Lightning and Fog

Have you ever had a time staying awake at the keyboard?
Not that it has ever happened to me.
I write, but I should have slept more the night before.

Sleep. So good. But trying to stay awake. Not so. First the fog, then—a cold-sweating wave of torture. Worse than the pangs of death remembered of past incarnations. O, give in. I give up. Take me out of this condition of schism. I try to stay alert—forcing thoughts of consciousness, of reason. Rationale. Objective observation. Simple math or alphabet. But it does not hold. Milliseconds seem like minutes, and minutes—hours, while lifetimes of strangers pass through the visions dancing. Advancing. Retreating. Edicts and off-hand compliments. Criticism of each unexpected appearance—saints applaud and demons mock this stream of unconscious flocking. Though grand insight and dull devotion intermingle in this distortion of space and time, a wealth of story, intrigue, inspiration unfold in silent succession. Plot and character pours forth from the final place of muse reflection. Song-writers, poets and mystery writers take weapon and battle to death for this. But death stops no pain, and not is retained. Memory gives way to a starry voyage. A river of light. The cave of echoes mocking. The fog is closing. Soft. In peace. And Snap! A crack of lightning. Bolt awake. No going back. And forth—the raging storm of peace. Succumbs to apple pie, the crumbs of hope and holy stones complete. It's all a dream somewhere. The fog and shocking truth that all is of a plan. Harmonic in its light. A stab now right to soul. So lonely in the snow. Keeps calling. All in the last seven seconds. Calling me awake. Takes a gentle rocking, despite a desperate attempt at return. But no. It’s not to be. Eyes clamp and chin drops. Hand to key repeating Vs, unending. Tapped the place of ancient passage. Slipping. Slipping. Sleep—so good. Damn the keeper of bad dreams.

The Kitchen Garden

I garden. I eat. I love.

The Kitchen Garden

What do I know of food, but love?
Marily prepares it
I eat and love it.
It is the love that nourishes.
The love superimposed on every molecule
in every morsel.
She is among the best I know
at doing this, surpassing mother
and grandmother
and every old lady
who lived in a shoe.
Better than bakers dozen
and fairytale cook of stone soup.
What do I know?
I don’t cook.
I just eat it.

But wait!
Who grew those potatoes?
I did.
Who planted the carrots
and hoed in the row
keeping the weeds to their knees?
Tomatoes bowing to sun
and growing red
peppers green
while moon offers harvest tips
before the beans can climb the fence
escaping to neighbors
'cause a garden won't walk out the gate.
Shovel and clipper, a wheelbarrow load
and squash à la carte
side salad salsa
and blueberries à la mode.
I know, I know.
I grow ‘em.

Ever wonder why homegrown is better than bought?
I found out as a boy on the farm.
Mom was the gardener and cook.
Dad milked the cow and plowed till dusk.
On our 20 acre plot
we had a garden and a barn
an orchard and grape vines.
Once mom made dandelion wine.
It tasted great before I was old enough
to know.

We knew all living things were by the love of God.
We worked together for the food.
Even hard work was good
on the farm.
Someone told me once—
was it Mom or Aunt Louise?
who made goat cheese
like none other:
It’s not the food that feeds you.
Love those seeds before you plant them.
Hold ‘em in your hands
give them your breath and teach 'em
what love is. Put them in your mouth.
Caress them.
They’ll learn to know your needs
and track all past disease to present.
Infuse what’s needed for prevention
in their pods and roots and leaves.
Peas and beets and spinach
need clean water.
But better that you first
soak your feet in the bucket from the well
and water after dinner
when the tree-line hides the sun.
Or in the morning before it rises
higher than your shoulder blades.
And grass is not to mow,
but for sheep and goats to eat
providing what is needed for those beets.
Brown the springtime garden before it grows.
Love your seeds before you plant them.
Walk barefoot on the dirt.
It works to love
the plants you grow
and let them know you.

Life is love's expression.
Love is God in food.

© 2009 Ardi Keim

(For more on Marily's cooking see High Cuisine.)
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Sings from the Window

Our writers group meets for an annual retreat at the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum. Today is the day.

Sings from the Window

View to the west this winter day
an abundance of life
and the light.
Chickadees in trees preening
and swiping their beaks.
Woodpeckers exploring each bark crevasse
one red-headed and another
speckle-striped
black and white.

Two cardinals at the feeder and more in the bush.
A fat crow sunning in a high branch
overlooking the footbridge
and frozen lake.
Two, no three others
now light to form a tree-top flock
and call themselves
to sovereignty.

A fiefdom of other birds
join the lower ranks.
Most of them
I do not know and need not.
Their beauty is
the knowledge of Soul,
a waking dream
of Thanksgiving,
of Gratitude,
of Love.

