Night of Song and Silence

The night is still, yet angels sing.

The sky is dark, yet starlight flings

Itself upon the sleep of kings

While shepherds hear what tidings heralds bring.

 

The air is chill, yet they are warm

As unbound love takes human form,

Yet few can see the shifting norm

Of who brings peace to calm the raging storm.

 

This night of contradictions stays

Through ages long in which we stray,

Reminding us, when fabrics fray,

That wholeness comes in unexpected ways.

 

The world’s greatest offering

May wait within the margins’ deepest haze.

 

This year's Christmas poem felt more appropriate for Christmas Eve than Christmas Day. I think one of the things I like most about the Christmas story, and really the whole story of Jesus' life, is how it turns the concept of power on its head. People and places that seem to be small and insignificant (according to certain standards) become central to the story. It suggests to me that a great power to make the world better can be found in all of us, regardless of who or where we are - and it's a power that is much more wholesome (and perhaps, holy) than what we conventionally think of as power.

Warmth from Words Within

When the air is cold

And the wind comes rushing in,

The fire goes out

And the light is growing thin,

But the flame you hold within

Is ever bright.

It burns without

Extinguishing tonight.

Every tale you’re told to write

Feels uninspired,

But the words that spring from you

Are more desired.

 

This poem is about the wisdom and warmth we hold within ourselves. It felt appropriate for this time of year, as temperatures in many places are dropping.

The Dark but Starlit Heavens

I find myself upon a seat

That flies above the spinning sea

At thirty thousand feet,

A little world, enclosed but free

From all the surface conflict stirring

Beneath what I can see,

The broken lines between us blurring

As we together brush the sky,

Our common hopes enduring

To land once more where shores are dry

With safety and stability,

But still the ground will cry

For greater hymns of harmony.

Might we prefigure what we need

When in the clouds’ tranquility

We set aside our greed

To glimpse the dark but starlit heavens

That shine on one humanity?

I just got back to the US for some December vacation – had some hectic airport experiences, but the flights themselves were nice. Flying often makes me think about the connections between places and people, and this poem gets at that idea.

In What Seems Small

I search for oceans vast and teeming

Or rivers running full and fast and wide.

What else could circumscribe your dreaming,

Which knows the time and course of every tide?

 

She stands, instead, beside a tree

And watches as the rain is lightly gleaming

Beneath the golden sunlight, free

From breaking clouds whose outer shells are steaming.

 

I wonder what her mind is thinking

To focus on so small a symphony.

What majesty could she be linking

With tiny beads of liquid mystery?

 

Then suddenly, I see it all

By following her eyes, whose gaze unblinking

Aligns with one about to fall,

One drop that holds the world before its sinking,

 

A lens delaying on a leaf

Before its contents splashes with the call

Of gravity, while I in disbelief

Find you reside still more in what seems small.

This poem is about the idea that even things that seem small contain infinite complexity and beauty. There's a book I read several years ago, written by the Dalai Lama, called "The Universe in a Single Atom", which looks at relationships between Buddhism and science. I think a possible alternative title for this poem could be a less extreme version of that book title - "The world in a single raindrop". 

Purple Periwinkle Petals

Purple periwinkle petals

Upon the trees and scattered on the street

Adorn this space of fired bricks and reinforcing metals

With softness, scented sweet

Like honey on a summer’s day.

Their influence is subtle and discreet

When juxtaposed against constructed gray,

Yet still reveals our hardening conceit.

Purple periwinkle petals

Upon the trees and under striding feet

Perhaps will make us stop and think of how our progress meddles

With biomes once complete.

 

This poem was inspired by light violet flowers that were blooming in trees near my apartment not too long ago. They filled the trees, and eventually covered the ground beneath them. At the same time, there is a fairly large construction project happening on a neighboring plot. With my tendency toward environmentalism, I couldn't help but think about how projects like that, whether a building, a road, or something else, carve up, cover over, and isolate pieces of the natural world, often, perhaps, to the detriment of the ecological relationships and systems that existed long before our construction equipment arrived.

