Crossing the Tracks

--A short short story conceived in a few seconds on a drive back from Greek food at the Athens Cafe. Just by the gait and stride of a young mother in an evening walk, it unfolded...

Crossing the Tracks
by Ardi Keim

Left at the church on the corner. Past the playground of the school of The Holy Family. Recalling the laughter, shrill screams of girls and the most important demands of boys, while two teachers watch half-attentively in their conversation at the edge of the blacktopped confine. Will Robbie be there one day, demanding fairness his way? Another girl shrieks the ending quote of that cyclone fenced memory.

What is freedom?, she wonders now, and every time she passes the school yard--kids or no kids. When she was one of the shrieking girls there, her dreams didn't go much beyond the moment and the fence. But now, approaching the railroad crossing at the dog-leg bend of Orchard Street, she reflected on later thoughts. Was it the spider on the signal box that retreated around the edge as she got closer in this late spring evening? Still a chill in the air, but the sun's angle on the silver-painted metal box reflected the glare of a hot summer day. Though last week she brought the snow shovel from the porch to storage, now she looks southeast down the tracks to another world in August.

She and two girlfriends on one of their adventures mothers never know, in the year before she met Dale. Wild then -- and free. Her only job was assistant to the activity director at summer camp in Wisconsin. She couldn't wait to be out on her own then. Her own car and a good job. There were tracks past camp too--parallel to county road 121. She remembered the rumble in the evening after dinner in down-time on her bunk, or walking by the lake. And once her granddad told her and Tom some stories of his early days on the rails, riding the cars to Spokane and Portland, and once to a place called Lafayette down south somewhere. Adventure and Freedom! And summer day dreams. She could see forever down the tracks. Tom joined the Marines last year. His life seems exciting, even still in training. He says he might go to Pakistan in the fall.

Bump. Bump. The wheels of the stroller hobble across the second track. And her last look southeast, as she re-enters her neighborhood and the realization returns. Dale, Robbie and the news from the doctor earlier today.
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(c) 2008 Ardi Keim
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Imagination Day: Spring At Last

This day –

so far away from last month’s

last chance at winter

in its fits of tightening

and releasing its grip.

Finally, I relax. I soak. I see.

I hear the life in vibration of each pleasing bee

and ant—buzzing, crawling

—climbing to the heights of sky and tree.

.

How do they know?

Is it by memory or deduction?

Or is it by pure imagination

conceived on the dreams of ancient ancestors

and last year’s hive?

The colony survives by these dreams

and written in rote,

not even known till green leaves to light

the way through season.

.

I see the spectrum of new leaves emerging,

At first pale and cheerful in this becoming – and lacy.

Seems almost tentative in their approach.

But even without memory they invade

with the full force of summer color.

Bright and bold, jade and olive

and always multiplying

to fill each tree and yard and forest

in logarithmic advance to their natural abundance.

.

There is no lack in life and love.

In each twig and bud and leaf is the belief in the Divine.

And not by deduction, but by doing

the deed of each instant and dancing

to the song of now.

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I too imagine,

my becoming is new

in the true sense of Spring.

How could it be any different

than each step and each breath

advancing, proceeding from previous green?

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I am an ant on a bud, and the world is mine.

Sweet nectar. And Blessings

of Light and Love.

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Good Tea

She was due home last night, but got bumped in Boston. (Phoenix, really. But I write by license of poetic dreaming.) So one more night. I wait. . . and awake this morning with this most natural thought. (Or was it "the man-on-the-spot"?) :

Good Tea

Good sleepy time teacups together.
Retire relaxed and intending,
but passing the chance
of one kind of bliss
when heads hit their pillows
they're off in a wisp to white willows
and sun of the sandy white shores
where warm breezes easy
asleep in their peace
of good sleepy tea
and dreaming
together
as one.

Both in their slumber
under the quilt of their drifting
blissful in journey somewhere
until chill of cool morning air
draws across errant hair
tickling brow or cheek.
Now from her sleep
still half in a dream
that's quite pleasing,
and hand in that natural spot.
Enjoying no care and pleasant the thought
of the one that's beside her still gliding
out in white clouds of somewhere.
Oh, could it be here at the spot?
And would this one dream
care to catch two?

She reaches across
to a world still receding
and finding the hand of her man
at the most natural spot in support.
Attention! Good Morning.
Good sleepy time treat.
Now awake by intent
or delay of effect.
What matters
comes naturally.
Yet question--priority:
Do we roll for the rocking?
Or first shall we pee?
Good morning.
Good sleepy.
Good tea.

Would Celestial Seasonings have it any other way?
;)
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Love the Feast

What is love, but an honoring of God in everyone?

Can it be for just one without being for all?

You and You, and It and Me

in a tree and on a hill.

We tell the same story

in connection with Source.

We are of a sacred station.

Not tethered in stanchion by thought,

unless we think a lot in circles

and forget who we are.

Are we worthy of a feast?

Reason only takes us so far.

And we’ve all been further than that.

There are seeds in my apple,

orchards in my future with pie

and cinnamon's right

contribution.

Love the feast

we are.

Pink Bow

Spring forth green earth.

Lighten the mood with white buds and laughter.

What was last month, but a fading memory?

Dark clouds no longer shade my days,

but portend a rain of blessings.

Spruce from its laden posture

now lifts in anticipation

of each solar event.

Days of the quickening

lace limber saplings with Forsythia.

Pink is soon to join the daffodils by tulip,

blossom of apple wood,

prunus avium,

and a bow on your jumper.

Me too! Let’s go.

Spring forth in this love.

I remember our first kiss.

Was Spring in a fever.

Your jumper and pink bow.

So free, the memory.

And you in your laughter.

Oh yeah, the reliving

in every Spring.

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
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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
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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
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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.
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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?
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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
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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. :)
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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.
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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.

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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.

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What is Poetry?

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

© 2008 Ardi Keim