I rest in this peace,
this retreat of nature
and supernatural ambiance.
It sings.

© 2009 Ardi Keim

Out of the Blue

Note the right-hand sidebar icon of the book Out of the Blue--Preparing for Other Worlds under Recommended by River-Tree Whispers. This book of spiritual poetry was written by a good friend of mine, and includes one of my poems in the introduction.

An example of her work is reproduced below. It is a favorites of mine in the collection:

Breath
by Melanie Payne

Like the air we share
Not belonging to one
More than another
God embraces us individually
Equally
Simultaneously cared for
Loved
We share atoms with ancients, newborns
All life
Connected at the core of survival
With each encounter
All are blessed
Both teacher and student
From first breath of life

Poetry

Head submits
to heart and soul
so hand and voice
can yield a poem.

--ak

Free

The original version of this poem was written in my spiritual search about thirty years ago. The nature of Soul is of Love, of Truth, and of Freedom. Recognizing we are all of the one divine Source is the starting point of that true nature.

Free

Free to look into your eyes
and see that you are me
that we are one
despite apparent differences
the union of spirit
is strong and eternal
though ego plays the games
spirit reigns.

We need not know
or see, or play
just be.
Then and now
forever after we
are Free.

© 2009 Ardi Keim (written ~1979, rev 2/21/09)

Kissing Baby Feet

Love comes in many ways. Once I made a Valentines Day card for my wife. It said (I wrote), "Valentines Day - big deal - just another day - I love you more." Pure love can fit convention. Often it doesn't. Then there are babies. Thirty-some years ago--our daughters . . . . And ever after.

Sweet as a spring bloom

Warm like fresh bread

Autumn leaves

The forest scented

Kissing baby’s feet.


© 2005 Ardi Keim 1/29/05

Moments We Share

Words to encourage
A smile or a glance
View from the window
A call on a chance
Symbols of heart time
A line from your poem
Our journey’s mile
Winding road home

Love for our children
Their trials and joys
The moments we gain
To mend hearts and toys
Lifetime of volumes
Verse linked by gold
Turn back the covers
Soul never grows old

Skyline of white tops
Trail through the glades
Bridge of the Gods walk
Crossing the page
Like art in the great hall
And South Seas salt air
Eternal these gifts
The moments we share

--Ardi Keim 7/20/02

Eternity of Gaze

One from the past...

Eternity of Gaze

What words can say is already said.
Sounded so untrue
when repeated outside the head.
Better in song of heart
or dance—the message of soul—
when the melody leads
true steps of love will follow.
Better still: the smile in your eyes.
Can I look at you awhile?

The color of my love
is not framed in black and white.
There is a golden glow
that only silence holds.
Eternity of words
in this forever gaze.
I see in your face the sun at midnight.
A total eclipse cannot hide
your light.

What words say
can only hint at what is right.
In the sleep and in the smile
I heard you say the word of soul.
Can I look at you awhile and read your love?
Is written in your heart,
is mine to hold.

(c) 2002 Ardi Keim 3/7/02

Shedding the Mask

Before the battle
Donning chain mail and plate
Wrought shield and sword
Gave him comfort secure
Even knowing the enemy
Would claim its portion
In life and limb.
He rode onto the grounds of destiny
With confidence – virile and strong –
Intent on his duty
And the dance of his charge.

But after days of execution
Precise and of chance
Seeing the slain – comrade and foe
A weary portent of final fever
Crept onto the field.
First, more a false thought
Like a glance off the helmet
Or arrows to underbush.
But now, predominating,
Overwhelming his being,
Corrupting his dream.

He wanted to shed the armor
To gain new life
Revive in strength
And mount again his steed
Stripped of all but cinch
Stirrup and grip.
Take flight and annihilate
The heaviness of fate
Of hate and righteous anger
By the lance of light and heart
Is Soul renewed.

The war in the higher world
Is charged with pure intent
By the shock of truth.
No longer the battle commands
Of darkness afar
And deviant deed.
No longer the deceit
of mask and cover.
A new battle rejoined
When was it first?
And when will we march again?

Today, padded and fit
For two more months of winter
And its multiple of worn reality
Of users debt froze fast.
I tire of the mask and cover.
Spring comes as earth turns
Slowly. And lightning strikes
The flyers of false keys slyly kited.
But also it lights
The pine tree of freedom.
Shedding my mask I see.

Really it was just another below-zero winter day that inspired this. It aint Spring yet? No. And other storms do threaten.

Addendum 1/31/09:
If you detect a slight political tinge to this post, you are right. Covering snow drifts with snow seems clean, but the dirt and dog dung is all exposed soon enough. I feel all stimulus plans and bailouts are just a lot of fluffy ferry dust blinding us with false promise and hiding a worse storm ahead. The snow mask isn’t all we must remove. Freedom (economic and otherwise) comes with responsibility—not schemes to pad the pants of the devious and well connected.

