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.

Two Responses to Pleasant Dreams

 

Where Do Dreams Go (Obsession)

Where do dreams go

When waking brings an ending to their race?

Do lives endure and flow

Though they recede to some subconscious space

Within my head?

When I arise from bed,

Do those who graced my slumber cease to be,

Or might I find their presence in a place

Beyond the shores of fading memory?

If so, I’ll wander high and low

And lose myself to bring you back to me.

 

 

Dreams of You (Appreciation)

Dreams that bridge the darkness bring me through.

In them, I’m blessed to see a smiling face

Whose beams of light the nighttime treats as true.

At break of day,

They fade away,

But I retain a whispered trace

Of you.

I'm not sure if I'll be able to post a poem next weekend. I'll probably be traveling for work. So, I thought I'd do a two-for-one thing this weekend. I started working on these two poems separately. I finished Dreams of You first, and then, as I was almost done with Where Do Dreams Go, I realized that they were somewhat related, both reflecting two different ways of responding to dreams after waking up. One probably goes too far in trying to recapture the feelings and experiences present within the dreams, while the other appreciates the (partial) memories they've left behind. I'm not one who can typically remember much from my dreams, but when I do have one that is especially vivid or that calls to mind a specific person, I'm glad for the traces that remain with me throughout the day.

Far Over the Weathered Mountaintops

Far over the weathered mountaintops

That rise above the leaves of shrouded trees

Enshrined in shadow after dusk,

An orange glowing fades to blue and black,

And evening’s kiss of cooling breeze

Restores to you the freedom that you lack.

 

Far over the weathered mountaintops

Where you had roamed so many years ago

Along a still untraveled track,

You find yourself anew upon the brink

Of summits unexplored. Now go

And find the living waters there to drink.

 

Far over the weathered mountaintops

You fly, beyond the window by your bed,

While the remnants of your body sink

And all of that confusion in your head

Disperses in a moment’s wink.

Your spirit’s on the wind, new trails to tread.

 

Some of my favorite poems are the ones where a story seems to emerge as I am writing. As I work on one like this, I feel like I am uncovering an underlying tale that already exists. While I was sitting out on my balcony (described in last week's poem), I was looking at the hills that rise up in the distance to the south, and that image combined with a line from Tolkien ("Far over the Misty Mountains cold") to inspire this poem's title. As I continued to write and think about it, a story of someone lying in bed, nearing death, began to emerge. This person looked out the window and saw mountains they had once enjoyed exploring. With those final thoughts focused on these experiences, the person's spirit passes on and heads out toward, and beyond, the mountaintops.

Upon the Balcony

I sit upon the balcony,

A drink is at my side,

And read the words of fantasy

That other authors wrote to guide

My mind to other places

Fictional and filled with faces

Different from my own.

But also, glancing toward the sky,

I watch the sun descend its throne

And cast its final rays on high

To fill the cloudy spaces,

Covering the gray with traces 

Tinged with multi-colored light.

Whether read or seen,

These evening moments lift my sight

To find the hidden sacred sheen

Of this world’s many graces.

Nightfall swiftly primes its paces,

Words and shades made one, with me, serene.

 

 

Over the past few weekends, I've started going out on my balcony in the late afternoon and reading until the sun sets. It's something I've come to really look forward to throughout the week. During this time, I often feel especially connected to the world around me, and inspiration feels closer.