A Poem is a Walk

A Poem is a Walk

"With the first step, the number of shapes the walk might take is infinite, but then the walk begins to define itself as it goes along, though freedom remains total with each step: any tempting side road can be turned into an impulse, or any wild patch of woods can be explored.  The pattern of the walk is to come true, is to be recognized, discovered."
-  A.R. Ammons, A Poem is a Walk

The Stream Remains

It’s all a jumble.
Logs perched helter-skelter
splintered in their crash to the earth.
Branches, now silver,
tangled
between rocks and roots.
Rocks exposed and broken
by the force of the stream.

Beneath it all
the water slides, splashes and rests
slipping
beneath the tangle of obstacles
expressing
as a stream,
an undercurrent of peace
and purpose amid the ruckus
left behind after last winter’s storm.

The trees and logs
come and go,
water and seasons
come and go,
even the rocks
eventually,
come and go.

Still, the stream remains;
a flow
between obstacles
a timeless
always new
journey.

The Creek's Laughter

Here,
where the sky strokes the curves
of the mountains,
the earth opens her holy lips
and offers up a creek, laughing.

Here,
gathered up by gravity,
the spring’s release tumbles together.
The trickling creek becomes a giggle
and a full-on river of a belly laugh as it falls off over the ridge.

Here,
clouds and columbines bear witness to this joyful offering,
released with no strings attached.

Here,
where the sky strokes the curves of the mountains,
the sound of
the creek’s laughter begins.

Like a happy creek

Like a happy creek

If I lead my life as I think I ought

I drown in my own journey

I drown pushing the river

If I am led like a horse on a rein

What can I say for my own creative process

If I yield and flow

Responding to the openings

I can laugh like a happy creek

Even when rocks block

What I think is my path.

The Welcoming Stump

Taking off up the trail to the ridge yesterday I met a Rubicon Ramblings fan.  Imagine our surprise.  Me to meet a fan who had been giving the book to all her friends, and her to discover she was literally on the trail of the poems.  I didn’t even get her name, yet this poem is dedicated to her.  It is about the stump whose picture is on page 53.

The Welcoming Stump

I come again

this time

the gifts I gave you

last time

have fallen

from your lap

to your feet

pretty twists of weathered root

bright green clusters of moss

a delicate puzzle piece of bark

laid in side the hollow of

The Welcoming Stump

forever the container of my prayers

for wandering with my muse

on this ridge with clarity.

The very shape of the stump

calls for me to

embrace the future

while being embraced

by the past,

a shape

of both gathering and releasing

Nothing is worth holding onto

even prayers

and gifts

just touch the feet

of the guru

and dissolve into tomorrow

Come everything

be gathered into my heart

Mutilated

The natural pattern of a tree is to grow

straight and tall

skyward

Eight years have past now

since these little trees were topped

with the angry swipe of a knife

The survivors slowly

finding a way to adjust,

stunted

but alive.

Much the same

I imagine,

as the widows of the

swipe

at the Twin Towers

once reaching straight and tall

skyward.

It was shortly after that 9/11

shockwave

when we were still debating

our nation’s response

I hiked this trail

heavy with the world’s sorrow

coming upon

little tree after little tree

topped

with their bright green crowns

stunned with the sudden

be-heading

slender trunks cut

raw and weeping

For a half mile

I walked and wept

praying over the trees

praying over those of the fallen towers

praying over all those our war

would be-head

cutting short more lives

mutilating more futures.

What kind of person

would mutilate

dozens of young trees

living

their lives out

reaching for the sun?

What kind of nation

would mutilate a

society of people, families

and landscapes

living

their lives out

on top of a land

rich with oil,

worshiping God

with a different name?

I do what I can do.

I hold a hand of healing

over the raw wounds.

I gather the tops

so they are together

and write a prayer.

I leave it all

in the woods

with let the cry

of the wind

send me home.

This poem came today years later as I was checking out the trees progress while on the ridge.  I was too broken up about it all years ago to pen a poem.  Today wasn't much easier.

NEW: The forest is my church

Dear Readers: Im excited about this new poem, although I still feel there is much to work on as it seems long and too preachy now... I would love to get your commentary and input....Judy

The Forest is my Church

Even the most avid of destination hikers know,
as do those of us who meander off the trails
seeking nothing in particular;
the beauty of the forest can reach out and grab you
anytime, anywhere.

Why save communion for Sundays in church?
Why walk through the woods as if you were God’s gift to the world?

Seek and you will find,
Knock and the door will open,
Ask and it shall be given…

Walk into the forest with humility,
asking for entrance,
knocking with respect.
You will find what you are seeking,
the way will open,
it shall be given.

In the forest, nothing is held back
waiting for better behavior,
waiting for proper attire,
waiting for the secret membership prayer.

There is no address to seek, no special hour to arrive.
The way inside has always been open
to those who have eyes to see, and ears to hear.

Does the forest call to you to worship?
Do the trees preach and the creeks sing the psalms?
Do the ferns and flowers take up an offering
welcoming your very gaze as your tithe?

I was a Hospice chaplain once,
and many would claim, as my father would,
“The woods is my church!”
speaking their truth while dismissing me.

In the telling of their tales
of wandering and beauty,
their eyes would glaze over and we would both know:

All would be well.
Death is just another part of the cycle of life.

There comes a time when the tree,
giving up the season of green,
surrenders to the time of silver;
no longer drawing up the nourishment of the earth,
no longer mixing sunlight and water into boughs of green.
Silver snag now serving the forest community
communion,
offering up its life, integrating the holy message
for all to hear, and see.
Still part of the story, still part of the vitality of life
even when its bark finally blends into the forest floor.

We know, don’t we
who wander in the woods.
We know about timeless, ever changing cycles.
We know about the unconditional nature of the wind and sun.
We know there is nothing to be forgiven.
Life goes on,
even for the charred stumps of the trees
cut down in their prime by the forest thinning crews,
even for the tiny voles whose homes are crushed
by my careful or careless steps
Life goes on. Grace is freely given.

So whether we tuck these gifts of grace into the back side of our hearts,
or write poems to preach to the choir,
grace is a given
for those who fall down upon their knees to scramble under a log;
for those who get chills shivering down their spine
when the message on the wind pierces any attempt to cover-up,
for those who walk out alive
having survived all their fears and grown strong in the effort.

The forest is my church.
I can meet the Holy there,
any time I am ready, anytime I am willing.
Come, worship life with me.
Lace up your boots. Lets go.