I really didn’t intend on getting political and preachy here. If you’d like to have my expanded view see my Share Tree blog and my post on Financial Responsibility.

Lonely Hours -- Two Recollections

The fist is mine written April 7, 1998:

I cannot remember it's start this time, but life is good for me. Times were good, and they were hard . . . I don't remember bad. There's a balance in its memory--playtime joy, fantasy adventure, even heartfelt hurt. I now treasure the hard times, for looking back, they're good.

I do recall at three, or four, or five years old, for sure. We walked the field, my sister and I, in sun, and flowers, and wind on wheat. We followed thistle and grasses wove in the fence--the rust-wire fence that led us post-by-post to the pasture furthest south and east from the house. In these two acres with the three oak trees, and bramble near the corner post outside the gate, the hours slipped by as we were blessed with bachelor button and dandelion--over the hill, down from the barn, by the creek.

We didn't hear Mom calling, or know her frantic search--or know why she shed tears upon our gift bouquets.

Nor did I understand my sobs, when later Mom would read the poem she wrote of this account: Lonely Hours. She read it many times to family and friends, and uncles and aunts. And never in that time, and to the age of reason, did I hear the poem without my heart being wrung and wrenched of tears. I'd often leave the room before its final lines. Or Mom would forewarn the reading, so I could retreat outside. But still within my heart, what was the pain I felt? Even in silence the oft repeated rhyme cried loudly for relief.

This morning I glanced at the portraits of my daughters on the wall. I paused and understood, as tears formed in my eyes. There is no shame in crying--for a mother's love. And no misunderstanding can hide a boy's heart from his mother, or his daughters' from their dad.

I wrote that piece after our daughters had left home already. At times someone would ask, Do you miss them? My answer is always: No. I love them. Same with my mother. I don't miss what lives in my heart.

Our girls are now about the age my mom was when she wrote of the above incident. Here is her poem:

Lonely Hours

My feet ache, still my heart is glad.
The small ones left; it made me sad.
I scolded them a while before
And all because they slammed the door.
It woke the baby and made him cry
And, oh, for peace so much longed I.
They asked me, then, what should they do?
I paid no heed. Before I knew
A silence rare fell all around --
Those little ones could not be found.
Perhaps they thought of what to do,
But where were they? If I just knew.
Oh, please, God, help and keep them safe
And I'll be good and never chafe
At little things they often do
And noise they make the whole day through.
I called and called -- no answer came.
I ran and ran 'til I was lame.
Down to the creek -- they were not there.
Where could they be, that tiny pair?
I called some more; the plane o'er head
Drowned out my voice. Oh, were they dead?
Up through the lane, top of the hill --
No children there, it was so still.
Hastening on farther away
Next through the field I made my way.
I called and called and called again --
Only the rustling of growing grain
Blown by the wind was all I heard.
Where was Mary? Where was Gerard?
I fear and hope I sped along,
Shies were clouding, the way was long.
Shading my eyes the better to see
Two objects small beneath a tree.
And there they were quite unconcerned,
Those two dear ones for whom I yearned,
Their tiny hands clenched with flowers
Gathered by them these lonely hours.
Thank God they're safe and I must weep.
Oh, happy heart, but aching feet! . . .

I have to say, I think mom's rendition is the better one. Another one of her poems can be read in my eulogy for her in August of 2006.

.

Signals

Catching glimpses of other characters on our stage, scenarios unfold, sometimes intermesh with a scene or lesson of our own.

Signals

Two trains pass not stopping.
Otherwise there’d be doors opening
and passengers exchanging places.
Maybe names, and even
affinities forming.
Long wait at the station
into nowhere on this line.

We pass on the platform everyday.
Don’t look at your face
and you never open my eyes with yours.
What would happen if the train stopped
and we touched each other
on the Express to Central?

I could see forever in your eyes.
Or has the conductor
already signaled ahead?
Sliding doors, passing cars,
and hearts never fully opened.

(first published in 2005)
.

Radiance

Photo by Dave Larson



...always.

In the darkest hour
those that did not hide
from the light
realized that freedom
cannot be curtailed by the forces of darkness.
And others have not yet experienced
the darkest hour
for they know light
always prevails.
Light is within.
Dark forces.
Light shines...
and always.

Good Day!


.

Pecan Pie

I had a piece today. Pie -- so good. And I couldn't help comparing some experiences.

There are two ways to have a piece of pecan pie.
Served on fancy plate dishes
floral and gilt-edged
with a silver fork.
Cut the tip bite-size
nut-half wedge first bite
sweet and rich the taste
recalling every past pecan pie.

