When Angels Dream

When angels dream

Beside the calm of heaven’s stream

Within a golden forest glade

Where branches overlap and braid

The silver starlight’s gleam,

What sights enshrine your haloed heads

And blossom in ambrosial beds

Of purely known unconsciousness?

What dreams arise when all is less

Than where you lie?

My dreams are less than yours, I think,

For my imperfect thoughts will shrink

And shrivel, fallen leaves that dry

Beneath a swollen sunlit sky.

But when your thoughts are close at hand,

My own proceed to fly and stand

Like trees that drink from deeper stores.

The golden forest stream explores

The higher realms that angels share.

With you as guide, I’m nearer there.

And so, I ask, so selfishly,

If once, tonight, you’ll dream of me.

 

 

I was in northern Ghana for work the past two weeks, and I wrote this poem on my way home, during a short flight that brought me back to Accra, the capital city, before continuing on to Kenya. I had the title phrase in my head as a starting place, but the poem eventually became a bit more personal. In my mind, it became about asking questions related to people who have passed on: Where have they gone? In the place where they are, do they dream? If so, what are their dreams? Do they look back toward the people they knew during their lives? And, if they do dream of us, can we feel it?

The Dreams beyond the Dunes

To cross the threshold of the dunes

With straw-green grasses waving in the wind

And glimpse the crystal crests on blue-green gray

Advancing far until the tides rescind,

Each layer breaking over layer

And tumbling toward the steady shore,

Rumbling then releasing all its spray

As it splays across the sandy floor,

Reveals a mirror for the lives

That come and go, yet linger on

To soak into the souls of those

Remaining on the dunes when they have gone.

And one who stays is wondering

Where waves will wander after they have passed

That far off, strange, unknown horizon.

What currents come? What dreams will last

To reach the ancient shores of Avalon,

Where what was once, one day may be again,

And all transform to queens and kings

Whose lives of love will be remembered then?

 

 

My grandma passed away on Friday night. She was 99 years old, and she felt ready to move on. I was in some other parts of Kenya this week, on a trip preparing for some work we will be starting soon (I'll be sharing some pictures, and at least one other poem, eventually), and I found out as I was traveling back to Nairobi yesterday. During some of that long, all-day drive, I wrote this poem, which combines some ideas I've had in my head for a while with this more recent news. Those ideas relate to some time I spent with my family at the beach (Stone Harbor, NJ), which was a special vacation spot for my grandparents as well. They also relate to some concepts from Arthurian legends (the island of Avalon).

 

One more note: I had a dream last night, in which I was on a walk with Grandma. This was nice for at least two reasons. First, she's been in a wheelchair for a while, so the fact that she was walking was significant. Second, after I woke up, it made me think of the hymn "In the Garden" ("And he walked with me..."), which was a favorite of hers. We had talked about me playing this hymn at her funeral. While I won't be able to do that right now, it was nice to have the experience I did in a dream - sort of like the end of the poem suggests (which, I'll reiterate, was written before that dream happened...)

The Winds of Change

It’s indescribable,

Yet somehow undeniable

For me, as I reflect on where I’ve come

Through all the years and all the weary

Moments. Imperceptible

Has been the silent hum

Of choirs undeterrable

In days of sun or darkness cold and dreary.

 

Leaves rustle,

Branches bend,

And all the busy, excess bustle

Can fall away to point me toward a blend

Of what my life should always be

And how my soul is most complete.

The winds of change surrounding me

Have brought me back for us, again, to meet.

 

 

 

I wrote this poem a while ago but never shared it, for some reason. Maybe I was waiting for the right time. Given my recent move to Nairobi, Kenya, it seems appropriate now. My first month here has felt extremely busy and hectic, but I've enjoyed it a lot. I'm working with some wonderful people, and I think we're going to be doing some very interesting and impactful work together.  

Giant

He strides upon the earth

As if its every speck were his

To hold, to specify a worth,

And build what his desire is.

Each step eats up a mile.

He wades across the ocean wide

And delves beneath the mountains, while

His passing makes all creatures hide

And hope for other days.

There was a time when he was small,

When greater herds could safely graze,

Before he stood so proud and tall.

With every footprint, forests fall.

Swung arms propel warm gusts of air

And whip up hurricanes for all

The mangroves on the coast. The glare

Of sun upon his eye

Reflects, refocuses, and burns

The valleys into deserts dry.

Transformed, the silent world turns

And wonders if his mind can learn

What consequences wait and rise

To make land boil and liquid churn

Before life’s vanished cries.

