Infinity Ridge

Standing here

Beneath the crusted winter air,

Looking at layer over layer

Of folded earth extending through the haze,

With trees like frosted fingers reaching

Toward the touch of pale blue sky,

And I, breathless on this zenith crease,

Find peace beyond the cold confines of time.

 

Mom and I did a little hiking last week in Shenandoah National Park (in Virginia). One of my favorite trails there takes you over some rocks to a 360-degree view near the top of a mountain. From there, it seemed like the mountain ridges around me went on endlessly, fading off into the hazy distance. That's where this poem came from.

Choice and Circumstance

Raindrops touch the puddles on the pavement,

Rhythmic, with the rings they make expanding,

Mixing with the ripples from the breezes

Blowing over top the water’s standing.

How we touch the world through each decision

Chooses where our waves begin their growing,

Broader forces bend the seas around us,

So we must adapt and go on flowing.

 

I didn't get around to posting a poem last weekend, mostly because I had spent the prior week in Ghana and was traveling back to Kenya. Now, less than a week later, I'm sitting in the Nairobi airport again, getting ready to fly to the US for Christmas. Getting the opportunity to do all this traveling has made me think about how the forces in our lives - including both our own decisions and the broader contours that affect things beyond our control - move us around and provide us with so many different experiences. At the moment, I'm really looking forward to the experience of being home in Pennsylvania for the next few weeks! 

Fading Visions

Nighttime visions of you

Light dark halls in my dreams,

Swimming as if on cue

Through my subconscious streams.

Lost are you at my waking,

Vapor from off my head

Fading as morning is breaking,

Drawing me out of bed.

 

This poem talks about how I sometimes feel in the morning, after a dream that fades quickly from my memory. The dream might have included some friends or family, and I may vaguely remember that they were there, but I often can't remember much else. It creates some mixed emotions - wanting to dive back into the dream, but also wanting to get up and see them again sometime soon, if I can.

Grant Us Peace

Grant us peace

Like a gentle rain that rolls

Beyond the thunder’s crack

And soaks into our harried souls

To fill the calm we lack.

Grant us peace

To still the sparks that burn the coals

Of clouds as dark as black.

 

This past week was a particularly stressful one, and this poem came out almost all at once last Thursday night. I think it's pretty self-explanatory - it's a simple prayer for peace of mind and soul, amid the storms and struggles we face.

Present

Here am I,

Here where time and space collide,

The point at which my heart is beating,

Where past and future coincide

With one oncoming, one receding.

In each breath I stand astride

The many ways that open wide

Beyond the moment – here I must decide.

 

This poem focuses on an idea that I've explored before, at least a few times - the idea of the present as this confluence of everything that's come before and all the possibilities that could come after. In every moment, we have an opportunity to adjust the likelihoods of those possibilities a little bit, depending on the choices we make and the ways in which we decide to move forward. I'm certainly not the best at being this thoughtful in the moment all the time, but it's something I try to remember, at least every once in a while.

Mosquito Bites

Red spots dot my feet,

Minor bites where slight mosquitoes creep.

The evening hours before I sleep

Are spent in swatting night’s chaotic fleet,

But every one I hit

I watch as it descends, no more to be –

Perhaps an end not fair nor fit

For what its little hurts had done to me.

 

Unfortunately (for me at least), I've been pretty lazy about posting poems recently. Hopefully, this one will help to get me back into a regular rhythm. Right now in Nairobi, we see a relatively high number of mosquitoes in the evenings. I occasionally look down at my feet and see a few little bites that I hadn't even felt. This poem starts with this idea of mosquitoes as annoying and troublesome creatures for us as humans, but in the end, it wonders if we truly have a right to try to reduce their population.

Fusion Fire

Fusion fires prick the night,

White pins within the black expanse of sky,

Not to rip apart the sight

Bright eyes take in when elevated high –

Rather, building up the parts

That start new worlds, fresh with hopes and fears

Born when atoms’ bonding starts.

What seems destructive turns creation’s gears.