Groundwater

Our water comes from underground.

We lift it up to great renown

With callused hands that pump and make it fly.

 

The tumbling of its rushing sound

Reverberates throughout our town

And brings relief when mouths are running dry.

 

But as our growing streets abound

With life, we threaten soon to drown

The well’s capacity to get us by.

 

Our water comes from underground,

But every day we’re drawing down

The level that remains of our supply.

 

No other sources have we found

Untainted by a dirty brown.

We must preserve what droplets lie

Pristine within the spaces underground.

There are many environmental challenges facing the world - one that's closely related to the kind of work I do concerns diminishing groundwater supplies as populations grow and water demands increase. These supplies can be replenished, but the time scale is often much slower than the rate at which we pump water out of the ground. Of course, this can be an especially critical issue in places where water access is already relatively low, and people may need to resort to less pristine (and less safe) water sources to meet their needs. This poem imagines a growing town with a handpump that brings up groundwater, which I think is a fairly common scenario. As the town grows, the water levels decrease, and it becomes more and more important to figure out ways to preserve and replenish what remains.

Home

A home that stands without four walls,

Its ceiling blue and white, and black as night,

Its floor, here soft, there hard, which sprawls

Beyond the reaches of my farthest sight,

 

Its shining lights, from moon and sun,

Illuminate its new and ancient scars.

Our task: to mend what harm we’ve done,

Inflicted on our home beneath the stars.

 

I've been reading some environmental writing lately, which is probably why this topic has surfaced often in my recent poetry.  I think this one's fairly straightforward - focused on preserving this world that we call home.

Now in Harmony

Today is nothing less

Than any other day upon the Earth.

So why do I digress

From now, assigning to it lesser worth

Than days enmeshed in memory

Or futures built on nothing but projection?

I need to heed the harmony

That comes from every moment’s introspection.

Here's a short and fairly simple one for this week, but I think the message is still important. This is certainly something that I struggle with often, looking forward to or being concerned about things that might happen in the future, and thinking back to past experiences. This undoubtedly has value, but it's also important to be present in the moment. I've been trying to get better at that through things like meditation...

Falcon Flying High

Falcon flying high

On a backdrop of sapphire sky,

What do you spy

Of the world here below?

What catches your eye

In row upon row

Of engineered surfaces

Static of flow,

With ill-defined purposes?

Forests used to grow,

Here banyan, there birch,

And each you could know

When gliding in search

Of a perch

To consider

The world here below.

 

One of my favorite poetry-related things is when I go out for a walk, and by the time I return, I have a fully-formed (or nearly fully-formed) poem in my head ready to write down. That's how this one came about. I went for a walk today, and a few minutes in, I spotted some birds circling high in the air. This is a common sight here, but it got my wheels turning, nonetheless. They weren't falcons, but a falcon fit well into the language of the poem that was developing. By the time I was climbing the stairs back to my apartment, the last line was coming into my mind.

A Bird outside the Office

A bird outside the office

Was tapping on the window glass.

I whistled, and she cocked her head

As if in protest of that crass

And unrefined endeavor

To signal I would like to know

Her better.

Still, she sang, her eyes aglow,

Then fluttered off the ledge to go

About her day, with me behind.

I wish I knew what words she said,

For something in my heart has realigned.

 

This poem was inspired by the birds that sometimes land on the ledge outside the window at my office. Occasionally, they do tap on the glass, and I might whistle in some ill-conceived attempt to communicate. I think they notice - but I'm not really sure what they think about the noise they're hearing.

The Story in the Paper

I put the pen to paper,

And it seemed to move itself.

A story lived inside the fiber

As real as if it sat upon a shelf.

 

When the pen was touched to paper,

It awakened something dormant in the page.

A long-lost memory was sleeping –

A forgotten forest where it lived an age.

