October Notes

Love this season. A walk, a drive. The view from windows west . . .
In just a week there was this turning. Earth warmth and rich in greens with fruit and seeded pods, to colors from a higher realm. And blest
with a new perception of your heart.

Photo by Dave Larson
Photographer's note: Sunshine streamed into this hillside grove just before I started taking pictures near Chanhassen, MN.

October Notes

Abundance rich
The senses now reflect
A revolution of heart in gold
And colors primary full unfolding
Crossing lined and rolling ways
Lies lace and jeweled by sun
The rain's first mist in touch
And yet before advance of wind
After night's chill and blessings fall
Like love notes from months past and next
Heaven's message in these leaves
To buffer winter's risk alright
Warm now with your hand
And hearts together tried
Still holding.

Waiting for Perfect Light

In contemplation this morning a scene of natural setting came to me. Not a lot of detail, but vivid in its beauty and light. I chose to paint it in haiku.

blue boat by gray dock
matching the distant hills
she waits with pastels

In selecting that last line, I thought of a friend--an artist and writer. So I visited her website and found a similar scene in her Waterways gallery. I can see her there on the bank in yellow hat.

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Relationship—The Lessons We Learn

This isn't poetry, but rather a short piece of humor from which you may detect a bit of wisdom gleaned along the lines (front lines, that is) of the battle of the sexes. That war, by-the-way, is one I do not support—though as a reporter of the human condition, I have been known to get caught up in the battle a time or two too many. And if you are a believer in reincarnation (like over 50% of the world population) you may appreciate the suggested answer to the two original questions that came to the thinking being, indeed our race. And we are still running.

Who am I? Why am I here?

If our mission were to unfold in divine blessings singularly under one God, I'm quite sure my incarnations would have been limited to a handful. But, alas, I detected another soul in my world and I uttered, or I gestured, or I reached out and touched that one. At first it was quite exciting. New and fresh. Every word, every effort was a way to improve my condition. I knew it was good by my feelings, physical—and . . . some other, undefined way. Every echo of my call. Every response to my action, were all reflections of my desire. All day long.

And the next day she said, "What about me?"

I said, "Me? I am me." And she contradicted, saying, "No. I am me."

And these words and similar went on for some time—about ten-thousand lifetimes. And finally one of us started to realize—perhaps it was the day at the still lake when she saw herself as I saw her. And she saw me, but backwards and behind her. And I've been behind her ever since in the words department.

She said, "It's all about perspective. I see you and you see me. And we are different. And we are the same. I am me, and you are you. And we are we. You see? The birds and the flowers and the bees and the trees. and my mother's great aunt…."

And I said, "Oh."

But I did see, though sometimes I had to plug my ears to do so. I saw what she saw when I realized my reflection is a good way to see what I've become.

So for some time, about a hundred-thousand lifetimes, we've been learning about the differences and likenesses of each of us. You and you, and you, and me. And you and you and you. Actually there are quite a lot of us now, and only one me.

You see, one thing we always agreed upon is how good it felt to couple. Even if only for the pleasure to me. And you, of course, as your own me. And so there continues to be a multiplying of a lot more us.

Us! That's it. We all have wants and needs and desires. And some of us started to realize that what gives you happiness also gives me happiness as well. And your happiness gives me happiness. And that mine does not take away from yours.

So with her wisdom I am starting to learn that relationship is a give and take situation. Or is it give and give? After all, it was take and take for so long. Balance is good.

Balance in relationship. That's why we're here—for the lessons learned therein. And what we really gain when we put what we have learned into practice.

Take me ahead about a million more lifetimes. I'm looking forward to when I won't have to come back anymore. I'll just stay there with you. And you and you and you. We all have hope.

in the river

.
there is
the sea that draws me
from ground spring
and forest rain
to carry its life on leaf
and rippled song -- a notion
thought of going home
becomes an urge
compelling
ocean of heart
current in this river
there it is
the sea
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New Straw

The other day, at my desk at work, for some reason I picked up a scent like none other so rich and comforting. It took me back to my boyhood on the farm. And this morning a golden glow out my morning window . . . In my journal I brought it together in verse:

New Straw

Late summer scent
New straw sweet
Cut and drying
Save morning due
The cooler nights
And now at first light
Reaching low over hills of gold
This glow and the harvest
Of my heart opening
Each new day
To love
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I Walk

Discomfort with pen. The time almost up. It's been years since I haven't read my hour's creation. It's writers block in writers group. On Thursday night our group meets. Fresh writing for an hour, then reading. I wanted to capture the sense of peace in a forest walk. Too many false starts. But it is not to be. The flow of ink is stopped by a dull mind after long day. Resigned, I stop grasping for straws and I reach in another direction.

