the window

.
when I leave
I will slip out the window
unseen -- like a thief in the night
taking only the jewel but leaving a seed
of its light for visitors who can see
with the eyes of every night
as stars shine through
the window
.

emergence

• We watched the movie, Juno, last night. Sweet. Appropriate drama. Love working its way through lives becoming aware and living rich in unfoldment.
• And in the night, in the night and this morning awakening, the leg of my wife and lover, bent and laid across my middle... my hands remembered the emergence:

emergence

you touched me
with the emerging force
of an always-known universe
forgotten and remembered
a million times
each like the only
remembering of my
very self -- the touch
a heel or elbow
you know
with both hands
on her belly
you touched me

• One daughter. Two. Or a million... And how many sons? In this life, upon our first birth and her subsequent emerging in light and character, I wondered how could love be any better than this. Upon the second, I knew that love is not limited to the small concept of one or two, but is expressed in the limitlessness of the One Source in All. And I'm reminded every day in the voices and actions of a story that reforms and self-rights a back-story of limited minds. Our intellects have a low ceiling without love--offered and accecpted.
  

late martin

.
knocking now on dawn's window
what was only random thoughts of longing
now a song more seen than heard
as the frozen wind
rattling branches and drifting white
wisps for a new note
of possibility .
only yesterday
still rain and gloom-cast
then like a late martin migrating
air currents carry my heart
to every corner of chance
now seeing only aces
in a hand of magic
to play the heart card
and start a fire in the hearth .
knowing weather's wind of change
and every morning's dawn
draws open the blind
of new possibility
and sunshine
.

First Breath

As a scent on the wind, or a mist
rolling into the valley at night
as a glance of a stranger
a smile from a baby's
contended delight
at awakening…
Come to me
like the thought
of great grandfather
who died before I was born…
Oh God, come to me like my first breath
and the breast of my mother
the Magic, the Life
of your love
.

Along the River

Some lives are lived ~ and at the end: fond memories.
Others -- relief at their completion. What next?

Remember the journey
along River Millennia . . .
Was endless and joy
in the summer
of bounty
blueberries
sweet reverie together
before the forest
and quiet sleep
of dreams
with amber light
white clouds building.
And then . . .
Do your remember?

Island Oasis

On the desert of mystery
My thirst is quenched
And flasks are filled
At the oasis.
Lost at sea in a dingy
An island appears
Promising life,
O rejoice!
I am a traveler of time
Mariner of the universe
Pleiades, Atlantis, Egypt and now.
Island oasis for Soul
And I know my true home
Is of ever and always
Of an island oasis
Not here.
.

On Time

Listen up. Light the torch. Awaken sweet dreamers.

(Art from Dan's Papers.)












On Time

Moving through the night unseen
except where posted lamps flood light
on its progress growing.
Would you ever know
if you were deaf?
Are you?
Train comes early.
Or is it just on time?
.

Secret Pages

One from the past...










Image from re-nest.

Secret Pages

Secrets you keep from every other
show ever painted in the color of your eyes
in the corner of your smile
and while you never speak or write
the truth of heart
that grandchildren will not find
I read it in your eyes and in your smile
know you like my soul
wish I knew myself as well
can’t help the heart it cries
in echoes calling you
and me from lifetimes
of past ancestors progeny
while generations
issue script will be once more
of secret page’s note
can’t ever speak or write
or paint its color outside the lines
words and tones reflected in your eyes
in the corner of your smile
in the rhyme
secrets kept and stories never told
you’ve kept the secret yours
the verse is mine.

--ak 1/5/02
.

April Desert in March

Many years ago I was traveling by bus from Tucson to Ft. Huachuca, Arizona for a military assignment. Looking across barren landscape variations, meager vegetation, rocky precipices -- ancient memories ~~ Traveler in Time. Stark. Pure. Fresh in the arid air. Never like it before -- that bus ride. (I found the art below on the Sojourn Bike Tours website. It portrays well the images I still feel.)



Then yesterday April told me of an experience she had while visiting the Tucson area last week. It brought me back to that long-ago journey of mine. I had to write. In verse...

April Desert in March

Desert precipice with vista
Facing wind and the universe within
See the sand dance and crackle
The dryness without you

If I could cry a thousand tears
would rain replenish this River
and quench my one thirst?
So many other Souls
may never know
the first call
is Love.

Thanks, April, for the memories. :)
.

First Call of Spring

I wrote this one a number of years ago. And even though we haven't experienced temps much above freezing lately, there have been some robins feeling it too, and calling in song.

First Call of Spring

First call of spring
From dense boughs of fir
And bare-twigged lilac
Robin and friends
Call the bulbs still deep beneath
The snow bank, white and gray.
How many inches will melt today?

First call of spring
And the crocus
Gathers its pull of moons and suns
To lead hyacinths
Ahead of other banners
Of March through May.
Colors from black earth
When the thaw turns it green.

Before the light dawned this morning—
The first call of spring—
The robin, snow crocus,
Black earth turning green.

—3/3/01

A Small Book of Poetry

This is something I've wanted to do for so long. It is now available:

Tree Song -- Poetic Tribute to Earth and Sky
by Ardi Keim

It is a short collection of my poems (14) on this arbor-lovers theme. I first put it together for my mother's birthday several years ago when she was still with us. I now share it further. Some of the poems you may have read on this blog already.

When I get with it and set up a PayPal account, I will offer it for $5.00 on River-Tree Whispers, including shipping to US addresses.
.

