...and the three before

The three men standing reminded me of the three I wrote of in 2002:

Young families are moving into our neighborhood, as great-grand dads leave the world they’ve built in the ‘30s. Amazing changes in that time….

Three Guys Walking

Three guys walking on Regent with babies in strollers.
Walking on a side street with babies.
Three guys talking of football
and stock options—
royal choice—
left on 35,
right on Quail.
Three guys walking with babies in strollers.

Ardi Keim 8/10/02

three men standing

On the way to work today...

snowplow-covered bench
looking west with intent and not a word
heard over traffic close and windy
oh bus stop by the highway
three men standing
do you see them?
dressed in black
scarves and
two have caps

Next Month

.
first the robins trill
with morning light
later call of crows
woodpecker rat-tat-tats
dead branch and knows
spring next month
but now the snow
.
--ak

Bird Clock

In Minnesota we only sense its coming. Robins help.

bird clock sounds at 20 till
yesterday's foot of new snow
robins sense a crocus

--ak

A Life-Changing Event

Poetry for me is a succinct, sometimes subtle representation of where I am now in life. Some life-changing events rate more lengthy summaries. Here is a longer post with name changes as required by the foster-care system.

When I was 3 or 6, I remember Mom’s love. I remember her hug and soft, big breasts, which I pressed against in warm embrace. Mom was the whole of my love life—the one-and-only of experience as I knew it. Her kiss at bedtime was the blessing and symbol of all that was good. That was the first impression of love as I recall in this life.

My second perception of the concept was at age 9 or 10—pre-pubescence. And it is hard to see how this view could come from the first. But, I guess, love of self can only be an encore to the love of another. The world centered on me then, not me in tandem with Mom. Discovering there was a world outside myself and my arms-reach, my wants and needs of emotion and bodily function, brought with it the realization that there were many elements of drift in what I thought was a solid state. The layers surrounding the security of a sound source radiated and reflected, guided and tempered, controlled and shielded the blazing heart of Mom’s love. More than just the pleasure of its reality or the pain of its perceived absence, I was beginning to pickup hints and notions of some other kind of love, something that would take over when Mom’s love was no longer available fully to me. But in collecting data on this second type of love, in the environment of my childhood, in our farm family, at a parochial school in the Catholic Church, as well as within the extended family structure of Keims and Ungers, in which our family had its position in the pecking order of the clan: somehow the second type of love didn’t seem too appealing. The thought of boys and girls co-mingling and even touching had no possibility of rightness to me. Ick! Girls? Gag at the thought.

And that reality was firm till stage 3: Puberty – a few years later. Learning about the birds and the bees, and pollinating trees and why the bodies of boys and girls were different at first was repulsive, and then exciting. Sexual awakening for me started at 12 or 13. Keeping pace with the quick-change of body, mind and heart was like tagging rescue workers in a hurricane. Love was a fire then, raging with different winds and dying a thousand deaths in the rain of fickle hearts. There was constant need of stoking or quenching.

Now, that went on, for what seemed like too many years, and I will skip the details. Suffice it to say that the teenage-to-young-adult appetite for love does not evoke fond memories of peace and harmonic balance. In its happening it was more like the brilliance of fireworks falling on a straw house. And looking back from here, it seems like shelling out for the hundred-dollar, twelve-in-one power tool that isn’t worth ten.

But its ultimate semblance of control did set the stage for phase 4—monogamous marriage, thank God. Peace and harmony – pretty much – with just enough stoking and quenching to pave and repair the path of dreams. In comparison to childhood (stage 2) and teenage (stage 3) love, this was bliss. I could relax in the expression of love with Marily.

Then there came baby one, and the 5th realization of love. When Josi was born I could not believe the instant love I felt. No history, no doubts of intention, or fear of manipulation, just an open heart—she to me, I to her. I could not see how I could ever love another person as much as I loved this little one. But, then along came Sarah. And it happened again. Human love couldn’t be any better than the bond between parent and child. It made the pain of child rearing worth the effort.

I thought there could be no improvement to this type of human love. I knew that some day I would be a grandparent. But I did not relate to it like Marily did. She looked forward with great anticipation to the day she’d be holding and loving a child of a daughter. I could imagine it only as a yellowed photo in black and white. Not the picture of a virile and potent young man. Even a mere child or two ago, it didn’t seem right that I should ever be as old as it took to be a grandparent. Not a pleasant thought.

That was till Thursday, February 8th, 2007, 5:15 pm, when we arrived at the home of Josi and Kay.

In September they got a foster child. At the time we were all cautious not to be too attached, as she could be leaving any time. But time went on. Photos showed this little soul that was learning the same lessons we all learned in our growing. The blessings relayed and the challenges shared started the curing of reeds for a weaving. Our visit showed me that I still had a lot to learn of love. And there’s a new dimension in my love life. We call her Peanut. This fresh realization may be an expansion of stage 5 affection, but I feel like it is a whole new leap in a new direction. Stage 6 is grand, in deed. It’s like the debt is paid, the war is won, and the harvest is returning ten fold—a hundred fold.

