ONCE
There came
To my garden
Luminous butterfly
Irridescent blue and dancing
I , momentarily breathless
Sought to
Hold it for a while
It had only come
Seeking
A place of rest
On its journey
Such is the delicacy
Of light and life
On it flies further
Into its migration
And I only marveling
At the quixotic ways
Of synchronicity
PRAYER FLAGS
They say it was Ethan Allen’s flag
When Vermont seceded from New York
and New Hampshire
Vermont did not join the union until
The bill of rights was ratified
14 shire stars in a sky of blue
on a field of green, this flag
of ecotopian green mountains
Perhaps we have already
Spiritually seceded from what was
Perceived as a union, so perhaps
Political secession is superfluous
Sufficient to say, that this
Destroying of land and people
Will not hold and should not stand
We are not party to this
Independence is an illusion
Interdependence is the natural law
of all ecology, self reliance giving
foundations of strong ecomunities
for the common good, the long road ahead
forth from the wellspring
reversing tide of cataclysmic loss of culture
language, species and ecosystems
freedom, unity, love and nature
carried in flags of prayer
NORTHERN LIGHTS
Flickering sky
Frigid February night
Bringing in stovewood
We add layers and head out to the middle
Of the horse pasture
Tommy, George and Ripton
Saunter over
Their great steaming breaths
Asking for apple, carrot or oats
Feeling down through their three inch fur
I wonder if they see the stars the same way
We look up as shooting stars traces their arcs
And shimmering curtains of green
Gateway to Valhalla
Shoot pulsations of yellow and red
South across the inner globe
Angel of light forms around one star
They say that these are electromagnetic pulses
Awestruck we keep thinking of ancient times and
Spiritual visions and signs from the heavens
Zoroastrian mages took great insights
From heaven, and yet
What was the angel trying to Say?
EARLY DAWN MIST
Cherrie and Leyla’s dream breathing
Awakens me and I rise
Drop a few sticks on last night’s coals
In the circle of stones
Paddle in hand, quietly push
Canoe out through still grass
And clear stone bottom
Four paddle strokes
And tent and tree are swallowed
By swirls of dancing deer
Spirits of Avalon speak now if ever
I pause and listen, drops rippling water
At the end of the paddle blade
Crystal quiet inner heart
Caressing soft reflections with ash
We move off
Breeze stirs dawn clouds
above emerge and vanish
Kestrel is flying
Colors of raspberries and autumn leaves
A puff lifts the mist and twenty feet away
Leyla waves g’mornin from the fire
It’s always that close
SUNSETS
Here in Vermont
From pine shore
Or hillside meadow
Spectacular brushstrokes
Of mare’s tails and broken fronts
Crimson mackerel quilting
Blessed moments
When the wind drops for dinner
At anchor
Finally dark you watch
The lights round the harbor
Lake and hill
Praying everyone is safe, sound and fed
Somehow
Blessings seem to travel
A little farther
When accompanied
By the symphony
Of the spin of earth
And cosmos
SEEKER
The Sufis say that you might think that you are the seeker, but it turns out that
You are the one who is sought
Not by the hungry throngs
For there is much that covers the spirit
The way that the snow covers the land
Deep sometimes, but discernable terrain
To a practiced eye
Inner dimensions of life within
Call quietly for attunement
Watch the flow
More going on than we can
Possibly understand
Distillable down to that which
Gives us joy , radiance and purpose
Those who seek
Will come to know
That dancing to the sacred rhythms
Is the essence
Of the one who knows all
Through our dance
MOONBEAM
Tacking redcedar strips
Onto molds and transom
Stem inverted, glue on fingers
Nine year old Leyla exclaims
“OHHHHH…its upside down”
we take the skiff outside in the spring
for sanding and finish
add floor boards, rails, mast step
daggerboard, rudder and mast
bend on redsail finally in summer
adjust the rig, final varnish
she just fits in the back of the truck
off to Goose Cove, at Deer Isle
Christening, launch from beach
Sailing with family
5 knots , a gentle and forgiving breeze to learn cold waters, tides and currents
adjust a few things
finally learn the balance of
body, wind and water in a small craft
she handles 12 knots digging in
dancing across whitecaps, elation
rail down ,only intuition
keeps the ocean
from pouring in
SONG OF EARTH SPIRIT
All these rhythms
Heartbeat of the planet
Playing and apparently
vanishing into thin air
Song of the heart
Common to all spirit
Elemental language
Smile of grace
Lost in false progress
Forgetting to translate
Learn by listening
What was lost of the one song
Reinvention by the
Subconscious again and again
Through the eons
Ensures continuity of
Dream of harmony
How many times
Before we remember
That all instruments
All voices
All rhythms
All beings and lands are
Alive in the cosmic symphony
INDIGENOUS
To become indigenous
One must have a language
Of sustainability
Articles of faith
Adjectives of harmony
Verbs of gardenfarm
Nouns of ecodetail
Of deep understanding of
Complexity of process
What was once
Called chaos theory
We discern now as self similar
Complexity
The act of taking a single tree
For firewood
Alters the forest for eternity
And must be viewed
From this point of
Vantage
BACKWOODS VISIONARIES
My poet neighbor carries on the
Grand tradition, writing on birchbark
Small rough cabin at the edge of the woods
Long ago, I came upon yurts like flying saucers
Filled with Arabic rugs, incense and miso soup
Midst the oak and pine
These were the gardeners of the cosmic soil
Sowing light waves of energy
Reaping bushels of ideals and experience
Cabins rising, as we learn to build from scratch
With few mentors, to guide the axestroke
And sense the direction of the horizon
To build for the long run, to last generations
So many went back to the land
Into the land
For solace and vision
And found a life abandoned
Now approached with a new spirit
Young determination
The mystery of how to become indigenous
From a conceptual, industrialized culture
Remains obscure
CUPOLA
Cedar shingling a cupola
Church pitch
Sunny day light breeze
Listening to hammer stroke
Echo across pasture into ravine
Birds gathering for their last dance
Last grain and insect
Before migration
I feel the warm grassy air flowing through
The cupola
Ventilating the hay
The light in the old four pane windows
Is like a signal to revere
As one comes up the one lane road
The spire pointing skyward
Is a small temple church
As close as I have come to building one
Yet there is; the same solace and quiet up there
Haysweet dry green bed
Dreamdozing in the
Light from above
Cover Artwork courtesy of Barbara Dickason |