 

 

One interesting aspect of poetry - good poetry, at least - is that it can have multiple meanings, being full of metaphors that suggest different things. I don't necessarily consider what I write to be in a category on par with really good poetry, perhaps in part because I often have a single meaning in mind. In this one, for example, my thoughts were focused on the environmental degradation caused by humanity, and wondering whether we will learn and be able to change. But maybe there are other meanings that could be found, as well. That's another fun thing about poetry - sometimes a reader can identify ideas that the author may not have considered or intended.

Words of Life

Pens write on pages torn

From Gideon Bibles in hotel drawers.

Printed type is covered; born

Are freer curves, like fertile spores

That blow across the nighttime air.

Ancient prose and poems past

Provide foundations, concrete cast

For architectures bold and bare.

Fragmentary thoughts are drawn

In words and sketches on each leaf

Until, as with a fresh-cut lawn,

The scent of life refines belief.

Human struggles, failings, flaws

Collect within the flowing ink

And mirror what the prophets think

Of ancient kings and lands and laws.

Past and present join as one

To share the promise and the pain

When every plan has come undone

And unintended scars remain.

Offer up what words will come

From liturgy and light

Of present days, whatever’s right,

And God will build a greater sum.

Somewhere, by a desk lamp, bright

With blessings born of darkest night,

One finds afresh the perfect grace

That grants imperfect faith a place.

 

 

I'm reading a book called The Cloister Walk, written by Kathleen Norris - a poet who has spent long periods of time living in a Benedictine monastic community. In one section, she talks about the Psalms, which are read and recited frequently in that setting. She speaks to the way the Psalms convey the full human experience. The words sometimes convey anger and a desire for vengeance, and personally I've struggled with these and other parts of the Bible with similar themes. However, she sees them as revealing some of the flaws of humanity, and they continue to mirror our own struggles today, even though they were written thousands of years in the past. Perhaps they offer insight into humanity's imperfect prayers and expressions of faith. Whether we recite ancient wisdom, speak our own spontaneous musings, or use some combination of the two, perhaps our imperfect and incomplete words reach God, where they are made whole - more profound, more perfect, beyond words.

To Touch the Sky

What does it mean to touch the sky?

That bright blue ceiling strikes the eye,

But nothing’s really there.

It’s just the atmospheric air,

Which gently thins and dissipates

As I ascend through cloudy gates

And glimpse a solar flare.

Nothing solid – wall or snare –

Will stop my elevating climb

(Neglecting gravity, this time).

The nighttime sky is where

I see the true extent laid bare.

Infinities of dark amass

Above my head. There depths surpass

My sight beneath the glare

Of glassy stars. But don’t despair

Or lose your dreams of touching sky.

Forever reaching, striving, try

Each time, again, with care,

To struggle further forward, where

New realms will dare your eye.

 

 

A few days ago, I thought of the ways we sometimes talk about the sky - as if it's a solid thing that separates the Earth from space. We speak of "touching the sky," but as we reach further and further up, the air just gets thinner and thinner. There's no solid thing to touch. And yet there's value in reaching, in striving to reach higher and higher. At least in my view, life seems to be similar. We always search for greater understanding, higher callings, new discoveries, and better days. While we do not reach perfection, the quest to be better, to be greater than what we are, or to more fully understand our own place in the universe, remains valuable.

 

Where the Stillness Rests

When every sound is silence

And every vision dark,

When any move is violence

Against the soul’s redeeming arc

Arising from its meditation,

The truth becomes the destination

That graces life with wisdom’s spark.

“What truth?” I hear the stillness ask,

As if it hopes to soon embark

From where it rests to bask

In wisdom far removed from here,

And I feel rise a touch of fear,

For every word is incomplete,

Each spoken thing, at best, a piece

Of some unfathomed whole we meet

Where reason stops and stories cease.

Beyond the sounds our mouths can utter,

Eternal chords, far deeper, flutter

But vanish when we train our ear

And try to capture what they say

Or write them down to make them clear.

The fuller part remains astray

Unless we let the stillness rest

And know the truth’s an endless quest.

 

 

Sometimes, when I start writing a poem, I don't have a very clear idea of what it will be about. This one began like that, with what I thought were some interesting lines about meditation. But I wasn't sure where to go after "the stillness" asks its question. I ended up writing the rest of it in short spurts over the next few months, until finally reaching a point that felt like some sort of conclusion. It eventually arrives at the idea that (perhaps like this poem) our search for wisdom and truth is never truly over.