Toll of Revolution

Morning window inspired . . .

Refresh this day now cast in gray
Awake. A thought.
Then gentle current plays
Across this morning
Warming hearts
And melting winter's grip
I slip into a reverie
Of season's slow approach
Matt and white and gray
Succumb to pallet's paint
Blue and green and blossoms
Budding rich in pinks
The light of song
In robin's calling new
To trill the toll of revolution earth
And morning's gift. Awake.

.

Florida Last Week

Tamiami Trail through the Everglades

Last week we flew from Minneapolis to Orlando. After a conference we drove to the Everglades and stayed with friends at the Everglades Spa and Lodge. What a relief from winter here, back home. Upon landing and pulling up to the gate, the captain said, "You might want to put on a coat. It's 8 below on the jetway." Reality sets in. But there is a memory . . .

Everglade Winter

Everglade weather in winter

and perfect sight

brilliant where color of flora

and fauna song calling

meet with grand appetite

to compete with each other.

Variety to match the many legs

of mangrove and egrets

still reflection

with the exception

of eye, nostril and bumps

floating, sunning or waiting for lunch.

Mud, grass and brackish swirl as the tide.

Swamplands give way to dense wood

green waves and vine bush

hiding more wildlife—

unseen and some near.

What wildcat? Raccoon.

And a deer’s leap only heard as we pass.

Long islands on a sea of sawgrass

Cypress Strands only growing

with the flow

from Ochechobee

Vistas also spotted by an archipelago

of cabbage palms and palmetto

each matched by a patch of sky white.

An echo-song calling

‘cross colors and water—

A memory repeating

as we are retreating.

Once conquered by weather

We relax in the note of this song

in the season when

Everglade winter sets in.

Poetry Nut

Last night we watched August Rush. Its universal message about the calling of Soul applies to each of us whether our passion is music, motorcycles or make-overs. My art form is poetry. What is the kernel of your dream?

Poetry Nut

There’s something I can’t touch,
but I love its application
As I listen
to the nut
of every shell.

There’s a voice in every Soul
every scene
every stone
and it calls us to attention
when we listen.

There’s a gift in every form
transcribed as song
and dance and poem
if we listen
to the voice of every form.

.

What is Poetry?

Listening to the sound of light
and writing with the pen of freedom.
It speaks to you.

© 2008 Ardi Keim

That Easter

Brick chimney, green ivy tapers skyward
Rain in northwestern New Hampshire
Fireplace in old country cottage
Red door, hook rug, and tea
I remember the scent
Of your sweater
That Easter
And you
Yes
Dreams are like smoke sometimes rising.

.

Sheep Dogging

When I was a boy we had a dog named Togo. He took his job seriously--guarding the homestead. But we had a sign for callers:

Beware of Dog.

____________________________

Sheep Dogging

Celebrity makes it possible
for all to drop a name
was it Reagan or John Wayne
who coined "Make my day!"?

And because one says, oh so sincerely
"I too have a dream!"
does it mean his truth rings true
to Martin Luther King?

Just because we know the jargon
of stump and social standing
it does not mean we speak the truth
but just in sheep-dog ranting.

____________________________

Animals can represent the best and worst of human behavior. (Check out animal totems.) I love them and have heard it said that they hold the higher consciousness of the planet, which keeps us from self-annihilation. They have unique status in the kingdom of souls.
.

freedom's long wait

A past life, a vision of possibility, or deep look into a soul too long in torment... I first saw it, heard it, in October.

rattle key and chatter of the rats
their echo halts my freedom dreams
by iron clank and clatter seems
to resonate in grinding off
the dross and reverie of loss

sound now low note of gate unlocked
drown out the chorus as I'm mocked
by enemy most, some were friend
all in this creaking song of time
rust still breaking in its whine

awaken now a thirst within
hidden by that ancient sin
knowing now I drop from bone
a cover drawn against the cold
to rise and pass steal door and go

I leave by these steep steps of stone
and cross the halls of reckoning
through corridors of jeering souls
this walk through time and now: sunshine
to freedom's wooden framed gallows

This isn't the best writing of mine, but I think the feeling comes through.

Secret in Love Song

Recognizing the beauty of a flower

or joy in the face of a baby

is not by degree

or pitch of exclamation

but by a sacred respect

only hinted at by glint of eye

or the smile held close in its brilliance

more a secret in the love song to God.

Fireworks express full freedom

when truth is of the heart--

for toll of ocean waves

crash long on shores

inhabited or not.

With the whack of a racket ball

catching the morning train

or love-making ecstasy--

each prayer is heard
by breath of heart

.

Grandpa's Wagon

I had two granddads I don't recall--I was too small after they passed away. But I had a dad and mom, and I know the kind of love of grandfolks. I can go there in soul, in poem. Fiction or not. Stories, the lives of others and gleaned from my own memories and make-believe . . .

Grandpa's Wagon

Grandpa told his stories
In a mind of other time:
When I was young
I had a wagon
Green and gold letters--the words
Don't know what the writing said
Stoked full and pulled
From Pa's woodshed.
I liked my little wagon
Green and gold.
And when the wheels got old and broke
Too many heavy loads
Pa replaced them with four runners
Lined with steel for snow and ice.

I liked my wagon sled
And new one painted red.
We stoked a lot of wood
In snow and rain
Grandpa always said.

I can hear
My daughter's daughter
Say, Granddad
Can we go out and play?

.