 

Before it turned to paper,

It formed the grain that grew beneath the bark

And watched what living things were creeping

Beneath the canopy on soil dark.

 

Now those remembrances are paper,

A million separate pieces from the trees.

So I will try to put them back together

Before their voices fade upon the breeze.

 

I just finished this poem last night. It originated from the idea that we write stories on pieces of paper (though I guess that's less true now that it was in the past, because of computers). In any case, when writing on paper, the pages themselves come from a living thing, with a story all its own. This poem is just a brief, fairly simple exploration of that idea.

The Sounds of Warmth

Warmth is a feeling, they say,

But I hear its music at play

In the crackle of logs on a winter night’s fire

Or the songs of the birds that spring morns inspire,

In the rolling of waves beside pale summer sand

Or the rustle of autumn leaves quilting the land,

And, most impactful of all to me,

In the voice of a friend from across the sea.

 

I wrote this one a week or two ago, but it flet appropriate to share now, after receiving a number of birthday wishes. There are times when I wish I could be in multiple places at once, living so far from so many who are important to me. That's not how life works, but messages like those I received yesterday help me to feel those connections.

Two Perspectives of a Roadside Hedge

Over the Hedge (toward the Heavens)

Over the hedge

Beyond that wall of branch and leaf and green

Lies something more,

Something brighter than my eyes have ever seen.

For where I walked before

Was veiled in shade below its topmost edge

To guard my fate,

But now I hunger for

The hidden lore

And brilliant sheen

That wait

Just past the hedge.

 

A Hole in the Hedge (toward the Earth)

There’s a hole in the hedge,

Which I might crawl through

To explore other realms

And locations new,

Which were blocked before,

Reasons why unsure,

But the barrier broke,

Which expands my view.

As I think I've shared before, there are hedges along the sides of the road where I do most of my walking. I wrote these two poems at different times, and I didn't really realize they had a connection until after they both were finished. I feel like they express two sides quest to learn and grow: first, the desire to do so, looking up and stretching beyond yourself; and second, the act of doing so, by returning to the practicalities of the world and figuring out how to actually move in the direction you want to go.

Fallen Flowers

Upon the sidewalk after rain

Are flowers, fallen from the strain

Imposed by stormy winds and water’s weight.

The chimes of chance have changed their fate.

Where once the flowers blossomed bright,

They’ve come to occupy a mud-stained plight.

Aloof, our footsteps undermine

And crush the dreams their lives define.

Yet still, their colors grace the sidewalk’s grain,

Downtrodden souls whose rays of hope remain.

 

Here's another poem about the flowers that line the streets and sidewalks as I walk outside. In this case, I was inspired by the flowers that have fallen to the ground after a storm, which are then crushed beneath the shoes of pedestrians. It made me think of the people we may not see as we walk through life, but who are nevertheless affected by the choices we make and the ways in which we live.

Moonflower

Each month, another bloom is born,

Beginning closed and dark,

But bit by bit, each night and morn,

All silver-white and stark,

It blossoms, filled with gossamer dreams

Of subtle light and spark

Reflected from the stars’ bright streams,

Then petals fall and mark

The cycle of all life we know:

To grow and gleam, then, it would seem,

To wither, but in memory to glow.

Last week, I was out walking and saw a flower pointed down toward the ground, facing away from the sun. Of course, it made me think of sunflowers and their following of the sun. It made me wonder what a "moonflower" would do. Eventually, I decided that it would focus more on the cycle of growth and diminishing suggested by the phases of the moon. Each month, the flower would produce a bloom that opens, then closes, but remains in our memories - suggesting our own cycles of life on the Earth.

City and Savanna

Standing here

On the boundary between

The world I know

And the wider realms my eyes have never seen,

My mind is clear,

But my heart betrays a fear of what’s ahead,

Where the grasses overgrow

And the wildness of nature shows instead,

Instead of ordered streets swept swiftly clean

With rows of storied buildings standing near.

Those silhouetted skylines spread

As early rays of dawn appear

And wake the living plains from sleep serene.

