Late Autumn's Final Rain

The soil soaks up the water
That rains down from above,
While under the surface, spaces fill
Like a heart fills holes with love.
And after the drizzle has ended,
But before the impending winter chill,
The trees drink up the liquid,
Enriched before their world goes still.

We've already had several days of snow at this point in the year, and the trees shed their leaves a long time ago. But occasionally, the temperature climbs and reminds us that it's not actually winter yet. During those periods, we might see some rain falling and soaking into the thawing ground.

Entranced

I glance out the window
Through the darkness of the night.
Movement catches my eye,
Shadows pluck the strings of sight.
Four deer across the street
Grazing in the grass,
Peace at once envelops me.
I stand entranced before the glass.

Sometimes before I go to bed, I look out the window and see deer in my neighbors' yards. Whenever that happens, I can't help but stand there and watch them for a little while. 

The Stronger Poetry of Life

I could craft new verses everyday,
Until they fill the blank and waiting pages
Of notebooks stacked so neatly on my shelves.
I could read as well the wisdom of the sages,
And surely, it would be enlightening.
But though I’d learn of wonders deep and true,
My song would not be near as strong
As if I’d spent one afternoon with you.

It's been a while since I've posted a poem - teaching has been keeping me very busy! I got a chance to see some friends and family over Thanksgiving, which is what gave rise to this one. It's a reminder that, while great ideas can come from thinking, reading, and writing, living life and interacting with one another can often be the strongest source of inspiration and wonder.

In the Midnight Glades (Into the Woods)

Where are you going tonight?

The woods are dark and obscure your sight.

The evening sprites, you say,

Tell stories that bite, too hard for day,

But worth being heard.

In the midnight glades, life’s shades of gray

Abound with every word,

But knowing you’re not alone will light your way.

 

Similar to last week, this poem was inspired by something musical - in this case, an entire musical instead of a single piece. I recently watched a recording of Stephen Sondheim's Into the Woods with the original Broadway cast, which I really enjoyed. When I was part of this musical in middle school, I enjoyed its humor, but I don't think that I fully appreciated its complex narrative themes and structure.

A Glimpse of Unknown Beauty (The Swan)

Gracefully, a swan goes sailing,

Stately, with her head held high,

Gliding like on liquid glass,

Lakeside forests passing by.

Glancing back, she wonders why

Watchers wait on shoreline grass,

Following her floating trail. She

Slowly spreads her wings to fly.

 

This poem's inspired by the classic cello piece "The Swan," which is part of Camille Saint-Saens' suite The Carnival of the Animals. Last year, I wrote an arrangement of the piece for four cellos (with one playing the melody and the other three providing an accompaniment that's a bit different from the normal piano accompaniment that Saint-Saens wrote). Once I'm back in the states, I'm hoping to start making and sharing some recordings of this and other musical stuff I've been working on.

Stories Falling from the Sky

Upon the starry pond, a lily pad

Shivers as the ripples travel by,

Created from the falling of the leaves

Floating now like flecks in liquid eye.

As tears well up within my windowed soul,

Silver waves enfold my weary feet,

Awaiting you beyond what dreams I meet

Beneath the stories falling from the sky.

 

 

Occasionally, I'll write a poem without a clear theme in mind. I'll just start with a line or a phrase, and let each line come out of the previous one. This poem was definitely like that, and I have to say that I'm still not sure of how exactly to interpret the final product. My thought, at this point, is that the second set of four lines relates to the first set - I correspond to the lily pad, being affected by the stories (leaves) falling from above, which inspire dreams of those close to me (ripples)...maybe.

First Rain

Some say, when creation came, the days were dry,

As creatures from the sea first crawled to land.

The sun beat down and stung each squinting eye,

While vapor rose from trails of wetted sand.

Many were not yet ready to there abide,

Taken by dehydration, life threads waning.

So the sky cried for those who died,

Not knowing its tears would save the ones remaining.

 

This poem is sort of a made-up myth about how rain first came to be. Like most myths, I tried to have it speak to some universal truth or lesson. In this case, the idea is that hope can come out of failure and sadness, and what we learn can help us move forward.

As New Wings Fly

Too young some souls are taken from our sight,

Too soon before the lungs of life have filled,

While we remain, it seems, to question why

Their beating hearts by chance or fate were stilled.

But who am I to say what time is right

Or understand the depths an angel delves?

Though maybe, searching, we, as new wings fly,

Remember what they taught us of ourselves.

 

This poem is about the sad circumstances when we lose those close to us, particularly when that loss happens sooner than we expect. While providing comfort for those remaining is paramount, the poem's words are more focused on thinking about how those people who've been lost might still be with us in some way, helping us to see how to move forward and better ourselves.   

Selfless

Selfless –

Lacking a self,

Without a self –

Is that truly what it means?
Perhaps not exactly,

For when you acted selflessly,

To be one on whom another leans,

That act defined the self you’ve come to be.

 

I thought this one might work well for Mother's Day. It began just by thinking about the word "selfless". If you compare with other words with a similar structure - say, "clueless" or "lifeless" - you might think it means something like "without a self" or "not having a self". But actually, I think it's more about recognizing, valuing, and loving the other "selves" in the world around you - and that becomes a defining feature of who you are. Of course, many parents do this all the time.

Between Two Choices

Caught, perhaps un poco paralyzed,

Across this space perceived as pure potential,

Where either pathway taken

Might bring adventures new and change essential.

