You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
Check out my slideshows of autumn in New England. The foliage erupts everywhere. Much of it reflects fleeting sunlight.
Let’s start with a hike just before the color changes and then turn our attention to apples. And then? Well, we’re ready for the progression of fall color.
~*~
~*~
Click away as you will.
along the shoreline, the heads of two gray seals
bob and glisten
later, three seals together, lazy
and then, a dozen seals basking and lolling ensemble
twenty feet out
“you never see that”
while strolling a ribbon
between sand cliff and ocean
I try estimating one ladder or stairway
from the cottage above
later, two young wives
from Atlanta and Nashville
cute as can be
in their annual escape from their husbands
tell me they rent a place
just over the crest
109 steps “Every year we count ’em
and they’re never the same”
against shoreline hammered every fifteen seconds
by a three-foot curler or six-foot breakers
judging by surf fishermen
at fifty- to a hundred-foot intervals
still, where the high apron of beach has been cut away
at high tide, I’m forced to remove shoes
roll up my pants and allow the surge to swell around me
it’s warmer than Maine
now after Labor Day
“Had I known, I would have brought my swim trunks”
“but it’s pretty rough, too”
hard to believe I’m walking on oysters or clams
the receding wave sighs
when I glance back at bubbling sand
another seal patrols the shore
when I see more of them in one day
than in all the rest of my life
comb jellies – white melting ice cakes
gelatinous to the touch
slightly resilient, like grapes
all over the place, where the water’s just been
scallops, they call ’em – open up in the water
like jellyfish (their relations
but these don’t sting
crab shells, a few mussels:
somebody’s eating well:
a decaying small shark
just three boats visible white specks
plus the freighter over the horizon
yes, 3 vessels
where yesterday
we saw none
wide open ocean
at my feet
would I rather be
kelp
or the indestructible
green rope
tossed from the sea?
sea spinach
just north of Marconi Station
keep thinking I hear jets
under the relentlessly crashing surf
many crab shells at the waters edge
some decaying fish up to two-feet long {cod
strands of spine
a gull leg and webbed foot
all to myself, step out and pee
a pair of footsteps
one going my direction
the other, approaching
above, beach plum like large blueberries
Marconi Station “you’ll know by the bricks”
knocked down to the Atlantic
but I see just one red cube and
way down the shoreline
what I think old pier pilings
begin moving as I approach
schoolchildren, field trips
the real debris appears as milk jugs
clear plastic bottles and cups, foam plastic coffee cups
and insulation, yellow nylon netting, multicolor nylon rope
a battered lobster pot, a child’s toy outboard motorboat
a cooler melted in one corner, stray firewood neatly cut
bottle caps, a large oil filter like a radar cover canister
(haven’t seen a condom yet), a black inner sole to a size
eight or nine shoe, pressure-treated lumber, nothing
too revealing so far, Glad bags, drinking straws
an aluminum shard barnacle embossed, a rusted horseshoe
as for cottage colors
on the bluff
gray shingles
blue trim
each one with a brick chimney
and fireplace romance
my wife contends a seaside cottage
should be plain, simple
something that can be blown away in a storm
without horrific loss
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full set of seacoast poems, click here.
She was right, of course, about prayer. What happened, though, was that when the others heard “the only way,” they were unaware of how many varieties of prayer there are – and since they rarely if ever get down on their knees or lift their voices to the Divine One, they likely thought you were saying they were damned, closed out, lost! The challenge, then, is in encouraging them to experiment with prayer! Once they begin to hear of the old Friend in Connecticut whose practice was to pray daily for individuals in the Yearly Meeting (“I want you to know that at 7.15 every night, I will be praying for your daughter’s recovery”) or of longstanding prayer partnerships between individuals, such as the one former Yearly Meeting clerk Jan Hoffman has shared for two decades or so, then the invitation is more readily heard.
~*~
For more Seasons of the Spirit, click here.
Being mindful of what’s right in front of us can always be a challenge. Here are 10 new items from my end.
~*~
~*~
the herd, impatient
lumpen clouds, hooves in the mud
demand milking at dawn and sunset
to have a farm somewhere in the background
to pull into its lane, not just grain or hay
but livestock, with sweaty black nostrils
and broad tongues, turning toward the dog
how could anyone leave this
plaintiff, bellowing
in a stream of cheese and butter
he’s forgotten how to drive a tractor
and has never plowed, anyway
his grandpa quit this for the city
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full set of Home Maintenance poems, click here.