The change I undergo

Once every shade of dark has fled

Recalls how cities’ corners overflow,

Encroaching toward savanna’s gentle curving.

This threshold where my sight expands

Creates in me a conscience for conserving

What lands remain beyond our human hands.

 

This is a poem I've been wanting to write since I visited the national park right beside Nairobi and saw the wide savanna spread out in front of the city skyline. It seemed suggestive of living in harmony with nature, but also the possibility of encroaching too far on the wilderness. This poem is about the interface between these two environments, as well as these two ideas.

Passed Pawn

The way ahead is clear

With none to block your path now drawing near.

You’ve risked it all to close

The distance to the goal behind your foes.

Success will bring promotion

And greater strength to match your pure devotion

To serve your gallant king

And fight a battle fit for bards to sing.

 

But you must also know

That, win or lose, the end will bring you low,

Returning to the role

You played before the battle took its toll.

And in your next campaign,

What changes, save your own traumatic strain?

The board remains the same

As kings send pawns to prosecute their game.

 

I think this will be the final installment in this series of poems inspired by chess. A "passed pawn" is one that doesn't have any opposing pawns in its way toward the end of the board, so it has a chance of reaching the end and being promoted to a more powerful piece. In this poem, the first eight lines essentially explain that, while the second set of eight lines takes a broader view and recognizes that, in the next game, the pawn will return to its original state again. As usual, I feel like this trend has parallels in the real world...

Opening Moves

Some like to start offensively

And send their soldiers in

To break the lines aggressively

And sacrifice themselves to win,

While others wait, contentedly,

To build a strong position.

Both ways, they say, are possible,

So make your opening decision.

For me, I find preferable

The latter, though, admittedly,

The former holds its own appeal

To flame toward fortune instantly.

But I will turn a slower wheel

And flow, like water, patiently,

Until the time seems right

Perhaps to press for peace without a fight.

 

There are a lot of standard "openings" in chess, where both sides make a certain set of moves to start off the game. My sense is that these opening ideas are on a spectrum, ranging from very aggressive, where you might sacrifice something to try to attack and apply pressure more quickly, to slower and more positional, where you build up a solid, well-defended structure of pieces. The slower, less aggressive varieties tend to feel more comfortable for me. Of course, I think these ways of starting the game have parallels to the ways in which we approach life.

Knights

They leap from light to dark, and back to light,

Unhindered by the walls that block their way.

Their movements seem to go askew and stray

From other pieces’ patterns. Every knight

Maneuvers round the structures of the game

With incremental progress, left, then right,

Until it finds a place to ease the plight

Of all whose movements fail to fit the frame

Defined by what is typical for most.

Its skilled maneuvers push aside the shame

And show its quality, of course the same

As others on the board. And so, the host

Accepts the ones they’d shunned until today,

But none should need to prove such worth to play.

 

This is the second poem in a series inspired by chess. Last week, we focused on bishops, and this week, we're focusing on knights. To me, knights have always felt a bit like the misfit among the chess pieces, because their movement pattern is so different - one square forward, backward, left, or right, then one square diagonally. Plus, they can jump over pieces that are in their way. They can't move as far or strike as quickly as others like bishops, rooks, or queens, but they can be very maneuverable and useful. This poem essentially uses knights as a metaphor for those who may be outcast by society, emphasizing that they have something valuable to offer and should be included along with everyone else.

Bishops

The only pieces who only see

Half of the entire board,

And only when they both are free

Can every tile be, by them, explored.

 

The light, the dark – each has its squares,

And sometimes one is more involved

As kings conduct their grand affairs

In turns, until the conflict stands resolved.

 

Although the bishops seem unique

Among the pieces in the game,

They might be most like us, who peek

At glimpses of the whole, with none the same.

 

Only when combined, our stories

Illuminate this world’s greater glories.