 

This poem considers the reactions that happen within stars - fusion reactions that build larger atoms, which are eventually expelled into space to form new planets, comets, and other things. Looking at the sun might bring thoughts of fire to the mind, which we might think of as destructive, but what actually happens is constructive, contributing to the ongoing creation of the universe. 

A Cup of Tea at the End of Time

The light’s gone out. The stars have ceased

To shine their brightness round the space they’d leased,

While every world’s waned to dust

Beneath the weight of eons glazed with rust.

Yet here we sit, with tea grown cold,

Upon some plane beyond temporal gold,

Afraid to drain the final drops

And see beyond when clockwork’s stirring stops.

 

This poem imagines the end of the universe, when all the energy of all the stars has dissipated, and everything fades to nothing. If any living thing remains at that point, I expect they'd wonder what comes next - what will wait beyond the end - but I also expect they'd be a little afraid of how their existence might change, or end, or continue in some unknown way. To a lesser extent, I suppose it's similar to the uncertainty we feel every day, unsure of what new turns our paths will take.

Forgiveness

Dark is the night that comforts me,

And gray does the morning dawn

With rainclouds holding vigil near,

Striped across the sky beneath the sun.

Dark do the shadows come for me

And stray on the warming lawn

But fade, evaporating clear,

Wiped away as hatred comes undone.

 

This poem is another one where, when I started writing, I didn't know what the theme was going to be. Eventually, the idea of a dark night and gray dawn transforming into a warm, renewed morning seemed to parallel the feeling of forgiving - of letting go of the hate you've been holding to move forward anew.

Perseverance

What is the chance that a raindrop falls

Precisely upon a speck of dust?

Does it matter?
Perhaps we’re safe to trust

That if the rain falls hard enough

The drops which flood the surface must,

As they scatter,

Wash away that stubborn speck of dust.

 

As you might imagine, this poem started while I was watching the rain outside, and looking at where the raindrops were falling on the ground. Eventually, I realized that this idea was something of a metaphor for perseverance: Even if we are not able to achieve a goal perfectly in a single attempt, continuing to try may eventually bring success - even if perfection still eludes us.

Friendship Fully Filled

What better indication

Of friendship fully filled

Than the opening of heart and home

And the harmony instilled

By the thoughts of those we’ve waited long

Again to hear and see?

Perhaps I sing a simple song,

But nothing’s more precious to me.

 

I've been traveling over the past couple of months - I have still been writing poetry, but haven't taken the time to actually post anything. Now that I'm back in Nairobi, here's one inspired by the fact that I got to see some friends during my travels. I think the meaning is pretty straightforward - those folks just mean a lot to me.

Forward into Freedom

There are parts of me

You cannot see

When I obey

The confines built by bricks of yesterday.

But a future where

The walls are rare

Allows my soul

To find itself again, emerging whole.

 

This poem probably doesn't require a whole lot of explanation, especially since it has a similar theme to the one from last week - not being confined by what we've done in the past, and being open to the freedom provided by the future.

Guiding Lines

A notebook’s ruled with guiding lines

Some certain distance spread apart

Where words conform themselves to fit

Their shapes within this arbitrary chart,

But like a planted row of pines

Which cannot match a forest’s whit,

A life confined by guiding lines

Will never learn the best this world has writ.

 

Continuing the book theme in this series of eight-line poems, this week's offering focuses on notebooks with lined paper. If we strictly follow those lines, it confines what we write to a certain size and shape. This poem relates that idea to our lives - at least on occasion, it may be valuable to try to look beyond society's typical expectations (its "guiding lines"), to experiment with new shapes, forms, and ideas.

Paperbacks

A little more disposable

These books are built to be.

Their covers fade and the pages curl,

But their words still speak to me.

Their every leaf is mutable

To fall with time’s decay,

But in my heart, they place a pearl

Whose power there will stay.

 

This is the fifth in a series of eight-line poems, and it's a direct follow-up to the previous poem in the series, which was about how stories can sweep us up and transport us to new places. This new poem contrasts the fact that physical books - and perhaps especially paperbacks - can fade and fray, while the themes and stories they convey can stay with us forever.

