Thursday, September 29, 2005

Following Maya's Lead

Here is a sonnet from my book "IN RETREAT"



Of lively weeds there are varied hidden strains
That seize up in the joints of flexible life
And entwine the limbs that stride toward belief
That dreams can be reached without cloying pains.

Round and round the tendrils snake and seek to bind
The heart's resolve to balance loving and duty's
Call to job, and spirit and hunt for security's
Protection against the slow loss of peace of mind.

Memories are like burrs that lay quietly hidden
until they nestle beneath loving's patchwork quilt
and cause restless, dreadful nights and unfocused guilt
and fear that self and caring will be forbidden.

A weed is only a flower in a wheat field,
Unwanted for the fruit it does not yield.

Wild Garden

Why won't my mind rest in the kindness of friends and companions who are inclined, from time to time, to give me small gifts? How about strangers that smile at me, making eye contact? That wordless connection acknowledging, "I know you....We are the same."

Instead, I obsess over cutting remarks and rude drivers, whose only offering to me that day might be a middle fingered salute.
In the restless night, I latch on to some thought that I was slighted (real or imagined) the day before. Had the "slighter" remained awake in bed regretting their wrong doings, (real or imagined)? I think not.

I'm too sensitive "they" say.
Too thin skinned. Am I?
Were I not, would I still recognize and be filled with wonderment over a particular, majestic shade of blue in the sky? The sacredness of a wood path stone?

A dandelion grows contentedly in sidewalk crack,
bursting with color and life in the un-approved zone!
I'll not pull it. For in my vision, it is a tiny, wild garden in and of itself. Untended. Beautiful.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005


There are two small Episcopal Chapels
in the mountains that we visited on our
honetmoon. In the early 70's, frescos were painted
on the walls, and form a special tribute
to faith and art and patience.

I do not know they are not better known,
though you may have seen pictures.

Naturally, I wrote a poem or two
about the experience.




When you might think that all is doom and done,
lost to greed and perverted use of faith;
when even sciptured attocities of old
pale in comparison with the nightly news --
then take a trip with me to artistry.

Forget your search for God in caves of steel
and words of wisdom in electron spin,
where rigid minds prey on plastic souls
taught that average is good and bland sublime,
and rightious bigotry but a duty.

Peer instead into an abandoned church
deep in the mountains of Carolina;
crafted of simple chestnut planks and shale,
yet nurturing art and passion profound
in the Frescos of Appalachia.

More than a marriage of paint and plaster,
more than a bold artist’s gifted vision --
find instead a wall of mirrored wonder
of mem’ries and spirit and creation
of basic messages of Christiandom.

A pregnant Mary ‘neith a phophet moon --
a savage Baptist stripped of all but love --
a supper scene of people more than twelve,
and Christ crossed in death and life the same
while everyman watches from churning clouds.

This art was crafted on plaster still damp --
endless work on a eternal dreams,
where dialogue was by right suspended,
and teaching was complete or not at all,
and I find Christ again in the heart of man.

Saturday, September 03, 2005


The sun pounds the rocks
until they crack and the dry breeze
blows quixotic madness into their minds.
The madman laughs.
He thinks it's raining
as the sweat falls onto the sand.
His legs are too long
and drag on the ground
limply as his horse marches on.

~Anonymous Princess

Friday, September 02, 2005

Wedding Song

After our ceremony at Sakin'el,
at the end of our Honeymoon --
we traveled to Raleigh, NC
for a handfasting. As part of the ceremony,
I sat on the ground holding her Celtic harp.

She sang this original song ...



I will follow you into the mists of time
Where the colors brighten, where the waters flow
Past the barren entrances of Annwynn’s kind
Where naught but the blessed ones may go
And I will guide you to a place beside the sea
Beside the maidens’ standing stones, behind the oaken tree
Farther than all the oracles that haunt dreamers in their sleep
I will shield you forever and a day from a lonely destiny

Ancient promises, our vows made long ago
Before time entered the looking glass of Light
Beneath the waters, above the stars below
Beyond the golden circle of the Light
And I will hasten you to an island fair
Across the Lady’s homeland, beside the Dragon’s Lair
To the cave of crystals, surrounded by the weir
We will once again ascend the Mage’s golden stairs

I will fashion a tower of crystal glass
With portals of nine times eight strong
There we will watch others as they pass
As we hear the echoes of our betrothal song

© Sakin'el 2005