 

One of the things I like to do for fun is play chess, and I often feel like that game has a lot to say about life. This is the first of at least a few poems I'm going to share that is inspired by chess and its pieces. If you're less familiar with the game, bishops are only able to move diagonally across the chess board, which is made up of alternating light and dark squares, so these pieces are only ever able to access squares of a single color. Kind of like us, as our perspectives of the world are limited by our own experiences...

Strange Thoughts

Somewhere

Out there

Is a stranger yet unknown to you.

Her care

You share

To preserve traditions strong and true,

But the songs hers strum

Are somewhat different from

The ones you’ve known and heard your whole life through.

Yet the beats upon her drum

From the streets her feet have walked have come

To present another, also valid view.

So, consider,

If you meet her,

That her thoughts, which seem to you askew,

Can offer something worth enshrining, too.

 

This poem came out of thinking about the many divisions within our world, and, from my perspective, the value of trying to be open to the viewpoints and experiences of those who are different from us - those who come from different places or have lived very different lives. We each come with our own understanding based on our lived experiences and the things we've been taught through the traditions of our family, friends, region, or country. But I think it's important to remember that others, who may have very different ideas, also have strong reasons for thinking the way they do. Perhaps it's something worth remembering when we consider people's words, ideas, and views that may seem strange or unfamiliar to us.

Your Line across my Heart

There are lines that run across my heart

And lead to those removed from me

By distance, sadness, strife, or time.

Each line is glazed in memory.

 

I wish to pull them all together,

But that would only pull apart

This web in which our lives are strung

Before new harmonies could start.

 

With every hour’s steady chime

I touch the warmth in every tether,

The bonds to which my heart has clung

While shivering in stormy weather.

 

Do you, so far removed from me,

Detect, within the melody

I strum, your string sublime?

This poem is about the connections between us and the impacts we have on one another, including among those we may not have seen or talked with for a long time. This is certainly something I think about from time to time, being in a different part of the world from many people who I know have impacted (and continue to impact) me.

Residual Presence

Today, time took your soul away,

While I am left to wonder where you’ve gone.
Do paths exist where spirits stray,

Where you may listen, wait, and linger on?

I muddle through the world without you,

Wishing for the guidance of your hand,

But sometimes when I think about you

I almost feel as if you understand,

As if you know the thoughts I mutter

And watch the steps I take beneath the sky.

I hear the flower petals flutter

And wonder if your presence just passed by,

Yet you would likely wish for me to see

The beauty blooming right in front of me.

 

This poem isn't connected to a recent personal experience, but the world has been facing (and continues to face) a lot of loss over the past couple of years. Here, I'm just imagining a circumstance where someone feels as if a person they've lost is still there, watching and supporting. It's a feeling I've had myself at times.

Tightrope Crawlers

They scamper along the top of a wall,

Then wait their turn on a faded church sign

To cross the street on an overhead line,

Being careful not to fall.

 

Their light brown fur is standing on end

With tails outstretched, adjusting their balance.

It’s a privilege to witness such samples of talents

In these years of life I spend.

 

A hand or foot, on occasion, may slip,

But they stay atop the electrical cable.

Their remaining appendages keep themselves stable

As what faltered finds it grip.

 

And once they have bravely attained the far side,

I wonder what crossings my caution and fear have denied.

 

On Thursday afternoon, I was walking to the store and came upon a group of monkeys who were crossing over the street by crawling along an overhanging power line. I saw at least four or five, at various stages of approaching the line, crossing it, and the moving on once they reached the far side of the road. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to take a pictures, but it was pretty neat. Hopefully the poem provides a decent description.

The Book that Sleeps beside My Head

When lifting up the mosquito net

And climbing into bed,

I bring with me a notebook that

Will sleep beside my head.

 

It lies upon my pillow while

My thoughts explore the stores of night

To search through each poetic vial

And find what words to write.

 

Yet if I do, it seems more true

That you’ve inspired the dreams which guide my sight.

