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On the deck railing sat the dove:

always and eternal symbol, love.

And it imparted, as I started,

to look: a coo full-hearted.

But the dove was quiet, it was still.

It was as if my loved one’s will

had sent it to me, as if to say,

“I will love you now, always.”

And so, I let the little dove in,

creature in which is no trace of sin,

and allowed it to comfort me as it would:

as such creatures always should.

The dove, it stayed upon that perch.

It did not sway, or in wind lurch.

It just sat, as if to relay

how that my love would with me stay.

Columbus meus, I like to think

in this world, so full, so pink.

A little dove upon my heart,

salving all the wounds that smart.

So take me, my dove, away!

Let me stand and pray

for my for long departed dear,

now and through my every year.

When one day I went searching for the Grail,

the cup, the chalice, to wash away my every care

in life, I felt like King Arthur, whose mighty knights

ranged far and wide for the healing, the paramount,

the life-in-all-being, ever-eternal vessel, to give

and grant them all they could imagine.

I could not help but wonder, as I went searching

in the pages of Chrétien, as von Eschenbach led the way,

or the “pure fool” of Wagner was privy to the secret

which most every person wants to know: maybe it was

something in me lacking that led me to now and steadily seek

this thing, never knowing, ever always hoping.

One day, when I went searching, it was only because

I thought there should be more to life

than just the living: that there should be striving

for epic fantasies to paint the way into the future:

not to save myself, but sure I’d use it

for good, and not lose it to the forces

that set their courses to rule, and dominate.

But in this, there’s something, too, a little false:

to say a cup or chalice or pail, yes, indeed,

even the very Grail, has anything at all that could undo

all that life makes us endure: and, most of all, wield

its power, a mighty shield against the breath

of our greatest foe, the enemy, death.

So, stepping out to find the Grail, instead

of knightly bearing, I exude love, instead

of holy lances, I have hope: and, of course,

with such strength to arm me, how could it

be otherwise than to be my very salvation?

How pleasant, how perfect. Even funny.

You’ve got to a café, paid your money, and sit,

wondering how to play the rest of your day,

with a tea or else a coffee, resting on your table.

Perfume from a woman nearby,

and the space is radiant with the sound

of people happily conversing.

And you can sit and stay a while.

Lick your lips. Give a smile. Though not just

at him you most want to meet. A table away.

A book out in front, or a journal,

seeming so wise. Bright eyes and wavy hair.

So close. And yet so far from you.

What a world of possibility we live in!

You sit. You watch the crowd, writing. Writing.

Or, you read a book, see to that task

that’s been impending. A notebook before you.

You write things you know, sometimes knew,

in a life that was a long time ago.

While you sit and while away the time

at this quiet café.

All of life is here. Here, and all around,

while you sit and wonder, the afternoon

rolling on and along, about questions deeply asked.

Facts of life in life are tasked: the deepest, of course,

of all to be, how to bridge the gap so casually

between you and the person a table away.

Else, you sit forever with a question always inside,

ride one moment to the next alone.

And what would the world be like, if ever

we stopped to talk to the person at the next table,

bridge the gap between souls, turn the quiet café

into the meeting of minds, the place renewing the promise of life

to live and love with others, with us in this world.

Hwaet!

Listen!

Said the scop far back in reach of time,

as he spoke before a circle, around a fire,

looked toward the beginning of all,

telling tales of what was before:

the creation of the world,

the Ancient of Days, our first dwelling,

Eden, how all that had come to naught;

told the travails of desert wanderers,

parting of seas, wonders of light;

told the coming of a Teacher, thereafter exalted,

to illumine for us what we do, that hurts others,

or else that hurts ourselves: our eternal souls.

To the scop, such early bard, this was the immaculate,

pristine, ever fruitful story. It could only be told

in the mead hall, around a heady fire.

Scops live still, in our very age.

The exchange of words, the human connection:

in all that passes between us, a story is told.