Swept Up in Stories

What magic spells are written

In the words I see on the page

To transport me across land and sea

Where the winds fantastic rage,

Where all my steps are smitten

With a surge of freedom to stray

From standard scenes? What a grand new dream

Greets my waking eyes each day.

 

Here's the fourth in a series of eight-line poems. In this case, I don't think a whole lot of explanation is necessary - this poem focuses on the wonderful ability of stories to sweep us up and transport us to new places, times, and perspectives.

Until the Sky Held No More Stars

One by one, bright stars extinguished,

Each darkened with a peal of thunder.

I plugged my ears until it finished.

The storm had passed and rent asunder

Our fabric, filled with fragile scars,

And every time, I hid away,

Until the sky held no more stars,

Just clouds of deathly gray.

 

Here is the third in a series of eight-line poems. I wrote this one after thinking about the elementary school shooting that occurred a few weeks ago. When these types of things happen in the US, the pattern seems to be that society takes some time to collectively feel outrage and heartbreak, and then the old divisions almost immediately set in and nothing changes. At least, that's how it looks to me, watching things from another country. I can't say I know the exact details of what needs to change, but that need certainly seems to exist. Otherwise, the path we're on will likely lead to more of the same.

Within this Hour

Within this hour I wish to stay

For longer than an hour lasts.

But here, it seems, my hope’s mistaken,

For quickly, every minute casts

Its shadow, as the next is shaken

To come alive and pass my eye.

So time flows on and drifts away

As you and I bloom brief beneath the sky.

 

Here is the second in a series of short, eight-line poems. This one focuses on the ephemeral nature of time, and the fact that each of us only appears in this world for a relatively short time. 

Clouds Without Control

Clouds beneath moon and starlight

Slide slowly over the Earth,

Searching for barren pasture

Where rain would have greatest worth,

But they do not choose the chapter

When water from them shall fall.

So some receive more than is needed

While others’ storms are small.

 

After last week's long poem, I thought I'd start sharing a series of short, eight-line poems. This first one feels like a good follow-up after last week's themes related to the story of Job. It talks about the randomness of nature, and the fact that rain does not always fall in the places that need it most - through no fault of the people living there.

Truth Within the Whirlwind

There was a time, I remember well,

When my footsteps fell on a busy street,

And every soul I’d meet would swell

To tell of all my righteousness.

 

And in that time, perhaps with pride,

I’d lift my stride to expand my breath

And defeat the depths of death, which slide

Denied across my consciousness.

 

Then came the time that swung me low

And disturbed the flow of life.

It brought unlooked-for strife, like snow

That blows through summer’s wilderness.

 

The cold-toned chime my fortune struck

And shattered luck I’d kept so long.

I lost it all. What wrong had snuck

To pluck away my righteousness?

 

At least some crime, my friends had thought,

Must bring such fraught impediments,

But all the arguments they brought

Did naught but show their callousness.

 

I, in my time, felt justified

With words applied to counter what

Was said in every rut they tried,

Dividing them from truthfulness.

 

But in each dime they deigned to share,

A penny, fair with truth, did lie

And I could not deny that there

Was snared my wary pridefulness.

 

Thus, through the climb of our debate

I came to hate their sentences

And scorn the presences that fate

Sent straight toward my afflictedness.

 

Then, as the clime began to drift,

Began to shift with a stormy surge,

A younger voice emerged to sift

And lift the truth with righteousness.

 

He seemed to rhyme with what we’d spoke

But brought a stroke of wisdom new

Through awe, which nature’s clues evoke,

Awoken by his youthfulness.

 

Although his time was short,

His discourse sported hints of gems

Of gold that grew like stems, support

To fortify my humbleness.

 

Now, all is primed, and comes the storm

That fills its form throughout the sky,

And from some inner eye is borne

A warning through the wilderness.

 

“What hands could climb to place the stars

Or mold the jars that hold the sea?”