 

For a while now, I've been doing what I write about in this poem. I have a notebook where I work on poems, usually at night, and I often continue thinking about them as I get into bed. So, I now bring the notebook along, and I've found that as I start to move through that threshold between waking and sleeping, I will sometimes make a connection or find a good word or phrase that had been eluding me. When this happens, I often feel as if that inspiration is coming from somewhere beyond myself...

Your Worth beneath the Sun

She walks the earth with head hung low

Unsure of where she fits.

She’s watched the skies and searched below

And seen the way the spirit splits

In two when someone makes a choice,

Resolving toward a certain chord.

Regretful phantoms lend their voice

To the road left unexplored.

 

But regardless of the path that’s chosen,

You’ve made the choice your own.

I could say your burning doubts are frozen

By the branch of life you’ve grown.

 

What deeds you’ve done,

What songs you’ve sung.

Do you know your worth beneath the sun

Ever since the air first rushed to fill each lung?

 

But beyond an account of acts alone,

A more fundamental undertone

Recalls to mind a lullaby

For babies, birds, and bards who’ve yet to fly.

 

Even if you didn’t do

The amazing things you’ve done,

Your endless value still stands true,

For you live within life’s web beneath the sun.

 

So lift your head and hold it high.

Your worth would more than fill the sprawling sky.

I finished this one a while ago, but it didn't seem like the right time to share because the weather here was cloudy and rainy. It's still cloudy and cool (not so much rain anymore), but the sun came out today as I was walking. When I got home and looked through my poems to decide which one to share, this one seemed right today. It speaks to the inherent value within each person, regardless of who you are.

Let Them In

We try so hard

To push the magic out

And hide what hopes we feel with stoic covering.

 

We try to disregard

The wonder all about,

Forgetting life beyond the deadlines hovering.

 

We have our moments, rarely,

When stars align, unveiling

The strings that spread across the cosmos, glistening.

 

Perceptible, just barely,

Their sounds are never failing,

And we are free to let them in by listening.

 

I've been feeling very busy recently,  and I think that feeling will probably continue, at least for a few more weeks. I just finished this poem last night, without really connecting it to how hectic things have been, but now I get the sense that it's the universe's way of telling me to remember to take some time, relax, and not forget the wonder and beauty that always surround me.

Trimming of Hedges

Sometimes I wish there would be no trimming of hedges,

That we’d let them grow to engulf the concrete ledges

Where we walk or stand or sit and stay awake,

No space for dreaming dreams of what we’d make

If we let the world be what it will be

And conform ourselves to the contours it would take,

Rather than working the other way around

Where it’s forced to fit our footprints on the ground.

 

There are large green hedges along the sides of the road during much of the walk from my apartment to my office. I enjoy looking at the twisting branches and small leaves that form this natural wall. A few days ago, I saw several people out trimming these hedges and noticed a number of cut branches and leaves lying in the drainage ditches besides the road. It got me thinking about how we do so much to force the world to conform to our society, our infrastructure, our wants. I wondered how things might be different if we focused just a bit more on fitting ourselves into the shape of the world around us, rather than fitting the world to ourselves.

Of Vines that Hang from Power Lines

They wind themselves around when they have found it.

Eventually, their growing leaves surround it.

The power line supports them as they try

To stretch a little closer to the sky,

But when the power’s cut, and night goes dark,

Their energy maintains its living spark.

On my walk to and from our office, there are some places where I can see vines reaching up and curling around electrical lines along the side of the road. I just found this to be an interesting sight, and it inspired this short poem.

Wheeling

Round and round your gliding goes

In the slanting light of the afternoon.

Above the roads’ right-angled rows

You fly with wings outstretched, in tune

With every current of flowing air

To spin in spirals drawn with care.

What unseen tether leads you on,

Wheeling round and round, until

A few light flaps mean you are gone

To find some other space to fill

With feathered grace where the weather’s fair

To write your course which angels share?

