Welcome to this poetry place, where we offer an irregularly changing clutch of poems for your enjoyment. If you have written a short poem (usually twenty-four lines or less) that you would like to share, we would be happy to consider it for inclusion here. There are no requirements except that it be in harmony with the feelings and intent of this website. Just include the poem, along with your name, in an e-mail to Tim Amsden. Because the poem is property of the poet, we can only post poetry written by the submitter or passed into public domain. Based on the belief that poetry is best taken in small doses, this page will be kept fairly short. If you submit a poem and it does not appear, it could be that we are holding it for placement in a later rotation. After poems are removed from this page they are placed in a very nice poetry retirement home. You may visit them here.
Trees
(for Fran Anderson)
Driving westerly along the Ancient Way,
Twisting, climbing toward the Divide,
Our road would rise through the lava-studded forest,
Bend around the base of the volcano,
Shadows and sun dancing
Inside the car as we would glide
Spell bound out onto
The high mesa and canyon country
Of the west-central plateau,
And so, on to our home of many years.
And deep in the moment of our journey
She would open her heart to the rapture
of nature’s miracles,
Spotting perching hawks, or on the wing,
And ravens looping on the updrafts,
Mule deer staring out from shady glades,
And the mountainsides of Ponderosas,
And mesas populated with Piñon groves.
And sometimes she would observe out loud,
That so many trees looked like they
Might be dying,
Drought-stricken and ravaged by a million beetles.
We knew they would soon be standing corpses.
But those afflicted trees drew her heart out
Just as when throughout her life
She saw children struggling
And families in strife, and worked
To make the world a better place for them --
Surely if she could have,
She would have watered every single tree,
She would have driven out the catastrophic beetle,
She would have healed and saved each and every tree,
Found a way to make them whole again
With supple boughs all clad in green,
So that every single tree she saved
would thrive and feel the joy
Of crowding flocks of birds ,
Would listen to their songs,
And the whir of tiny fledglings
Being nurtured, sheltered, shaded
Among their healthy limbs:
A green and peaceful paradise
Where tiny lives might soon fill
The universe with joy.
Reed Anderson 2022
Arrive, Leave
for Fran and Reed
We stand firmly rooted
consciously breathing brief glances about the circle
aware these moments are fleeting and full of memory that alone will remain
The silky dog sighs stretches and lays down on the periphery
Our teachers nod as we settle into the moment and rejoin our lives together
From silence, Tai Chi movement begins
Stepping out, empty step left as the heel lightly touches down
the ball of the foot rolls forward, as weight shifts forward
the trailing right foot lifts, heel first then toes reaching
and lands weightless, mimicking the left and then melds into the earth
the Master intones :
First you arrive, then you leave
All part of a process, a flow.
Breath in. Measures, in, out.
Brush knee, swallow's tail. Arrive, leave.
Beauty in the passage and poetry of motion, acceptance that the form flows to an end.
Can we learn from this as we too prepare to leave?
Try to accept the speed to our exit, our finish, the inevitable rhythm that catches us
hurling us towards some completion, faster and faster as days pass.
In the Form time slows, conscious of breath, of arrival and of leaving.
Reflect, and slow down.
Teaching. Recall your arrival.
Moments of mother, of father, of words not yet understood
being lifted up above and gleefully swooping over the others
celebrating your arrival, your being.
Then suddenly being is not enough.
Look at what I can do, shoe tied, name printed, books read
leaving behind childish moments, arriving, rushing forward.
Doing.
A lifetime now of doing, but learning to be again.
We listen.
To arrive in consciousness.
To prepare to leave in consciousness.
All part of a process, a flow.
First you arrive, then you leave.
Tom Himelick,
In loving memory of Fran Anderson.
Contemplations by Pam Ballingham 2016 predawn sky brightens! in hushed silence we face east — soft river of wind smell of roses but there are none in the yard! pale breath of heaven still deep listening all agendas set aside — clear sky opens young loon bobs on lake, mist at dawn luminous gold — small boat slides from shore drifting autumn clouds carry waves of canyon drumming — dry land drinks the mist Today in the Middle of the Night Today i was painting, laughing, crying, with Rachel, in my studio. Tonight it is raining a melody on the trees. I woke up slowly, remembering, in this thick darkness gently twirling rainbow like particles of light, & the silence that comes when the crickets no longer sing rings in my ears of winter. i woke up drenched in sweat remembering the inevitability of death in my imagination i tame that un-tameable beast laying down in the snow on a clear night with stars sparking in my heart... or some such other perfect circumstance.... Today, i was painting, & laughing through tears with a friend. Tonight it is raining a sublime orchestra over-riding my fear. i wake up, clearly remembering, this moment. ----M.blue november 15,2016 1:45am
Tea Ceremony
© July 2008 Pamala Ballingham
Harmony,
respect,
purity and
tranquility,
begin on this quiet Sunday afternoon
under a monsoon-seasoned sky just off the garden,
as water boils in a song and
macha is sifted and piled high like Mt. Fuji rising
in the black lacquered Natsume.
Delicate crowns of pink and orange lantana
tilt gracefully in the humble vase
and incense sends a languid trail
that shivers slightly,
then pivots sideways,
and rights itself again,
revealing invisible currents
meandering skyward,
leaving spicy traces
of woody quiet places.
