Foot Note to a Poet (Mom)

Shortly after her passing in August (see my eulogy for her), my brother and sisters were interviewed by a writer for the Portland Oregonian. The article that came from it was a special tribute to her life.

Get Set

Because I know it is coming…

.
Indian Summer still in my collection of yesterday memories
Fallen leaves raked to cover carrots and berry vines
Anything could happen at this change of mind
Sky, earth and highways
And other roads to Freedom
White cat is ready.
Get set.
.

ready

.
dry grass, cold wind
earth pleads for a cover
light inches drift in shades
of white
.

Get Ready

.
cold, thin moon hangs in possibility
as work of last leaves race this day
winter touching hands
unmittened
.

(...I'm back)

The Battle

(not poetry--just an excuse)

Life is like war these days.
House renovation work
for one room floor renovation
multiplied demand
on time, energy and material resource
when kitchen issue demanded
faucet, sink, countertop & re-wiring.

Still in the middle of both.
And it's good to wake up in the dream-state
for a sleep reprieve
when we can catch a few hours.
Soul travelin', love
and divine connection
keep us going.

Hope to get back to
the lighter side of a poet's life
when the battle lets up.

Ridge Trail Song

...still reveling in the peace and inspiration of the visit last week.

~~~

Ridge Trail Song

On Walden Pond
I walked the Ridge Trail west.
There reflecting pallettes gold and green
and emerald in its depths --
Blue and gilled and feathered chatter,
Skipping rocks; and rest on mossy stone
The sight and sound a thrill to soul
that mortals cannot own.
I hold this sense-crescendo in a silent song
the tint and hush of which the echo is a wish
That trees and water always cleanse the earth
of mine and other human faults.
With love and reverence on the path 'round Walden Pond
Soul Journey is the walk and Ridge Trail Song.

Walden

.
More summer than fall with beauty still abundant. Yesterday the Freedom Trail, a walk in Boston, overnight with friends, Lucinda and Clarisse. And then to Concord. It all still lingers:

blue and emerald green
the depths of love and peace in trees
on Waldon Pond today

.

Another Memory

I haven't been able to write or post much lately. Between vacation, funeral, home renovation projects, and now a wedding (leaving tomorrow for that), time has been limited.

Here are a couple I found among the journals of Mom. The notebook is titled simply, HAIKU, Marie Keim. I didn't even know she wrote haiku.

Hearing the clock tick
Knowing the path gets shorter
To eternity.

The freshly baked bread
Tantalized the neighborhood
With its aroma.

Sometimes we learn so much more about the lives of those we love when they are living in a higher place.

Marie Josephine Keim, 1917-2006

Here is the eulogy I will give tomorrow:

Marie. Mom. Grandma. Mrs. Keim. We knew her by these names and others. If life were a book, we each might give this name-title a subtitle of our own:

- Mother of Five
- Grandma in the Garden
- Baking Beans and Bread
- Poet and Friend
- Maker of Rosaries
- Lover of God

Too often we pick up a book to enjoy, but set it aside after a chapter or two. The book of Marie's life has many chapters, and I am still enjoying the last one. It is rich with the convergence of her values, her friends and family here today, and the memories recalled.

I was lucky enough to visit and picnic with Mom when we traveled from Minnesota last month.

As usual, Mom said, "Maybe the next time you see me it will be at a funeral."

And I responded as I always do when she says that: "Mom, you've been saying that for 20 years, and your still as strong as a horse." (Whenever she grabbed my hand, or gave me a hug, I'd have to warn her against breaking any bones, my bones.) And yet each time she said that in recent years, I knew that day would come. And I really felt it more in early July. I didn't add to my statement, as I had in the past: "You will probably outlive us all."

When I close the covers of a book I've enjoyed, or one I've learned from, or have been inspired by, it is not with sadness, but with fulfillment in the gifts of Light and Love and Wisdom received.

Marie has left us for now, and moved on to a new level of freedom. The book may be on a higher shelf, but when we need to be refreshed by a favorite passage from the pages Marie has shared with us, we recall the Light and Love and richness that is this Soul.

Among the chapters we may choose from could be:

- A Bowl of Hot Soup
- Poetry of the Natural and Supernatural, or
- Singing with Birds & Talking to God. Or maybe
- St. Matthew's Church Bazaar

Too often at a loved one's passing we realize there are things we meant to do with them or for them, things we would say, or questions to ask. Yet the pace and priorities of life pre-empt completion of so much these days. How do we reclaim what could have been? What should have been?

I invite you to review your memories of Marie. You can go there now, in imagination, in contemplation, just as she is with us now in spirit.

Walk with her in the flower garden. Sit at her table with a cup of coffee or herb tea. Butter the bread. And listen. She may also have a message for you. Experience the sound, scent, the taste of this moment. See the light in her eyes. Tell her what you didn't get a chance to. Or just thank her for the gifts she has offered.

I know she would say (I can hear it now): "God grew the flowers, not me." Or "I just baked the bread. I didn't make the wheat."

Okay, then. Thank you, God, for Marie.

