To make Comments write directly to Jim at email@example.com
Diana Butler-Bass’s book Groundedcontinues to set my creative juices surging. Here’s another poem, this time based on a lyrical description on pages 28-29 of the paperback edition.
hills ripple along the horizon
sunrise softly suffuses pearl
the glow of awe
paint palettes merge and blend
watercolour on wet paper
Tags: Diana Butler-Bass, Grounded, surf, sand, sunrise, everything
This poem was deeply influenced by Chapters 1 and 2 in Diana Butler-Bass’s latest book, Grounded (HarperOne, HarperCollilns, New York 2015). I recommend it.
Dig your hands into the dirt.
Crumble its fibres in your fingers.
Let the grains of humble humus
sift down to holy earth.
The soil is all your relations,
decomposed and recomposed,
the dust and ashes, the legacy
of everything that ever lived.....
Tags: water, Communion, Mass, earth
I offered you a lake of love
Clear, deep, sun-dancing,
Refreshed by mountain streams.
You waded in up to your ankles,
Then you shook the water off your feet
And dried between your toes.
I've had this poem in the works for almost a year. I kept adding bits of description, clarifying metaphors and analogies, fussing with parallels... I couldn't make up my mind whether it was about the church, or politics, or science. I dug it out last week, and started cutting all the preachy stuff. It's up to you, the reader, to decide what it's about.
A rock, rough and rugged.
crashed into a rushing river.
The river pulled back,
waves roiling away from the intruder.
But the river forgave the rock,
wrapped its long blue arms around the newcomer,
hugged it, caressed it, invited it to travel
down to the sea....
Tags: Evolution, Rocks, rivers, erosion
On the coldest day of the coldest month ever recorded here in the Okanagan Valley, I caught myself thinking wistfully about spring. Into my mind popped a vision of dew drops clinging to fresh green grass in the morning sun. If felt so attractive I began writing a poem.
dew drop clings to a spiring stem
spherical lens magnifies
nano-scenes within the grass
shivers in a morning breeze
sun yawns over the eastern rim of the bowl of life
spilling holiness across
a waking world
Tags: dew dawn grass
The numbing cold that has swathed most of Canada during February prompted my mind to wander into uncharted territory.
Cold slithers down
from the far side of 60 degrees, latitude.
When it’s that cold,
when tears turn into salt hailstones
when spit ricochets,
the scale doesn’t matter.
But even a polar vortex
retains measurable warmth.
Heat itself ceases
at absolute zero —
on the Kelvin scale, minus 273.15 Celsius —
a temperature beyond which
there is no beyond.
When it’s time for me to go,
I drift to the edges
of the bubbling broth
and then I slip
into the night outside.
Tags: death, departure
I added a picture to this poem, so that you would have a better sense of the scene that prompted this reflection. You'll have to go to the main page to see it, though.
Fresh snow coats the spiky crowns of evergreens
into narrow cones of shining white
steepled against a brillig sky --
a vast convocation
of pointy white hoods.
Do spruce trees also
have pointy little brains
beneath their whited hoods?
Tags: KKK, spruce trees, snow cones
This poem grew out of seeing the sliver of a new moon, suspended in the night sky shortly after sunset. Net time you see such a moon, try reciting this poem out loud to it.
Hail to thee, silver crescent in the sky.
Tell me what you think you are.
Are you the universal sickle --
whetstoned symbol of seasonal harvest,
a harbinger of hope
that reaps the plainest grains,
to feed the famined millions?
Or are you the scimitar of Saladin,
white-hot steel tempered in the algebra of zero....
Tags: moon, crescent, Saladin, Damocles, sickle, scimitar
A friend is going through a deep depression. I tried to imagine myself inside his skin, and out came another poem. It begins
Dimness descends like a curtain.
Murk buries me, plugs my nostrils,
seals my ears; I hear nothing,
not even my own thoughts.
I wallow in my private pig-sty.
I want to move, but my muscles
have turned to water; every step feels like
wading in molasses....
Tags: Depression, misery, despair