Steaming water
sends clouds into waiting tea bowls
with red silk Fukusa
unfurling,
folding,
in slow legato —
a precisely paced
orchestrated dance
of Chawan,
Chasen,
Chakin and Chashaku
in genteel motions
echoing the ancient ritual, tethered to now,
in plays of water, silk, macha and clay.
The mind settles and opens
like a dry brittle leaf
soaked and softened by gentle rain,
and ears attune to hypnotic swells
of breezes threading through pine boughs,
and water bubbling over pebbles in spring.
When time unfolds just right,
macha greets the tongue like an Anam Cara,
knocking three times at the door and,
under the spell,
calms and graces the space
and slips discreetly away
through the low and narrow door,
leaving fragrance
in the air.
In the Oyamel Forest
A royal carpet, 470 million monarchs
blown from the sky in a Mexican
mountain winter storm.
We did it by logging the forest,
destroying the canopy of protection.
Thanks to us most of the world’s monarchs
lay dead on the forest floor.
What an end for these doughty fliers,
smacked down after 2000 miles
of crosswind navigation.
Logging may kill the rest
in 15 years.
How lucky we are not to see
the consequences of toilet paper,
not to know each time we rub out
another creature.
What a blessing to be like Teddy Roosevelt,
one morning bemoaning the end of the passenger pidgeon
then joyfully killing three black bears
in the afternoon.
~Tim Amsden
Otis
Desert rain
old man laughing —
young man too.
~ Gyoshin
Giant rusty red
and black
ants
travel the great expanse
of my toes
-Madalin Blue
It is a privilege to write and read
to have a bed
a roof
a prayer
a plate of food
to have two arms and two legs
to have something as complicated as a hand
blood vessels
a breath
a song
It is a privilege to sing in troubled times
to sit alone in a room
pen in hand
and write one true thing
The rewards are great, unfathomable~
to peer beyond the cave of the skull
to worlds larger than all of us
to learn to yield
to bow
to receive
to wait
to witness beauty and
sing its suggestions
in a song
a melody
no two chords the same
though echoes occur
to offer us time to record
It is laudable
and often essential
to write a poem
good or bad
and to let the heart break
in its circle of silence
to be awake night after night
hopeless, exhausted
(is there a world for anyone’s children?)
to sleep one hour
and wake
to disbelieve the sun
and then to glow
to belong here
right here
despite everything
and to celebrate with friends
~ Jim Janko
Our Place in the World
On the winter solstice,
The darkest day of the year,
old friends gather, as people have
since humanity began.
Beneath ponderosas and
star-blasted sky, bundled
and warmed by hot buttered rum,
they huddle around an evening fire.
Murmurs of conversatons quiet
as one lifts his guitar from its case and begins,
strumming and singing an old song
of love and memory.
Voices of the others gradually join until
all are singing, a soft yearning together,
a binding moment as each gazes
into the fire and gently blends their
voice into the whole.
Above their heads their hearts twine into a tiny goldfinch
that rises through swirling snow, till it joins
the vast circle of birds made in their ways
by Maori, and Masai, and Zuni, and all
the other families of people.
The circle expands until it spins around the earth,
the earth ceases to wobble, and its voice
clarifies into the high ting of a rung goblet,
and the angels pause in their work
to cry the perfected note.
~ Tim Amsden
the birds have vanished in the sky and now the last cloud drains away we sit together, the mountain and I until only the mountain remains. ~ li Po Gentle piñon dawn Ancient seas’ slow breeze wakes elk Heart sails slowly fill. ~ Jon Pickens
Love Affair with Red Rock
When you have lost your mind
Sense and sensitivity flown,
Like a flight of crows on the wing,
Go out into the valley where
The wild sunflowers make
A joyful dance unto the Lord,
Let the wind wash over you
In holy consecration,
Tickling the tight edges—
Until a small ripple of
Sweet surrender slides its way in,
Falling into red earth,
Gently merging with
Deep rhythms that quiet
The hungry soul,
Whole body embracing
Rose-hued mother rock,
Breathing stone smell
Into deadened pockets
Of non-being.
I know I am
Carried on a current that
Knows its own way,
Following bird sign,
The patterns of stars,
The scent of tree, root, soil,
The longing to belong
Matched only by the
Invitation of spirits who
Beckon me close,
Whispering in my ear—
Welcome Home.
~ Elizabeth Herron
The sound of the Valley Stream is itself
the Vast Eternal Tongue;
Are not the colors of the mountains the Pure Body?
Since evening, eighty four thousand verses;
Another day, how could I quote them to others?
~ Su Tung p’o (11th Cent. Chinese poet)
Autumn
My niece belly dances and
cooks for Lola Moonfrog
My sister’s etheric name is Stella
mine is Durmont Bouchard and Lucia,
having been clarified, is Lucia
We read books take mini-courses
consult therapists and astrologers to uncover
who we are yet
The bear knows, as does the willow, exactly this:
the wind, ice is coming and the narrowing of the day
~ Tim Amsden
When I touch the Earth,
Ancient songs of Elders
Whisper in distant places.
~ Gyoshin
Since water still flows, though
we cut it with swords
And sorrow returns, though
we drown it with wine,
Since the world can in no way
answer to our craving,
I will loosen my hair tomorrow
and take to a fishing boat.
~ Li Po