I'd like to close now by reading from her book of poetry, Out of the Blue.

Where Poets Grow

I like to spade and rake and hoe
And plant some seeds and watch them grow.
I know, of course, that it is God,
Who brings from seed to full grown pod.
One corn kernel to full-grown ear
Gives food and seed for coming year.
He forms the tubers underneath
Potatoe vines and carrots, beets.
He molds the melons on the vine
And gives us grapes for food and wine.
To trees He gives their strength and height
Loads them with fruit for our delight.
Countless flowers he brings to bloom
Enhances them with sweet perfume.
Into the garden I love to go.
I think that's where poets grow.

Mom, enjoy your new garden. We also cherish the fruits and flowers that inspire the writing of our lives. We cherish our memories with you.

sweet briar day

purple smile
matching scratched knees
hand clutching black berry basket
maybe tasting mom's pie
thanksgiving

skinny dip

sneak by the red barn
strewn blue jeans, shoes and shorts
irrigation pond

(Previously posted in Summer Haiku.)

Before the Storm

This morning I exercised on the deck. Afterward I relaxed for a minute on my back. Looking skyward I pondered the large round cloud approaching. What would this day bring?

Steady and without hesitation
it advanced in full armor
dark and bold.
Disguised as a rain cloud
it rolled in on my morning
still dawning too slow
and not slow enough.
From north by northwest it came.

Could have been a rain cloud.
But I know and I've been told,
It is coming.

The storm hides the fears
of the masses
some will never see
or admit.
Even when the ships
have dropped their anchors,
their bombs of hard facts
and leaflets of deceit,
warning of a new wave
maybe coming.
Could take many
on the battlefield
of recognition.

Or is it just a rain cloud
before the storm?

At least I don't live in Lebanon.

Feet in the River

This is a different river--yet as sweet.

Feet in the River

Arrive at the River that runs from the Mountain
and feel the Current on my feet.
Come every season without questions
of the height of the peak
or complaints of summer's drought.
Step in without pomp or possession
only what was in the First Boat
on the Voyage of Truth.

And yet the labor has taken its toll.
The baskets are gathered
though the hold is deplete.
But there is a new understanding of Love
and River refreshes my feet.

Musselshell River

We vacationed in Montana last week: quiet, the stars, sunrise through the pines, Big Sky, and the River. Hwy 12 parallels the Musselshell for quite a distance -- Martinsdale, Twodot, Harlotown, Ryegate, Lavina, Roundup and east -- our route back to Minnesota. Chief Joseph (Nez Perce) crossed the Musselshell near Ryegate in his flight to Canada. We no longer live in Montana either, but still own our 20 acres in the Bull Mountains.

Why do some think their way is the only way? The river runs in peace, the hawk soars and rests vigilant, and Soul's quest is always freedom.

Musselshell River

Russian olive rimmed river and sage blue-gray
Pine-ridged cut banks through rolling hills
Cottonwood green and dead snags
White with morning sun
A red hawk hunts on the Musselshell.

On Vacation

Travelin' to Montana & Oregon
by Toyota Prius
at 50 mpg

back soon

be happy!

haiku trellis

tiny brown bird
vine and blue scent trailing
wisteria

Dance of Hands

I have a friend whose cheer is a treasure. There is a lot I could say about her, but instead, these words flowed so easy into poem:

Life is a dance of hands
and all is well.
I've got turquoise
and rose hip red.
Always sunshine
with Sheila.

rosehip
n : the fruit of a rose plant [syn: hip, rose hip]
Source:
WordNet ® 2.0, © 2003 Princeton University

today's gift

. everyday is a gift . but this one is sung from the trees . by full-feathered chorus line . and a squirrel . all song and nuts for the storm in the night . could have woke the dead . but i slept . sound in its lightning . nothing . but love and blessings . this earth . and its gift delivered . in light and sound .

Storm of Sound

Mornings are my time to review the dream-processing of the day before, and set the table of the next 24 hours. First I tune into the ambient sounds--kind of a check on the gift of life in this physical world--as a ramp to a higher bounty of the divine. Here is an example of a start earlier this week.

Storm of sound--my day:
fan in the attic.
jet in heavy, gray sky
a population of robins
anticipating more rain
and a sparrow as jubilant
thunder from the west
eave drops fall to deck
street traffic wet and running
through my morning map of love
and a sound divine
still climbing
this is my day.

Rain This Morning

I knew it would be a special day--when I heard its whisper upon returning from another world.

Rain This Morning

Rain this morning—wake to its hush.
Wash me with the love of silence.
Its sound still soaks in dream state
an easy return there
singing God’s name, retracing
the path from darkness.

Rain this morning, a melody,
blessing the final steps of recall
the saga unfolding
as trees draw the water
a new stream feeds the needs
of every acorn planter.

Somewhere a prairie blanket waves
in golden adoration
for its day too will come
on the breast of a meadowlark
and its sunlit song.

But first this note of gentle falling
gives up its other hand as robins indulge
the rain this morning
a token of Love
by this summer soaking.

Go slow at first, release
the knot of yesterday’s brief,
the tears of longing,
and a kitten for Dawn.
Each a splash in the birdbath of song.
The rain this morning
remodels the day.