Then it begins . . .

I walk in the city, approaching Times Square from the direction of Madison Square Garden -- south, I believe. Hundreds of cars and cycles, taxis and trucks. Thousands of people. Black and white and colors of clothes. Suits and coats. Decked out in dress. And skinheads and dreds. Hats and backpacks on mothers-to-be.

The movement of masses. The people and traffic. Like a churning sea. The wave of human current does not wait for signal to flow, but crowds the street as a break in traffic allows. The tide forever rises and falls, not resting when gravity pulls by the cycles of earth and moon.

New York. Steel and stone. Pavement and people. Lights and song of everything industry. Culture and commerce. Theater and glow. Pulsing with arts in symphonic show. Vendor's display in windows and street. Rayon and silk. With mustard or sweet. Characters diverse. Derelict and divine. Beggars at church. Panhandle for wine. Bells and whistles and horns I hear. Cuisine, the finest. And pizza and beer.

Before I visited the city, I perceived it differently. A picture of life in fright from cramped quarters and crime. But in this walk I realize. It's all part of a much larger whole. Soul sees the higher view.

I walk toward Times Square. This too is life! And a new sense of invigoration. And control. Like I'm shooting the rapids. Or surfing the perfect storm. I am in the sea, but of the Love that gave all Life.

And at once -- a new setting. Serene. Overlooking the Pacific. On the north Oregon coast. The trail from the rain forest opens to the vista on a knoll of wind-bent coarse grass. And below -- a soft-sand beach. Unfurls in Light. The Sound. And forever -- the Sea.

I walk in peace within.

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swing rhythm in oak

A friend told of a memory and her love of pastime in swing. I put the pictures it evoked into verse . . .

rings the sitter for the boys
walks down the street to the old church
white steeple, steep steps and trees
there's an ancient oak with arms
and a rope-slung seat
that calls her
the child
and dreamer
of Pegasian adventure
beyond the shade and stars

an hour sails past then two
the child six now grown
has flown years
by swing
always to ride
by the rhythm of life
till troubles of day
turn to waves
in the light
and sky

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Barefoot and Naked

This one actually started as a sense of oneness with a usually-less-loved side of nature. I was barefoot in cut-offs and without shirt while picking raspberries. Then some nettles tuned my senses to its possibility of my discomfort. And a bee buzzed my head.

I long ago learned that bees and wasps do not attack without cause. Neither do nettles or thorny vines. And even an encounter with such elementals have purpose beyond pain. (Google bee sting therapy. Or stinging nettle therapy.) Fear is a worse affliction. Love is the antidote.

Barefoot and Naked
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On the other side of comfort
there's a garden too
past blooms and roots
tomato red
mint scented
protected by elemental
thorn, thistle
and bumble bee.
.
As Soul I am free
don denim and leather
boot and sleeve
and long for adventure --
oh pillow and rocking chair.
.
Still barefoot and naked
on this side of me.
.

in soft velvet

.
smooth, round & purple
hiding in soft velvet leaves
first eggplant ripens
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I Will

When I was much younger, I would banish the thought.
But as I advance toward an age of retirement,
I am glad to release some of the
past importance.
Plot is so much more intricate and character fine.
What youth may not even notice
is a world of adventure, exploration
and insight.

When I am old
I will remember
the glee and song.

When I am old and wise
I will remember
the lesson of questions and sky.

When I am old and wise with white hair
I will remember
my youth and the color and the hearing
if I remember.

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My Window

It could be the first light announced by robins at dawn. Or the arbor still black in silhouette. A squirrel or neighbor's tom. Or semi versus motorcycle in distant freeway traffic. From my window I see and hear. I go there by love seat and journal. Come with me if you like.

