From an Upper Floor

I have long had a deep affection for the poet/philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson. He has been a faithful friend for more decades than I dare to say. His essays have been a wider lens for my world and worlds. I have dog eared my books and still they are companions. This relationship gives me the privilege of calling him by a dear name of Emmy. He much preferred Waldo to anything but that has had a hard time catching on. Many years ago I wrote the following poem. It was a mind duelogue and still is in process.

Dear Emmy. . . . .

You say,

When the soul of a poet
comes to ripeness of thought,
Nature will detach my poems and songs
and allow not the weariness of time
to ravage them. . . . and allow them
to lodge within the heart of man.

Do you tell me then
that my words will soar
on the wings of the eagle?

Will the black holes swallow
them whole only to come out
on the other side?
Will I meet them face to face
and say these words speak to me. . .
and I would wish to meet their namer?

And what dear Emmy, will they be?

‘that I saw a butterfly dart into a spider’s web
and lift him up and carried him on high. . .
and I wondered . . . how heavy is a butterfly
on a spider’s web?’

My eyes were made to see this
as my heart was born to wonder.
I hear the words the muses speak
and wonder how the world
can be deaf to these silent shouts.

The rain silently nourishes the surrounding lands
and fills the lakes and clarifies the ponds. . .
as the water fowl speak to one another
and marvel their gratitude to their Maker.
I stand before your words and hear you.
You dumfound me for you speak my thoughts.
But I know there will be few who ponder
their meaning and many who will not
have heard of you.

And yet dear friend, I’ve treasured you
since I found you aeons ago
and held your words fast to my heart.

Keep on writing, I hear you whisper
on the chance that a few words will find a home
in a one and say, aha, that is how it is with me.
And a life will be changed and they will live.
And the muses will continue to speak
to a one who has kept the pipes free of corrosion
and the word kept untarnished

for you will have cared enough.

This is an idea spoken of since man first began to think about the purpose of life.   Or perhaps his purpose on this planet.   It deals with the idea that  everything is connected throughout the ethers.   That nothing happens in and of itself but is the result of an action happening because of a previous action elsewhere.   However long ago.   Our purpose,  however wrought with meaning as we think or not,   is the result of perhaps a stone let loose on some distant hill, rolling and crashing onto a field.    The storm in the night is the result perhaps of an argument lamenting the arduous activity of sea lions in some obscure waters.   The idea remains cleverly innate in heads looking for reasons to believe that of itself nothing exists.   We are connected,  one to another and one event tied tightly to all of life.   It is with this idea in mind that this poem came to be.

Because I know. . . .
I see worlds in motion,
taking a portion
of each one’s talent
for their own survival.

This is what I do with my hands,
this motion of knitting yarns
to form a piece of world
to fit the mind of an elusive soul.

See here, I, content in what I do,
I free a soul to do
the Great God’s bidding
in keeping a world in motion.

See again. . . I give of my Self in this time,
to free an Other
to build what may be
the perfect Universe or many.

So content, this that is mine to see,
a great plan, a strategy,  yet unheard .
It may not be for centuries that
my knitting fingers will alert the senses
of a soul to keep in motion,
a Life, a Being, an Idea.

Sit here with me . . . and
show my hands what to do
and they will do . . . . .
The task, so simple will gather
other talents and make for itself
the grand design, futures down the line.

A bidding,  the nature
of what has never been seen before.
I know it and because I know,

you will know it also.

 Idea

An idea took form
and manifested
and was called Earth.

Its essence rests unsoiled,
untarnished and floats also
in a Sea of Tranquility.

The green forests are  lavish,
unspoiled and
the blue waters clear.

Farther yet from mind
is the essence called man;
his essence greater by far
than what he manifests.

Surrealistic in form,
tangible to the unstructured eye,
it all takes shape for the initiate

struggling to place
the elusive content called self
in a world he himself designed.

Beautiful lord of creation,
there will be worlds yet

that will fit the Idea.

The Best Of All Worlds

It was said before
in this best of all possible worlds. . .
that we will surely miss this.
It has to do
with the sweet ways of greeting
to demonstrate love and
of mostly handling the common place.
There are those worlds
of which we speak
where frame of mind cannot compare
with our range of emotions.
How like us that is. . . .
We boast of our capacity to love
and honor each other through all life. . .
and then raise arms in combat.
Why I ask does it pain me so
to leave it all behind
when emotion has blinded me
and handicapped you
from peacefully coexisting?
Too much, I think,
my heart needs a quiet time.
One to stand (beside) aside,
to heal my heart and simply Be. . .

in the next of all possible worlds.

Art by Claudia Hallissey

The Chime Clock

It is far past the hour
when the bell chimes
and I know when the hour
will strike again.

Many times we’ve heard
the bell strike our time
only to ignore the possibility
of a door opening.

We think it closes
forever on us,
yet the motive for its closure
is to ensure its opening.

Perhaps on a possibility
not thought of
or perhaps not ours before
this particular chime

declares us to our world and time.

Photo by Joshua Hallissey