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.