A whisper then – “awaken” –

Faintly heard from somewhere up ahead,

Its true direction still disguised,

I step, to see which way my heart has led.

 

 

Just this past week, I made a pretty big decision - I decided to accept an offer from Syracuse University to be a teaching professor there in environmental engineering. I had offers from two schools, and it was an extremely difficult choice. I think both options were good, and I was leaning toward each one at different points in the process. To some extent, it just came down to what felt right in my heart. I wrote this poem a couple days later.

Parts of a Whole

Some part of me is tied to part of you,

Wrapped up in all your rising rays of sun,

Dependent on the days your time has spun,

To wander through a wider field of view,

And every tide that’s come and gone

Has brought a boon unlooked-for through the dawn.

I didn’t know the world’s made new

When part of me is tied to part of you.

 

This poem focuses on how we can start to see things in new and different ways when we connect with other people, as we begin to understand how they see the world. What's become ordinary to us may appear in a new light if we're able to perceive it from someone else's perspective.

The Dove's Descent

The dark descent the dove goes down

To come and claim his coveted crown

Transforms the flow of folly and fear

To hope for heaven’s harmony here.

We trace his trial to a trembling tree

And think, with thunder’s throes at three:

Would sorrow’s storms and struggles cease

If people prized his path of peace?

 

I've been traveling a lot over the past several weeks and am now starting to settle back into a rhythm of writing. This one definitely seemed appropriate for Easter. As with many of my poems, I didn't start out with this theme in mind - I was more focused on trying to see how much alliteration I could pack into every line (and apparently the answer was quite a bit). Eventually, the Easter theme (maybe more precisely, the Good Friday theme) started to take shape.

The Borders of Ourselves

What are you thinking?

Can I ever truly know?

Even if you tell me,

What unnamed thoughts remain below,

Beneath the threshold words express?

And so, your thoughts stay foreign,

Unless somehow our minds extend

Beyond the borders of ourselves, to blend.

 

This poem explores the extent to which we can truly know and understand one another. Being aware of all the random thoughts that occur within my own mind, it's difficult to see how we could ever arrive at a similar level of awareness regarding the thoughts of others. If we're not able to do that, is it possible to ever truly know someone as we know ourselves? I don't know, but the poem ends with the hope that it is possible, because perhaps, somehow, our minds go beyond what we can rationally perceive or quantify within the physical confines of our own heads - extending into other places where they can truly come into contact.

When Golden Flowers Fall

When golden flowers fall

And silver stems decay,

Their leaves of jade go floating

Where all things pass away,

For riches may enthrall,

May glitter for a time,

But never will their treasured note

Outlast the final chime.

 

This poem makes the point that, even though material riches may seem a bit more long-lasting than a flower's quick decaying, they still diminish over time. They are ephemeral, just like anything else in this life, and when our lives do come to a close, those riches will be lost to us completely. Personally, this idea makes me think that the world should focus a bit less on money and markets and prices, and a bit more on other things.

Open Sky

Every once in a while

I wonder why

The sky seems to open in reply

To something feeling broken

Within the little world I see.

Despair awoken

By pain unspoken,

The sunset streaks the clouds and comforts me.

 

As I've mentioned before, I have a nice balcony where I like to sit and read, especially on the weekends. Almost always, sitting out there gives me an immediate sense of calm as I look out over the buildings and distant hills, particularly when the sun is setting. Sun's rays emerge through clouds and paint pale pinks and purples across the western sky. It helps me to remember the majesty of the world, bigger than any small difficulties I might be facing.

Parts to Play

Listen to the music.

Find what notes to add

In consonance or dissonance

With joyful melodies or sad,

But cadences are always

Left somewhat incomplete.

The phrases stretch beyond ourselves

In measures we will never meet.

 

I often think in musical terms, and this poem focuses on using a musical metaphor to reflect our lives. It makes the point that our choices and actions (the notes we add) contribute something to the overall harmony of the world, or clash with it. It also points out that, while our part in the symphony will end, the music will continue on - hopefully enriched in some way by what we offered.

Who Owns the Forest

He told me it’s his and showed me in print

The title, signed, with a golden seal’s glint.

Then a gust tore the paper away from his hand.

It fluttered, a leaf on the wind, to land

On the soft forest floor, where it nourished the trees

And surrendered its words to the voice of the breeze.

“Who owns the forest?” I asked of the sky.

“All and none,” came a whispered reply.

 

The idea for this poem came when I was watching a video that mentioned someone owning a forest. While I realize this probably isn't all that uncommon, it struck me as odd. I know some may not agree with this way of thinking, but I have trouble seeing a forest as simply property to own, with all of its life and complex, interconnected processes that defy and surpass our control. Its cycles contribute to the lives of all - human, animal, plant - so all have a stake in its continued thriving, and none can stake an individual claim.

Keep Writing

I struggle to identify

A theme that’s new, untried, and unexpected.

I wonder if my writing

Has now exhausted all my heart’s collected.

Should this be so, I’d pause to cry

But then begin again to pen a rhyme,

For here my mind keeps fighting

To understand my place in space and time.

 

The words have been coming somewhat slowly recently, as I've been trying to write poems. When this happens, I sometimes wonder if I've just run out of ideas, or run out of whatever creative writing ability I had before. Buy eventually I realize that, even if that were the case, I would still need to keep trying, because this has become one of the ways I process things - one of the ways I try to understand my place in all that happens.