I wrote this last weekend as I was sitting on my balcony, watching birds glide in slow circles. It's something I see often, and the gracefulness of the motion always makes me stop and take notice. I feel pretty fortunate to be able to see their aerial dance from such a good vantage point on the top floor of my building - often they are flying at, or even just below, eye level.

Walking through Rain

It was just a drizzle when I left

And had nearly ended when I arrived,

But in between, the clouds were cleft

In two, and every surface thrived,

Enlivened by the drumbeat of

The pouring rain from up above.

Puddles grew to a rippling pool,

While little rivers formed to rule

The roads where they were running.

Most people paused beneath a tree,

And they, perhaps, were far more cunning

Than I would prove myself to be,

My sneakers sopping wet despite

The little umbrella perched above my head.

I must have been a disheveled sight,

Pressing on through what the clouds had shed,

But as I reached my journey’s end,

The rain was slowing up ahead,

And soon it stopped. The drops that did descend

Were dripping just from me.

Although I’d hoped to avoid rain’s fall

While walking home, I find I’m free

Of anger toward the timing of it all.

I’m covered, drenched, but something’s there

Within the molecules that share

Their bonds with me,

Supporting life across eternity.

 

For a couple weeks, I've been teasing the fact that I've gotten caught in a couple cloudbursts while walking home. This poem is about one of those instances. I left the office, seeing that it looked like it might start raining soon and hoping I could get home before it began, thinking that the rain might last a while. Instead, a downpour commenced almost as soon as I had stepped outside, and continued until just before I reached the gate of my apartment building, when it slowed and then stopped. So, it turned out that I had picked the worst possible time to go, except for the fact that I ended up not really minding being drenched by the end of it all.

Sheets of Rain

Why does rain come down in sheets?

It’s not a blanket warming those beneath,

Nor, I think, a page of written word,

But maybe one for music, which I’ve heard

In drizzle’s calm and thunder’s gnashing teeth.

Each droplet draws a note when ground it meets.

 

This week's poem is a short one, continuing the rain theme from last week since it has still been raining quite a bit here in Nairobi. (I got caught outside in another cloudburst this past week, and had left my umbrella at home...) Essentially, this poem is just having a little fun with the phrase "sheets of rain" - taking it, perhaps, a bit too literally. I'll also note the rhyming structure in this one, which might be a bit unorthodox, but I kind of like it: It's symmetrical, with the last three lines mirroring the first three.

A Storm Before

Streams of water tumble down

From clouds that nearly touch the ground,

Appearing like a pale-gray gown

That shrouds the air, and rhythm’s found

Within the rumble of the hail

Which pounds below, while thunder drums on high.

The storming slows. Light thins the veil.

Remaining droplets hanging from the rail

Are lenses toward a distant bright blue sky,

Prefiguring what peace will follow nigh.

 

It's been raining pretty frequently here - it often doesn't last very long, but it can get pretty hard while it is raining. I was actually caught in a brief cloudburst as I was walking home a few days ago - I've started a poem about that, but it's not done yet. The poem here is about an afternoon storm from a couple weeks ago - it came and went quickly, and then the sun began to come out afterward. 

Spiral Ascending

Somebody’s knocking

On the door I’m unlocking

As rain droplets drum overhead.

Who could be standing

On the edge of my landing

To wake me so early from bed?

The door opens wide,

And the stairwell is dyed

With a shadow of somebody waiting,

But that presence moved on,

Ever higher it’s gone

Toward the clouds and the storms they’re creating.

I follow its track

Never once looking back

Up the steps in a spiral ascending.

Upon reaching the top

On the roof, I stop,

Anointed by raindrops descending.

But no one is here,

Though I thought it was clear

That someone before me was leading.

I feel something around me.

Its essence confounds me,

Then it dissipates, slowly receding

Unknown and unseen as the storms disappear.

With the dawn comes the calm I’ve been needing.

