way to work. And I remembered. . .

Love the warm after winter
with its patches of snow.
When I was nine I rode this Palomino
bare-legged on bare back
and hugged her neck
then fingers mingled and gripping mane.
I almost remember more.

entrée

Home late. Hungry. Tired. Seen by the laundry shoot door. The mind trips with it from here. A lot further than the actual experience.

Or I could have said: It was a hot and steamy night. . .

entrée

dinner first the focus
fast broken by the sight
the scant and tangled twist
of panties abandoned at the door

What's for desert?

The Garden Spade

Is this the last of it? Ten inches on Monday. I ran off the road and packed it against a white bank. Six on Wednesday with a shovel in the trunk. Exciting, but I have another hope.

Late storm last week
Now in trees and ready eaves
Robins extrude their call for Spring
Sings like the cheer of maybe a month away
But in my heart today, and soon the garden spade.

Oh, Mom

What is art but a medium for change—in perception, in thought, in direction of life patterns? New footholds in all levels of consciousness may be the experience for both the artist and viewer or audience. Visual, performing, or literary arts—even new avenues in engineering or reaching beyond previous limits of the body’s performance—all have the capacity to expand the heart of the human race. Water finds its own level. So does each Soul.

"I used to wish I had the time to write," she says. "Now I have the time, but where’s the inspiration?"

I tell her, Just write of anything—in sight, in mind, or what you hear right now in the moment.

"But how?"

Oh, Mom. When I didn’t understand your words, your voice spoke to me of love. Your hand, your kiss, your hug, your breast. Each was a word, a phrase, a volume of much needed succor. I learned at your knee.

Now you tell me, there is no inspiration.

Remember me. Recall each of us. As we remember you. In joys, in sorrows, in chores. The holidays, the garden, the car on the way to church. All are frames for the picture in words. Paint us like we were. You know us well. You brought us from womb, across your knee, to where we are today. You gave us crayons then. Where is your pen?

Remember the porch in summer, where the wringer washer churned. And butter from the cream that rose off the milk of our one cow that only dad could handle. I fed it hay thrown from the loft of the barn. And you held its calf, after the fact of the vet with his rubber gloves. Cost us some bucks, 'cause we had no bull.

There are thousands of rocks in the driveway between the barn and the house. And a thousand stories between then and now in you. Write what you recall, and make up what you don’t. It’s all in the picture of words. You can bring me up again.

Art Thought

'
Sees for the first time
Her daughter's charcoal sketches
Reclining male nude

'

Kadi

I had never grieved a death before. Even that of my brother, my father, and Grandmother. There had been loss of friends and loved ones in my life, but I always knew they went to a better place. Relatives, acquaintances and fellow soldiers -- no matter -- when they left my life, I was not burdened by the heartwrench others felt. I guess I didn't understand grief really. I knew only intellectually why others were so saddened, but didn't relate on a heart level. Because of this it wasn't easy for me to console them in the midst of such trials. Did I have no compassion?

Then a tragedy touched me. It was the loss of a pet. The night before a trip, I took Kadi to be cared for by another. In the morning I got the call before leaving. Kadi was caught in a closing door. A shock wave of emotion overwhelmed me. I was alone. Very. I wept--like never before. And I understood.

In memory of a hamster that taught me compassion…

Kadi
I cry your name without reason
Repeated like bolts in a blinding storm
And thunder
Call me from where you are
In time
Soft and true
New language learning
The memory of your touch
Kiss of my hand
Light kept in a boundless way
Break down this door
Love the touch
Sing in the light and sound
Come in and call me by name
Bring in the kitten
Sing for the birdsong within you
Fly with the eagles
Dance with the English poets
Calls me from heaven's door
And livens this heart
By washing

--ak

When this soul's body was brought to me, we buried it in a paper box in the yard and marked it with a stone. A sunflower grew there that summer.

There is a lot of life in death understood.

I was reminded of this incident and its lesson when I heard a talk by Linda and Allen Anderson of The Angel Animals Network last Sunday at our church. They and other speakers gave talks on the theme of the book, Animals Are Soul Too by Harold Klemp. If you want to read stories of how other animals are connected to us and their Creator, check out the links.

coat of light

just inspired to write in comment to post by wordsofjoi

a coat of light
never lets in the darkness
even illuminates
the outer world
put it on already
or the closet my burst
for radiance held

I suppose there is a lot of ways to say it, but when you give love, you get love in return.

grab me

There is a lot of good poetry and other writing that I just don't read. Time. Attention. There are limits. Sometimes I can stretch mine. Not always.

verse begging grab me
never longer than its breadth
curled leaf in a brook

Haiku is great for me. I write it. I read it. Let me see yours.