Such hands come not from me, so far

From sparking life from nothingness.

 

My brief life’s time is scarce a grain

Of sand that strains in endless waves,

Yet still your voice, which gave us rain,

Would deign to meet my lowliness.

 

And so, my prime response, to kneel

In soft appeal, may make it clear,

Regardless where winds steer my keel,

I’ll feel at home in humbleness.

 

I’ll try to rhyme with righteousness

As I hope I’ve tried before,

But without self-righteous pridefulness,

For in every way, you’re more.

 

 

I find Job to be one of the most interesting books in the Bible. For whatever reason, it just feels different from most everything else. I enjoy reading the debate between Job and his friends, and God's speech at the end is quite a conclusion, even though it may not seem to directly answer the question the other characters are discussing. This poem is written to convey an imagined sense of Job's thoughts, as the whirlwind comes and he hears God's words.

The Glow of Moments Gone

Wouldn’t it be nice

To pause what time is running,

Rewind the moments back a few,

Relive our greatest cunning,

And view with two eyes twice,

More tangible than memories

With nothing there recalled askew,

No misremembered melodies.

Perhaps we’d change a roll of dice

That chanced unluckily before

Or speak the word we’d wished we’d knew,

Which friendship could restore.

Yet in such skill must lie a price

To feel the glow of moments gone:
To stagnate in reliving through

The past, and miss the present dawn.

To spiral in a single slice of momentary gold,

We might mistake what dreams accrue

For those our futures hold.

 

This poem came out of a passing thought I had, about being able to go back in time and relive certain moments, perhaps changing things to what we think would have been better. Maybe there could be value in this, but there might also be danger - both in changing who we are today in ways we might not expect, and in becoming so entranced with reliving the best of our past that we forget the future.

A Careless Word

Within your eyes lived starry constellations

And depths as when the sparkling night sky clears,

But when you heard, they blurred with clouds’ creations,

And every light was lost in falling tears.

 

This short poem is about the impact of saying a single careless word or phrase. Essentially, it's a reminder to be careful with our words, and to realize that others may be affected by what we say - potentially, affected in ways that are different from what we might anticipate.

By the Rivers of Babylon

By the rivers of Babylon,

Where harps were hung upon the willows,

We sat and wept for Zion.

No melodies moved through water or wood,

For all was gone that once was good.

But the rivers of Babylon,

Their banks the bounds of where we stood

Like lambs before a lion,

Held mysteries, moonlight filling their flow

With dreams of Zion, new like snow.

By the rivers of Babylon,

The dawn found the bark of the willows bare.

The harps had gone, but melodies filled the air.

 

Earlier this week, I was finishing a read-through of the Psalms, and Psalm 137 stood out to me, because it began quite differently from most of the other psalms around it. Its first two verses were quite evocative, and they inspired me to start writing this poem. As I worked on it, though, I slowly realized that the poem also had parallels to the Easter story - items hanging on a tree, accompanied by despair, but with the promise of something new slowly forming as the items disappear from where they were hanging. I hadn't intended for the poem to become something related to Easter, but it happened anyway, perhaps by some mixture of subconscious thought and a little stroke of providence.

Psalm 137:1-2 (King James Version): "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof." 

Peace Amid a Whirlwind

My brain is racing,

Swirling like a hurricane at sea,

And ships that sail upon the waves

Are battered by the winds that buffet me.

But hidden in the chaos

Cascading round the bounds I thought I knew,

A calming breeze is blowing, tracing

Space that fills the eye, deep breaths of you.

 

Things have been pretty hectic recently. I've been traveling a lot for work, and even without that, we've been very busy. It sometimes feels like all these different tasks and responsibilities swirl around like a whirlwind. The trick - which is difficult to achieve, of course - seems to be to find some peace within oneself, and to use that to keep everything in perspective.

A Twilight Catch

When the daylight starts its fading,

And the partly cloudy sky, from blue to gray

Is changing and anticipating

The ending of the time in which we stay,

 

Through the air a ball is flying,

Spinning white with blurring threads of red

Like pinkish wisps of cloud defying

Darkness where the night begins to spread.