 

My apartment in Nairobi is on the ninth and final floor of the building, and although there is an elevator, I often take the stairs up and down for the exercise. Nairobi is over a mile above sea level, and climbing up nine flights of stairs certainly gets the blood pumping. The stairway continues up after the ninth floor, ending on the roof, where a lot of people hang their laundry to dry. This poem is simply an imagined and somewhat magical event, in which I hear someone on the stairway, follow them to the roof, but then whoever it was is gone.

A Ship Went Sailing

A ship went sailing,

Sailing on the wind

Above the whispering waves and shivering oceans,

And it was scaling,

Scaling clouds now thinned

That veiled the distant stars’ celestial motions.

Tonight, the curtain’s failing,

Failing to obscure the whole

Whereon the wandering ship is traveling high.

Tonight, our love is trailing,

Trailing after every soul

Remembered like the starlight in the sky,

Whose memories are sailing, sailing,

Sailing back to brush a waiting eye.

I've heard that poetry is best when read aloud, and I think that's often true. I feel it applies especially well to this poem, with its repeated words, the rising and falling rhythm of the lines, and the sustained rhyme that runs throughout. Thematically, this poem offers one imagined scenario of what happens to souls after they pass on - riding upon a ship sailing into the night sky, while those who remember them catch a glimpse from below.

Another Home Another Day

The red-brown murram road is running,

Cutting through the landscape filled with green,

From woody hills’ horizons, stunning,

Basking in the sunlight’s golden sheen,

To wetland lily pads and reeds

Leading toward a town of memories.

Each building, shop, and pathway bleeds

Into an image drawn from melodies

Of years gone by.

And all that I remember

Comes rushing back, and as the visions fly,

I think of what you said that last November

When I flew off to find another home

But promised to return another day.

To paraphrase: No matter where I roam,

A part of me would always stay

With you, beneath the leaves of ffene trees.

In every other home that knows my gaze,

I hope I leave some blessing on the breeze.

 

My guess is that this will be the last poem related to my recent trip to northern Uganda. The northern part of Uganda is certainly different from the south, which is where I lived for a few years. But going there and spending a few days definitely brought back some memories of my previous time living in the country. I'll note that I did mix in a couple words that some folks may not be familiar with. Murram refers to reddish brown laterite soil that is common in East Africa, and ffene means "jackfruit" in Luganda (the local language in central/southern Uganda).

Higher than the Clouds

Go higher than the clouds

That hover round the mountaintops,

Surpass the wispy shrouds

Before their waiting water drops

And see another mountain-scape

Whose fluffy summits billow up

Where unimpeded sunbeams drape

Themselves upon the slopes.

An open hole suggests a cup

For light to pour its shining hopes

That touch the ones below the clouds

Whose vision does not penetrate

The layerings of spreading shrouds,

To see the brighter things that wait

Beyond and in each shadowed head

Where hope springs new and angels tread.

This is another poem that comes out of my recent travels. Whenever I'm in a plane and watch as we ascend above the clouds, I'm always struck by the landscapes that appear to exist on the upper side of the cloud layer. They seem to contain hills and valleys, as well as holes that reveal bits of the actual landscape far below. The beauty of it all never ceases to evoke a sense of wonder in me, and this poem attempts to begin to convey that.

Leaky Gutter

The drizzle outside was amplified

By a leaky gutter nearby.

Escaping drops drummed on the tops

Of iron roofs that lie

Just beyond my open window

As I stayed in bed, awake

But drifting in and out of dreams

That drew me, through a fool’s mistake,

Forgetting they were less than real.

But consciousness was soon restored

By the truth that drummed on rusted steel

Where the leaky gutter’s water poured,

Reminding me the rain was real.

 

I was in northern Uganda last week, to help support a new project we are starting there. Before coming back to Kenya, I spent a night in Kampala (Uganda's capital city), waiting for my COVID test before I could fly. When I woke up in the morning, it was drizzling, and the water leaking from the gutter just above my window, falling on a corrugated iron sheet just below, made the rain seemed much louder and harder than it actually was. So, this poem is just a slice of life during my travels.