Rich and rare, the future; just as much,

the story of the past. But, to the scop,

the favorite story of all is that lived, made, crafted

out of the most valuable resource of all: Life.

Life’s story lives in every day.

In tales we tell, we are the heroes, each of us

the center of our own, sweet, good time.

However brief the candle, however bounded

the brightness of the torch, for a time, at least,

still it lasts.

The scop knew, each time he plied his craft,

that he imbued his stories with bits of himself

just as soon as they were spoken, that those

who sat and listened were weaving their own webs,

finding their place in the world in tales they told.

Late at night, when shapes come shifting

and I wonder at ancient pasts embedded now

in outward trappings, the cause of Art,

my body lies blanketed, my head on a pillow,

medieval tune runs through the room,

Angelus ad virginem, and there stands, carved

in wood, upon a high pedestal,

my own, great, gray goddesshead.

The old wood cracks, its grain

a blush upon her cheek.

Aquiline, her nose, straight and fine.

Her hair bound up in gently coifed curls

stands high on her head:

in form and substance, some Athenian goddess.

What past is in that wisdom-face,

in the life she must have lived before

she became an ornament on a shelf?

Did she oversee a church?

Was she mistress in a ballroom?

Did she command a man’s heart?

I learn the truth as I longer stare,

as if all her secrets are in her fire-eyes.

Once, she stood serene, grainy-skinned,

soft her eyes pointed far out

over the wide, row-on-row,

from-blight-of-winter-to-brightest-spring

assemblage of resting places for the dead.

Queen she was, alma mater, kind mother,

over the land of those who ever sleep,

wide cemetery on a silent hill, keeping watch.

And yet, vulnerable is she, too,

and I just ever so mortal.

I sit at late of night.

My gaze so ever trained on the sight

of the peaceful, calm, and wise

eyes, the very portals of wisdom

of her, my gray goddesshead.

And I watch her in wonder, wondering

if she so watches out for me.

This love poem pays homage to the biblical Song of Songs.


A Hart Leaping

Leaving Eros’s arms was torture.

Leaving yours, the whole world

and all the manna of Eden.

I sing of you as a hart in the hills,

as a poet upon our bed of spices.

You give me wine to drink

and figs to eat, from the tree

we planted together, in summer.

When I see you standing tall,

ramrod-straight as the Tower of David,

I know I am protected, and loved.

I am a beloved daughter of Eve.

Together we planted our garden.

Its sprouts can now be seen.

But you went leaping into the hills tomorrow.

You have not seen the fullness of our tree.

I sing songs for you, to draw you back.

I eat sparingly, to spare the food for you.

I drink the wine we brewed together,

hoping it will recall you to me.

But your going was fated.

I was always meant to seek you

on the streets of the City,

in the buds of our garden,

in the hills you went leaping to.

You were always meant to leave me.

You are a hart in the hills.

Can I not call you back with milk and honey,

and all the manna of Eden?

To think you will be forever gone to me

sets my heart to aching,

and makes me blend my tears

with the wine we once drank together.

This poem is devoted to all those who have lost a dear loved one.


On Grief

In my heart is sadness supreme,

yet Nature shows me other face.

On grass I look, and a stream

lightly fulfilling mortal race.

I write some words so as to show

I am still all here below

while he is up above.

In heaven is my love.

And I look to find in the world

some way to continue on.

Maybe it is God’s standard unfurled,

but I dream in verse and song.

I will always hold inside my heart

the joy his being did impart,

and always will cherish still

the wisdom he has given – and will.

For I truly do believe,

through sadness clinging to my heart,

that others never really leave,

but just to other realms depart.

And so, I take a walk through trees,

the freshness of grass, the hum of bees

and do believe in my mortal mind

what heaven really is like in kind.

Yes, forever I will love him great,

knowing that he had to leave

but always Nature will show me how

and proper way for him to grieve.