Memorial Hall in Cambridge is a high Victorian Gothic building erected in honor to the Harvard University men who died defending the Union in the American Civil War. One end of the structure holds Sanders Theatre, an intimate, wood-toned Globe-style auditorium – one we treasure for its Christmas Revels productions each year. The other half of the building embraces the Harry Potter-like Annenberg dining hall. The two parts connect at a marble-lined hallway engraved with the names of the fallen Harvard students.
Greater Boston is a rich and varied destination – the Hub of New England, or the Universe, as they used to say. Living a little more than an hour to the north, we’re well within its orb.
In town, the side of one building has a ghostly paint on black brick. With difficulty I decipher
COMMERCIAL SALOON
T. MALLET PROP.
CIGARS NOW 5 c
across from the train depot and next to the OPERA HOUSE. Railroads, cigars, saloon, and opera all fit together in a remarkable calculation. Just where were women, besides up on stage?
What, precisely, mad the Far West so different? No family roots? It was all male: cowboys, loggers, miners, fishermen, soldiers, trappers. Even an orchard’s considered a ranch. You need only a few acres, Buckaroo. Where is my wife at this moment? Like Maya of Sanskrit lore, she’s a weaver. Like Maya, she had spun a web of entrapment. Maybe these open spaces aren’t really so open.
For more insights from the American Far West and Kokopelli, click here.
the angel Aquarius, with a bare foot pointed to the stars
reclines on a stone bench
in front of a domed courthouse
* * *
Vermont green in decline where money
was once transformed into Corinthian columns
and porticos overlooking lawns high over reflected
water as much as the Grand Hotel first-floor porch
the length of a building that would blast your yuppie façade
hidden opposite a kitchen under an atrium lined
with classical Greek busts inscribing some tryst
in Greek drama nightlife countered by the classical proportions
of a domed courthouse goddess in laurel and a red gown
far from the masted ships in a storm, her arms bared
her bare feet Vermont green, reclining where
once money was made carving Corinthian columns
uphold a portico on a Grand Hotel high over the water
with a first-floor porch the length of the lawn and
your blasted yuppie façade hides a kitchen under an atrium
its shelf of classical Greek busts inscribed with dramatic
trysts countered by classically proportioned nightlife
behind a domed courthouse goddess in lilac and laurel
and a red gown mast stripped in a storm of Vermont green
to such bare arms, bare feet now in decline
there was once money to be made behind Corinthian column
porticos on lawns high over the waters of the Grand Hotel
porch the length of your yuppie façade kitchen
atrium with classical busts and dramatic trysts
countered by dome nightlife courting a Greek goddess
in laurel and red gown stained glass, a Greek revival mansion
with four pillars and broken colonnade dividing a green lawn
from a tall hedge statuary in a gray-headed cemetery
the angel Aquarius, with a bare foot pointed to the stars
now intertwined with tree
(Ursula, Arctos of bear legs and bear paws)
reclines on a stone bench in stained glass statuary
in a gray-headed cemetery (Ursula, Arctos of bear legs
and bear paws) revives four pillars as the angel
Aquarius, with a bare foot pointed to the stars reclines
on stone bench broken colonnade dividing a green lawn
from a tall hedge now intertwined with trees
in stained glass statuary in a gray-headed cemetery
(Ursula, Arctos of bear legs and bear paws)
reclines on a stone bench with no uprising of life within it
this Greek revival mansion with four pillars
broken colonnade dividing a green lawn from a tall hedge
in stained glass the angel Aquarius, with a bare foot
pointed to stars now intertwined with trees
statuary in a gray-headed Greek revival mansion
with four pillars, the angel Aquarius now intertwined
with no uprising of life within it dividing a green lawn
~*~
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see all 50 Preludes & Fugues, click here.