Today in the rain
a deer looked my way
from the tree line 50 yards off.
I raised the paper in my hand
and waved to her.
White flag of peace.
Ears perk and gaze more alert
She looked south
before her fawn
came bounding closer
Then both were off
to the safety of a thicket.

In the forest
what color is
the flag of peace?

Earlier . . .

Still before storm,
and Starlings gather.
Elm and oak are occupied.
Talk in the alder is of earth and sky.
Why do we bother with thoughts of loss?
Clouds roll up into thunder heads.
And peppers ripen.

Yesterday, lifting the morning blinds to a new day, they greeted me again. A pair of crows. So often they show up as my muse and inspiration.

Two crows of consciousness
sitting on a fence
One flies right and one leaps left.
Black as a feather,
blue as the sky
While they are living,
They'll never die?

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A New Glade

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There! The sun shines on the green wall.

Wall of the forest facade.

I see just the first bank of trees

In leaf, showy and bright.

But vision is not just of this.

Penetrating. I see.

I’ve been there before,

Beyond the facade.

I’ve walked through the layer of bright-lit green.

I’ve walked through the light.

Away from song and dance of everyday.

Into the past. The future.

And into the silence of now.

Even the rustle and twitching of unseen events

Adds to the silence of a softer hue.

Sings of a cool summer shade

And touches the glade of memory:

Your first breath in my ear.

The word before I knew

Your name.

.

I walk. I sit.

I dream and fly.

And we are together.

Beyond the facade and the song.

Till the sun’s angle changes everything.

And there is but one peace.

And love.

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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.

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Claiming Dreams

Through my morning window I observed motion on the tree across the street. Three squirrels. My first thought was 'Haiku.' But it is the 4th of July, Independence Day in the US. I start to grasp the net that ties it all together . . .

Claiming Dreams

New maple domain
Early sun broadsides gray trunk
Young squirrels play three.

All is right across the lot
Yet others say, It's too late
To celebrate this day
Independence Day
Freedom from oppression
Claiming our destiny.

In my dreams
I can do whatever I want
A rock becomes a leaf
A leaf -- a bird
And I become a squirrel
To claim my domain.

Hey wait a minute!
We can all dream.

Why wouldn't our dreams
Out-vote the nightmare
Of fear and despair?
Of terror and poverty
And global disaster?
Which do we choose?

Good Morning, World!
Wake up!
Claim your domain.
It starts with a dream.

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Airshow

Every Father's Day there is an airshow somewhere close. Like a lot of men I love aviation, but I chose not to go. I garden instead.

Airshow

Pulling pigweed from potato hills
and watering strawberry row,
I hear a warbird roar.
No. Two in formation fly by,
and off in a distant drone.
Blue sky through trees,
and white clouds,
like smoke on horizon.
My attention is drawn up
and northward. Reaching.
I remember another life...
Was it Nam? or France?
Or a movie clip
that moves my soul.
I go there for seconds.
Maybe minutes like the first.
Then a bluejay lands in the maple.
And another. Excited. Ready.
Like dads at an airshow.
I watch -- and they're off
in a dive, a bank and a roll.
Dad at an airshow
as I take my hoe.
Delighted again
in reflection.
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Contrast in Morning Song

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Traffic with its accent
and backbone of motorcycle monotone
lingers from window to wane.
           A robin in contrast to city.
           give me forest and glen
           and the silent side of Mt. Rushmore
           is real life teeming.
I breathe in this solace of Life and Sound.
Dreaming of true song
and patter.
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Interlude

So much in every moment . . .

Interlude

Crow calls
and a black crow
lights on a wire beside it.

           We watch the morning garden
           in its light and life.

Till the next call. And off.
A second. An interlude.
A crow.

.

Morning Light

I love this time of day!!

***

Morning Light

Every morning
earth's first breath is a blessing in Light
rolling uninterrupted
through infinite possibility.
As we synchronize our Breath
with each other's
we know this love:
Reflective. Translucent.
And Live.
And when night falls here
millions of mornings are re-lit.
It hasn't stopped yet.
So we soak our oats and know more grow
till the Harvest is brought in
by Summer's Light.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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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