Song of Predawn Space

Mornings I come back. Choose my place and my day starting in sound before solid. Permeates my being, my space when the window is still open. You know? Like the life spirit of a new shore. When awakening is still silent. Listen.

 

 

Song of Predawn Space

Slow the pull from speed in peace

Retake and slip, and rake the sleep

From bright to fog returning faint.

I muscle forth 'gainst limbs still bound

From pallet down to love seat choose

The peel, the toll of other rules.

 

Open book, yet half unwritten.

Write a seed of peace decipher

Between the lines then voice, a master

Clear till mind choose chapter pages

Lines to x and white-out writing

What is the matter gray not wasted?

 

Stop in halted thought and listen

Sound the room and sing the inner

Spring from deep and dream the race

Now heard the essence of this rest

The song we sing in predawn space.

To bless this day as we awaken.

 

 

© 2015 Ardi Keim

Birdsong and Window Lace

I like to write a preamble to my creative work. Usually done after writing the work itself and placed up front as an intro, this time -- a post-script instead.  Just to say here: I love the creative freedom of vacation, and this good life.

Window cover in off-white lace

with no hint of breeze to show it open 

to that possibility, this June day--still a.m. here. 

But traffic on Avenue H says so: It's open. It's morning. 

Birdsong only in my recall of yesterday a.m.  

And just a Robin and Sparrows collude. 

But better than today in that way. 

Where are they--that quartet? 

At home she has a Mourning Dove 

resting in joy and delight at her words of love 

in vines green, and color. The light. But here, not even 

a Crow.  Oh. Wait!  As if my thought brought it to my morning. 

A cooing.  Gently.  Lonely and afar.  With traffic  

and chatter of House Sparrows.  Perfectly 

rendered from a different yesterday. 

And mine. Not Crow, but 

a Mourning Dove. 

And a gentle wave of lace.

Postscript

Rest of vacation. Or from it. Never perfect, but full and rich. I rest and write to Marily’s breathing after reading and relaxing to sleep again. Another good day ahead. Hopefully not too much play. R-n-R is what we make it.

Recalling thoughts of days ago in stress and schedule, and post on Facebook, the dove... Now birdsong. Each note or orchestration is really just for me -- each of us.  I hear it differently than you or they. Direction. Deflection. Distance and ambient happening.  All sound and events, all images in light--adjusted by aspect and attributes of heart.

It’s all a song unique to each soul. And healing and stretching and growing. Can even delete the past and paint a new beginning. Color and light. The song and dance of this moment.  

She breathes. The traffic. Birdsong and window lace.

© 2013 Ardi Keim 6/10/13

Stone Soup

When almost awake it is so clear. But without some kind of hook or ladle, it's gone in a flash. Barely a hint of its nourishing savor.






Stone Soup

I live in both worlds now

and my allegiance is fleeting.

Dream Master, help me. I am spent.

Truth shines like the sun

till it sets without a snapshot.

Misplaced in mental obligation,

habit and memory.

 

I must write it down,

or get enough rest and nourishment.

The morning is fresh, but the canary is free.

No concept of one till another flies through –

like migrating birds to the mechanics

of earth revolving.

 

Truth I know is the anticipation

of stone soup.

Then, after many guests

and hours of cooking,

it's back to the heart

till the words are not mine

yet precious as my lover.

 

 

.              

© 2013 Ardi Keim

 

 

Crow Glimpses

.
Thought. Images. Glimpses.
Ebony in green.
What is worth the effort?
And always
a heart song lingers
this gray morning.
Crow calls to nowhere I know,
Yet hope is always
this love.
.

Morning Window

First it was the music. Not rock or pop or rap, but piano with orchestra backup.  The window is open. A neighbor appreciates a finer reality of life.  I write.

Morning window
birdsong light breeze
on orchestral melody
these memories undefined
surreal and fleeting
yet never ignoring our past
elated recalling
your smile
warming and cooling
this love
intense and receding
the phases completed
the touch
of your hand
and always this feeling
of more
that is needed
your name is my song
now reconnecting with you
was the music
the window
the day of this morning
with you.

Where did it come from?  What window is this?  And Who?
Sometimes things come through--I know not from where.  Others, I hold close.

Rain Sleep

I like to awaken in the night to possibilities of new consciousness.

.
rain sleep
dreams deeper
keeping peace till morning
comes a little later to say
this day blesses me
in summer reprieve
and relax
.

Still raining, and I'm loving it.

.

Blessings

This morning I did more than look out the window. I took a cushion, a book and my journal out the door. An old, twig rocker in the shade invited me. Then, in a sense, I went "out of my mind" in Thanksgiving. Perfect Morning. Summer holiday. Family & friends still sleep. And the cat on the couch. Inside.
But I. In the world of my senses -- inner and outer. My Garden. Birdsong and Breeze. Out of my mind. Inspired. I contemplate. And write. . .

Blessings

My Love.
First there was Life.
Then you are in my Garden.
Planting. Cultivating. The Harvest.
How could life be better than this?
Where Life Serves Me?
And I Serve It?
With You?

And in the heat of the day
We stop and rest.
With Strawberries.
Red and Sweet.

Then a gray squirrel
Brings an acorn.
And Blessings.

.