poetry | enough by david whyte

ENOUGH

Enough. 

These few words are enough.

If not these words, this breath.
If not this breath, this sitting here.
This opening to life
we have refused
again and again
until now.

Until now.

...

‘Enough’ From Where Many Rivers Meet

David Whyte and Many Rivers Press

poem | witness

Sometimes the mountain 
is hidden from me in veils
of cloud, sometimes  
I am hidden from the mountain  
in veils of inattention, apathy, fatigue,
when I forget or refuse to go  
down to the shore or a few yards
up the road, on a clear day,
to reconfirm
that witnessing presence.
-Denise Levertov

i am going "to reconfirm that witnessing presence".
amen.

poem | what i have learned so far

Meditation is old and honorable, so why should I
not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside,
looking into the shining world? Because, properly
attended to, delight, as well as havoc, is suggestion.
Can one be passionate about the just, the
ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit
to no labor in its cause? I don't think so.

All summations have a beginning, all effect has a
story, all kindess begins with the sown seed.
Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of
light is the crossroads of -- indolence, or action.

Be ignited, or be gone.

-Mary Oliver

poem | inexpressible comfort

Oh, the comfort -- the inexpressible

Comfort of feeling safe with a person

Having neither to weigh thoughts

Nor measure words, but pouring them

All right out -- just as they are

Chaff and grain together

Certain that a faithful hand will take

And sift them,

Keep what is worth keeping

And with the breath of kindness

Blow the rest away.

Dinah Craik,  A Life for a Life, 1859

quote | dreams

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

-Langston Hughes

lovers.

i stared at unabashed lovers on a mid-morning hike.

two different trees forming so natural a connection. 

taking slow dance to a different realm of comprehension;

they count in decades, not in steps.

swirling at each other's branches

leaning in and out

bending by the month.

i wonder if they resonate with this poem by ee cummings.

high sierra trail | following

the light drew us awake

the path led us

to follow lively rivers

and forests of life and decay

up mountains with sheer drops

jumping from rock to rock that were

tango dancing with flowing snow

still lakes, valleys of magnificence

mountain tops capped by exquisite sunsets

the darkness called us to be still

it brought rest

and restlessness

the darkness freckled by a world of light

only to be seen 

as we went higher and higher

to gaze straight into her face

all these things seen

felt

experienced

touched

untouched

finally broke me.

all of the beauty

pain

suffering

awe

finally broke me.

all i could do was nod, "yes."

friday morning thots | 8.12.11

stirring around in my noggin, in the flesh & the most invisibly visible places:

• bike camping again this weekend. 3xs in one month = a very surprised me!
• 63 assisted pull ups and zercher squats has made me one very sore girl.
• i feel like a wild bird in this exact moment! 
• what does kindness look like? 
• failure is not fatal. but GEEZ, sometimes it just feels so miserable!
• "ordinary courage is about putting our vulnerability on the line." brene brown
• "tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" mary oliver
• i am so grateful. so so grateful. 

happy friday!

(if you remember, tonight is the perseid meteor shower. get up high and stay up late. if you miss it, at least enjoy the almost full moon. (full moon is 8/13, fyi.))

poem | it wanes

the moon wanes

its luminescence made clear

where darkness insets darkness

and between short stretches 

of street lit paths

a midnight ride

through rwc, nfo, ath, mp, and back home

to the e p a.

the cold summer air are my cheeks' delight

and i, his.

heading toward what is true.

i waver. 
vacillating between what is true
and what seems true.


the line, thin
straddled between worlds
wandering
and
wondering.


i look to moments of pure
to find truth percolating
like a fresh creek
hidden in the deep
of a mountain.


smell the fresh
taste the air
feast on what is unseen.


i am heading toward what is true.

ode to the present | pablo neruda

This
present moment,
smooth
as a wooden slab,
this
immaculate hour,
this day
pure
as a new cup
from the past--
no spider web
exists--
with our fingers,
we caress
the present;

we cut it
according to our magnitude
we guide
the unfolding of its blossoms.
It is living,
alive--
it contains
nothing
from the unrepairable past,
from the lost past,
it is our
infant,
growing at
this very moment, adorned with
sand, eating from
our hands.
Grab it.
Don't let it slip away.
Don't lose it in dreams
or words.
Clutch it.
Tie it,
and order it
to obey you.
Make it a road,
a bell,
a machine,
a kiss, a book,
a caress.
Take a saw to its delicious
wooden
perfume.
And make a chair;
braid its
back;
test it.
Or then, build
a staircase!

Yes, a
staircase.
Climb
into
the present,
step
by step,
press your feet
onto the resinous wood
of this moment,
going up,
going up,
not very high,
just so
you repair
the leaky roof.
Don't go all the way to heaven.
Reach
for apples,
not the clouds.
Let them
fluff through the sky,
skimming passage,
into the past.

You
are
your present,
your own apple.
Pick it from
your tree.
Raise it
in your hand.
It's gleaming,
rich with stars.
Claim it.
Take a luxurious bite
out of the present,
and whistle along the road
of your destiny.

a poem about poetry.

i read this poem by wendell berry on my friend's blog and resonated with the stillness of it. 

i   

Make a place to sit down.   

Sit down. Be quiet.   

You must depend upon   

affection, reading, knowledge,   

skill—more of each   

than you have—inspiration,   

work, growing older, patience,   

for patience joins time   

to eternity. Any readers   

who like your poems,   

doubt their judgment.   

ii   

Breathe with unconditional breath   

the unconditioned air.   

Shun electric wire.   

Communicate slowly. Live   

a three-dimensioned life;   

stay away from screens.   

Stay away from anything   

that obscures the place it is in.   

There are no unsacred places;   

there are only sacred places   

and desecrated places.   

iii   

Accept what comes from silence.   

Make the best you can of it.   

Of the little words that come   

out of the silence, like prayers   

prayed back to the one who prays,   

make a poem that does not disturb   

the silence from which it came.

what i'm made of.

i have so many drafts.

stored away on

blogger.

textedit.

word.

google word.

the black book i carry.

i am the compilation of all those drafts.

&

i am the final copy.

11:57am

taken.

the hills held me captive
by will, i chose it.

empty of people
full of life
effortless effort

suspended mid air
a smirk
happiness trickled into the crevices
that drip into an eternal well

running,
i am home again.

current reading.

when love beckons to you, follow him
though his ways are hard and steep.
and when his wings enfold you yield to him,
though the sword hidden among his pinions may would you.
and when he speaks to you believe in him,
though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
for even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. even as he is for your growth so he is for your pruning.
even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun.
so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

from the prophet by kahlil gibran