 

Two figures stand apart but not alone,

Connected by the ball between them passing.

Remembered disagreements both have known

Dissolve in evening’s summer air amassing.

 

Such moments missed throughout the years are fleeting

Save when fields of dreams enchant a meeting.

 

I watched the movie Field of Dreams recently, and the very last scene always gets to me, with the father and son playing catch. There's such a buildup throughout the movie, with the son talking about remembered grievances and missed opportunities with his father. It all fades away in that final, simple act, when they get to meet again, and he says, "Hey, Dad, you want to have a catch?" I started writing this poem the same evening.

Two Faces

Some pebbles have two faces

With one side rough and ragged,

The other smoothed with every jagged

Edge worn down by fortune’s paces

Over time.

But still they climb

The tides as one

With two perspectives always spun

On everything the world brings,

Whether coal or diamond rings.

The two see different sides of spaces.

One looks above, the other under,

Yet both still see some wonder,

If only gleaned in traces.

 

This is my last post about the new book. Its fourth and final section is called Where They Cross. "They" refers back to life and loss, the focal areas of the first two sections, and the theme of this final section concerns how wonder can be found in both our happy and our heartbreaking experiences. I think this poem, which appears early in the section, may be the one that makes this point most directly.

 

Like Pebbles Cast Upon an Endless Shore

Each pebble cast upon the endless shore

Is etched with traces of the ancient tides.

Beneath its tiny surface shell is more

Than what is shown.

Each stone a deeper story hides.

 

Last week, I shared something about the second section of my new book. The third of the four sections is called And Pebbles on the Shoreline. This section is less about a specific theme, and more about trying to convey an idea as concisely as possible. So, all of the poems in this section are quite short. The poem above is the first one in the section, and it introduces what I think is an essential idea for all the poems that follow - each one suggests a deeper (and longer) story hidden beneath the surface.

The Undiscovered Island

There is an island

Forever just beyond horizon’s ledge

Where all that’s violent

Surrenders to the peace at water’s edge,

And when you pass away

You’ll walk the bridge that leads you to its shores

Though no one here can say

What dreams and futures wait within its stores,

But when I listen to the sparkling sea,

Sweet symphonies of you will come to me.

 

Last week, I shared something on the first section of my new book. The second section is called And Loss. It concentrates on multiple forms of loss, focusing most on transitions from life to death but also considering other types of loss such as environmental destruction and degradation. This poem imagines that transition from life to death as a journey across the sea, to an island where all is peaceful, and where memories drift back to those still living.

First Steps Away

To see her run and jump and fall

And hone her skills

Until she stands before you, tall

And ready to begin

To scale the closest rolling hills

And feel the warmth upon her skin

Where sunlight floods the sky,

And then to seek for greater thrills

Beyond the paths that wander nigh

Toward faraway vast mountain-scapes

Where water falls unbroken, spills

Upon the rocks in frothy shapes,

And makes her dreams come true,

Her searching spirit, soaring, fills

Your watchful eyes with what her future holds in view.

 

This is my third post about the new book. The book's first major section is called Of Life, and focuses on the patterns of the lives we lead, as well as how those patterns have changed as a result of the pandemic, and how they can vary in different parts of the world. This poem is the first one that appears in this section. It explores the experience of watching a child come of age, and knowing that she may, someday, travel far away.

 

 

Embodying Emotion

The words do not come cheaply

When writing of emotion.

The poet feels it deeply,

Embodying each notion,

Then lining up some rhymes that fit

The currents of its ocean.

 

Projection, make-believe, or empathy,

I’m not sure what to make of it,

But each imagined life that comes to me,

Regardless, teaches me a bit

Of joys and pains and wonder,

And I must hold them deeply
To heal or rend my heart asunder,

But the price is felt less steeply

If the words reach someone, somewhere

And embody depths for them to share.

