Gleaning--On Reading News on the Internet

Sift each word, parse out the kernels

To keep in your hand. Let fall

The ciphers weighted with noise

And save the manna at the center.

Set this aside to feed yourself then

Cast the chaff to the wind, palms

Up, for birds to swoop and rush

In, nourish themselves from

Your leavings.

Sate your hungry soul instead on

Only what you need and rejoice-

Your treasure remains, seed for

Another day.

.

Photo by Melissa Askew on Unsplash

Spring

Chloro phylls the horizon
with a palette of lemon and
lime. Calyxes drop feather
dusters of honey and ochre,
the firs ever present stand at
attention, constant witnesses
as am I, while God greens up
the world.

Gilt Gift

Sometimes I guilt myself right out

of joy. Like the surprise of an iridescent

butterfly from an unsightly cocoon,

who would expect this shimmering

show in morning sunlight?

Eyes are trained on Northwest firs

framed in blue, frosted feeders,

feathered presents hidden among

the trees.

I’ve held my breath, wondering.

Did my mother ever ponder stilling

herself, take a moment with the

birds in her California garden? Gaze

restful at morning fog carried

in on marine air? Was she ever at ease

in her troubled life, as she parented

us alone?

I will never know.

I cannot ring her up to ask, there

is no email to send, no letter to write.

She is gone, stolen far too soon.

I consider this feigned injustice.

How wildly unfair I should gather

such beauty as surely she never did,

then abandon my thoughts. No.

I will not leave reason to balance the

ledger, steal this away, too. Feathered

hum of heat, filigreed pane, frosty view.

I drink in sleeping green, hear her

whisper over my shoulder,

Breathe in the brilliant morning.

Surrender second guesses and leave

logic to the philosophers.

I startle to the present, welcome with

wonder this gilt gift, nothing to ponder

but my thanks.

–From my new book “Hearts on Pilgrimage-Poems&Prayers” 

Life/Writing (Any-a-gram)

I hate it that I am so sporadic

inconsistent, not persistent,

         no straight-ahead-in-a-line-to-the-finish.

I’m distracted, side-tracked

stops and starts, mis-matched piles,

can’t remember the whats and whens.

No perfect files, labeled loudly

      I  A M  I N  C O N T R O L.

I feign at neatness, completeness escaping me

ever in process, a mess in the making.

Oh, why can’t I be like those orderly others,

those finishers perfectly packing their lives in a box,

the rank and file, who smile

     at me, “Oh poor thing, she’s so erratic.” 

Well—

I am resigned to the whole of me,

my hits and misses

marking a difference,

scattering joy, seeds abound.

I cannot (do not) go in a straight line—

Random A to B then on to Z.

(Sequences only happen on a test.)

And life is an actual emergency

(not a test).

I like this formula better:

A cubed to D once plus E squared

then back to A and jump to N, then

who-knows-what?

I’m the only one

who can spell my life.

-------

from my files, circa 2008. still true.

January Bird

Where have you been?

Out of town like those who flee

our chilled clime and metallic skies?

Elsewhere, warming up your voice to

herald today's sunrise with your song?

I welcome your morning melody

making its way to my ears,

stirring memories of other songs on

sullen, silver days when

your music was my only companion,

a balm for the emptiness at the edge

of my days.