Or cut a slice with a butter knife
finger-morsels and crumb-dripping
ooze-- oh!-- on a napkin if your lucky
but palms and more fingers is fine
and in mouth-size bites
three of four in all
to tongue-watering reception
by instinct of textures
dissolving, sliding
to the being of sated joy
before the crust flakes
of butter-baked
and melting made happy
by pecan pie.

There are two ways of making love
and eating pecan pie.

--ak 12/18/08
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Flying Kite

Sometimes poets and philosophers are lumped together and venerated. Or by others -- ridiculed as out of touch with the real world. There is truth everywhere. And we all have our own version. . . .

Philosophy -- not so!
Poetry -- So!
And common sense.
Give me a windstorm anytime
and paper and people.
Leave the moral surmising to monkeys
in the age of reason --
an ethical dilemma portending.
So I'll write the grace of flying kite.
String and ink are two thin lines to being.
Strong and taut. Long and flexible.
Poetic in rhythm and flow
to an audience coated,
with ears.

.

With You

When she walked out of the room, there was a slight inside side kick of the right heal. I smiled within. And remembered other things that make me happy.

Know what I love?
I love the first snow
anointing my window in silence
all warm in here
with dinner in the kitchen
content this cozy hour.

And I love a toddler's first legs now walking
or running with clumsy confidence
and a light heart of freedom
like -- when I got my drivers license
kid-crazy and wild
and I lived too!

Or Josi after first day of school
serious in study with papers and books
and counting her color crayons assorted
heart of gold and bright --
knew there was so much more
than this sampling
the wisdom of ages now ahead.

And you with that dance step
in your walk
you didn't know I knew
your glee, and best of all
that we can touch and cuddle
all we want and whenever.

May be cold outside
but warm in here
with you.

.

A Note from Granddad

.
When I was suffering
you gave me love
and gifts and well wishes.
.
When I was on my deathbed
your prayers of love
eased my way.
.
When I first arrived here at last
your relief and love
made me know my good fortune.
.
But your grief continues
and dampens my celebration.
.
Remembering our joy
will complete the occasion
of love and elation.
.
.

After Storm

When mind tries to take what Soul has made,
when uncertainty, stress or fear
halt the journey,
entries in its journal also cease
till there is a turning within.
Silence helps.

Okay, think.
But not too much.
Or thoughts are stopped.
Blocked. Stalled.
In spiral descending.
Opposing growth
Of cedar or pine.
Or the flight of an eagle
Soaring.
.
Time matters not
To the Eye of Light,
To the rate of waves returning,
The song of season's change.
The cliff on the cape
Forever washed by storm
And sailors dreaming.
.
The new day
Is lit by vision.
For thought
Cannot stop the sunrise
After storm.

I write. And it was a good day for Thanks.
--a
.

Earth Gift

Though the leaves have almost all fallen, and snow is in the air as often as autumn leaves--beauty persists. In a morning of light and life, it was the view of the silver maple outside my window that inspired this poem. It is of Love. It is of a Divine Gift.



.
The word, HU in this piece is an ancient name for God. There is reference to it in Egyptian lore, Sufism and the religion of Eckankar and others.

Earth Gift

The breeze that animates the trees
Makes every leaf resound in resonance
And breathe. Your name
Is HU.

And then
At summers end,
Before full narrowing of light
The Sound anticipated
Almost by sense of sight.
From sun to rain and chill
A quickening of all earth life
The ring of needs yet to fill
The sounding toll before
The final bell
Is HU
Is first
And HU is last.

After the turning – slow to start
The art released, once synthesized in green,
This sweet array of dreamers' scene
Falls silent once again
Is HU
The song of silence
Light and Sound on earth
The Song of HU.

Green and yellow leaves
Of red. And white – the snow
Released. And now we know
The Gift to earth
Your name
Is HU.

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Red-Tagged Black

It came to me this morning as looked back to the polling place waiting for my wife:

One on the cross
Another on the gable
Two black crows
Also ignore my vote
As I go from church red-tagged.
Black crow. Where do I go from here?

Now as I listen to the results of polls closing, it looks like it is as I have been saying all along. Obama will take it. There will be a lot of cheer and hope. Relief for a few weeks or months.

Then . . . Same as before, but worse. Less freedom. More taxes. And war continues.

But we, as a country, get exactly what we need to take us to the next step, spiritually. And hard as that may be, the human spirit will survive. Our value is within. When the consciousness raises again to a level to recognize the call of Soul is freedom. No one will take care of us. We will learn again that we can, and we must take care of ourselves. And we will no longer allow the corrupt to make promises to do what's right while dealing with the dark side.

Love will light the truth. Keep it in your heart and lives. It is our only hope.