How can I feel such love for a person I didn’t know was a possibility 6 months ago? To me it is a soul connection and so much more significant than bloodline. We choose our spiritual habitats from choices broader than the reach of hand and urge of instinct.

I’ve learned many lessons of love in this life. Some pleasant, some tough. The teachers of school and church, of family and friends, include our parents and children, and now a Peanut for me. I see the light of God in the twinkle of her eyes, the beauty of a heavenly bouquet in her smile, and the sound of music in her giggle, in her voice.

"Granddad! Granddad! Look at me now!"

I have a new name, a new title. And another understanding of love. What I thought was the pain of child rearing was really training for now. Even my hurting granddad-knees seemed a blessing. For the week following the visit I never soothed the pain, because I never hurt so good from playing for hours on the floor with Peanut, or romping in the snow.

Though my grandfather-hood is not biological, it is very real, for sure. And it doesn’t matter the age or form of love’s expression. Nor that I may, or may not ever, share the genes of a grandchild. Love, once planted, will always grow; and I will enjoy its blooming. Through trials and guidance, reasoning and mistakes, we are immersed in a living water. The whole of grandparenthood—last month a non-issue for me—is boiled down to a single point of focus: My feet are in the river of life right here and now. And there is one more Soul to love.

© 2007 Ardi Keim

Looking Ahead

patchy white cover
retreats slowly in the north
lion sleeps with lamb

Morning Window Frame

Reviewing my journal written the last time here in August. On vacation now, a few days more, with daughter and family. I read and edit.

The light of colors muted, textures bold . . .
Sometime in the night the wind with rain and leaves
did decorate the cornice of a roof
and peeling paint exposes layers of lives
and love each molding made
by the hands of man.
Each tree seeded from above
the conscious fabric of
our passion, our search
now seen through
this morning window frame.

Who Wrote It?

I was reminded that I've been gone from here for too long. Sometimes I blame not writing on the long, dry winter, or the challenge and busy-ness of home renovation on a budget. But all are excuses.

This one started in morning contemplation.

Beyond the quick step and cold heart of winter
is the healing hand of spring.
Even global warming with science and warnings
will not keep the Great Mother
from purging herself of pain.
War and peace and sea level find balance
in the budding of cherry blossoms
and tomorrow's ten below.
What can I do, but listen and follow my heart
in the face of a nation of lemmings
heaven-bent with the glee
of a sea breeze or apathy?
Entertainment Tonight.
Super Bowl Sunday.
Or tonight's news . . .
Who writes it,
but we?

Heaven's Narrow Door

Draft feature not working. Pre-dating by 12 months.

Inspired by article of same name in The Living Word, Book 3 by Harold Klemp. Yes, you have to drop a lot of baggage to gain entry. All but love.

Heaven's Narrow Door

The truth in life,
the truth in word is a study.
Learning lessons
reading the books --
slowly for me.
Reading is not easy.

Upon each reading
of a book of the Master
more lessons--new
or ones I forgot already.
Each moment is new.

Memory?
Is its purpose to set in stone
the truths of life?
My journal
is for record keeping.
All lessons of life and love
are in so many forms.
Does it pay
to cast them in solid form?

Life is also a journal--a journey
of ever-changing syllabus.
All is love.
I choose to study each lesson
in the moment.
Every word comes through
on the breath of God--
eternal respiration,
inspiring my steps.

In cadence
with the word in the wind,
in the scriptures ancient
and the daily news.
All is of the heart divine
and in the hearts of all
who walk the journey.
Come and go.
Inhale and exhale.

There is a message in the wind.
Take it as we can
and give it always
from the heart of Love.
Each moment
is an opportunity
for more.

This Is A Great Day!

.
This is a Great Day!
Sun bright on snow
Everywhere so blest.
And here it came
not in the fury of storm
But gentle
and only enough
to whiten the earth
roads now black and dry.

This is a Great Day!
So was the one when I crashed in a snow bank
last January driving my new car to work.
Or joined the army in ignorance.
In 1964 I didn't even
know of Vietnam.
Or a man called Jesus
Was really born in Spring
to a virgin.

This is a Great Day
to believe
what my experience
and culture and teachers
and the limited workings of my mind
sets in writing some how.

I sit and reflect on this Great Day
that all action comes from belief
and the urge to return
to a state of peace and love.
There is a plan.
And sometimes
when I stop in the void
its working is more than belief
or feeling or knowing
or action.
It is.
A Great Day!
.
--ak

Call to the Mountain

.
I called to the mountain one winter's night
And though there appeared but a wall so dark
An echo came back in bells of song and falls of light.
Sound dance of color from a dark winter's night.
.
I called to the mountain in that dark night
And now every season its echo returns
A song of peace and joyous light.
.


                                   --ak 12/23/06

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.