 

This is my second post about the new book. The book is split into four major sections with different themes. Before the first section, though, there are a few introductory poems about the act of composing poetry - or at least my own approach to it. This poem is one of those, and it focuses on the need to really feel the emotions being expressed in the words, even (perhaps especially) if those emotions are associated with a person different from the poet.

 

 

Traces

Sketches,

Light lines loosely filling in the edges

Of truths we think we see around ourselves,

Rough words penciled in,

Crossed out, changed, and rearranged,

To capture shades of where our wonder delves.

 

We feel out threads of life and loss

And listen to the wisdom they impart.

Do you see them, where they cross –

Traces of a greater truth at heart?

 

I'm excited to share that I've finished putting together a new book of poetry - "Traces of Wonder" is available now on Amazon! It includes the poems I've been sharing here over the past couple of years, as well as others that I haven't shared before. Over the next few weeks, I plan to offer up some details on the book's themes and different sections, but for now I'll share the first poem in the book, which I think provides a brief introduction.

New Stories to Tell

The stories we’re told

Uphold the values society views

As cues to behaviors acceptable, suitable,

Beautiful for its functioning,

But sanctioning all we’re sold

And scolding the one who attempts to infuse

A new scenario into the fold

Is bold with hubris, deceiving,

Believing we’ve nothing to still figure out,

No doubt in the pre-rendered mold.

So shoulder the burden, create, and show

Unknown-before roads, which force us to grow.

 

This poem is about the danger of becoming complacent and overly comfortable with how society functions. There are certainly many elements that are good, but I think it's always important to keep in mind that we remain far from perfect, and that voices calling for change may often have something of value to say. We shouldn't dismiss these voices outright, just because they convey ideas that might be drastically different from the dominant narrative. We should think about them critically, question why things are the way they are, and consider what better ways might be possible.

Stressful Things

Stressful things, like tightened strings,

Tie my stomach up in knots,

Hunch my shoulders, bent like boulders

Poised to tumble down, and clots

Of thought accrue like hardened glue,

Inflexible as concrete cots,

Yet new wonder blossoms under

Blooming sky – let fly those stressful spots.

 

A few weeks ago, there were some difficult discussions happening at work, which have since been resolved - but in the moment, they felt pretty intense. At the end of that week, on Saturday morning, I went outside for a walk, like I often do. I felt the warm sun on my back and the light breeze on my face, and to some degree, the stress melted away. That's the idea this poem is trying to convey,

Dissolved in Morning's Light

I spoke to you last night.

It must have been a dream,

For we walked and talked by a silver stream,

And everything felt right.

But with the dawn, like rising steam,

Your words dissolved in morning’s light.

 

This short poem came to me in two pieces. The first four lines came one night while lying in bed, just before I went to sleep. The last two lines came the next day, which seems about right.

A World on a Plate

At first, there was a seed,

Which fell into the soil.

Eventually, potential freed

By rain and sun and farmer’s toil,

Its nascent roots extended

Like fingers searching through beds of reed.

And soon were leaves suspended

From woody shoots the light did upward lead.

Day by day, its branches grew

To shade the ground where it was tended,

As fallen rain was lifted through

Its limbs until, with sunlight blended,

Living flowers sprang

Whose scent and shape and varied hue

Attracted those that hummed and sang

And pollinated others as they flew.

Now, upon my plate

Are pies of apple and lemon meringue,

Ingredients brought by growth and fate

From seed to sleep where branches hang,

Then plucked before their time’s too late.

Such links have lived in all I ate.

 

This is something I think about a lot - how everything I eat came from somewhere, and went through its own journey, its own life, to arrive upon my plate. For me, it can sometimes create a sense of connection with other places, other things, and other lives.

January Summer

January summer

Spreads throughout the southern world

Beyond that equatorial divide,

January summer,

Where bright flowers stand unfurled,

Ensuring that their beauty will abide

Forever, always somewhere,

Whatever petals fall from the other side.

 

I wrote this short poem while out on a walk this morning. As you might imagine, it was inspired by the fact that I just traveled from the US back to Kenya, crossing the equator and going from winter to summer in the time it took to fly.