Wellfleet, at their grandfather’s
two perfect horseshoe crabs
adorn the table
of the uninhabited house
while he’s in Florida
in the fridge, Heineken dark
“your surprise” – available across the highway
Wellfleet and just think
oysters or the saltmarsh
sunlight breaks through
my desire to travel lighter than this
unlike the children
an array of silver cups, a blinding turn
the chameleon hiding nowhere
but itself or the air, last week:
“You don’t look happy these days”
also: “What do you want from me?”
how I wish I could answer the latter
pine / oak / locust scrub
“tick country” even the lawn
tiny green acorns
dry cranberry bushes, as part of the groundcover
in his yard } in the house
sand everywhere the arranged ginger jars
the grass brown his collection
with pine needles Rookwood Pottery, at least
the book
patch of mussels, each one the size of a pea
round brick
worn by the ocean
of course if we lean back, even nearly at shoreline
the water’s over our heads
water taller than I am
is the problem
or water that sweeps you
off your feet in this ocean so clear
we see fish swimming past us – one
a striper two feet long, the other a cod,
halibut, mackerel – I don’t know fish, really
bigger than my daughter beside me
just days past twelve
what kind of life has this been?
with flashes of brilliance, just enough
remaining for harvest
her knife, sharp and long
sailing into the wind
repeatedly, returning and now
through the years
windowpanes
two over two
traditionally
live our lives
one, in a denim jacket
while the other, in a blue swimsuit
nap in clear breeze
I wonder how people fall asleep in the sun
in chairs, at that
Rachel, my wife, informs me of changes
how so much has overgrown now
she no longer sees the saltmarsh or cove
from the dining room, even traces
of Reenie’s garden have vanished
ever dutiful, busily Rachel thins hostas and day lilies
where Grandpa has taken an ax to their roots
“and I came to the Cape for this?” but the motion
grounds her in a way the surf grounds me
blue sky, blue ocean
warm water compared to Maine
choppy surf “knocks a child over”
happened once and now Rachel won’t
bring them back here but prefers
bayside, where the water’s warmer
I believe her, yet
when we walk the road to the Atlantic full on
she observes
overgrowth around cottages and houses
is often quite pronounced
to go with the windswept, cracked gray of dunes cabins
and the ever present shake siding
all night, all day
the highway mocks
the surf’s rhythm
in the swells with Megan, she snarls
“I thought you said it was warm”
“warmer than Maine!”
and laments the waves aren’t bigger
though they knock us off our feet and
fill our suits with small gravel
(viz Grandpa’s bathroom floor after her shower)
turning overcast, trying to spit rain
cool, too
no swimmers but three dozen surfers in one stretch
kids sledding on the dune cliffs
30 feet, maybe, the low spots
100 in others
a seal, faroff, away from the surfboarders
feel the sun now, too much on my face
wind and wind gong
fiddler crab and mussels
the saltmarsh tide turning
chalk and slate outside the general store
oak, pine, and locust trees
a mole scurrying along the foundation
all these beachcombers
tomorrow expect no one
after the weekend
“we’ll take you back”
the waves cackle and rage
will the kid ever learn, packing a whole suitcase for herself
(too much and still no swimsuit)
for a short trip?
morning water cold but great breakers,
a great workout, knocked over, body slams –
lose my trunks once, saved at the ankles
fortunately, out of season
surf calms but still choppy, very windy
a seal head appears, just briefly
Sunday morning, clearly the last swim of the season
a record amount of rain for the month
Hurricane Wilma decaying offshore
kicked up quite a show here
twenty-foot swells crashing on the rocks
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full set of seacoast poems, click here.
Another form of study we have found helpful is Worship Sharing, in which a topic is announced, a facilitator shares a brief (up to twenty minute) introduction, and then each person can respond out of the silence, speaking only once until all have shared and observing the other “rules” of vocal ministry: no direct rebuttals, space between messages, and so on. Thus, your original proposal could be turned into a series, “How To Meet God,” beginning with a session on experiences each person has had in encountering the Divine. A second session could examine varieties of prayer, in which individuals might begin to see the silence and social service as prayer, in addition to supplication, thanksgiving, praise, confession, and so on. Yet another session might examine ways of centering down for a better “sit” in Meeting (prayer returns here!). Each of the queries makes a good Worship Sharing focus, as does a carefully selected piece of scripture. Larry and Joanna Sparks, by the way, have prepared an excellent approach for group study of scripture, that requires the readers to sweep away their baggage and then to examine the text closely to see what it actually does say; a circle at Agamenticus spent six weeks on Jonah and felt they needed more time! Oh, yes, confession of our individual spiritual baggage and our initial religious training can also be useful Worship Sharing. Testimony about one’s spiritual journey to date has formed the basis for some Agamenticus Friends for monthly breakfasts at one family’s farm.
~*~
For more Seasons of the Spirit, click here.
