Pentecost 2021

 

From Passover and Crucifixion
to Passover and Crucifixion,
the people had been closed off,
locked away from one another
by decree by fear, and by death
wrought by a raging pestilence.

But today, such decrees were lifted,
and all gathered together;
no matter their language or culture;
they gathered in one space,
to be of one mind,
in gratitude.

Into that singular mental space,
from all and in all directions,
a purifying wind blew,
and a refiner’s fire
filled the collective soul.

All at once, the people began to speak,
some in languages they’d never studied;
everyone heard and was heard, 

everyone understood and was understood,
everyone one in being with one.

Everyone one of heart, exult
in all of one for one
and dwell now in hope,
no longer abandoned to Gehenna;
we who have seen death
have also seen life,
and we have chosen life.

What now shall we do?
The people asked, as one voice.

And the answer came to all:
Be penitent for all past double-standards,
serve the divine by serving your neighbor;
believe that all are equal to love divine,
and live to that truth.

If you do this, you will have welcomed
Olam Haba, and shall be embraced therein.

In gladness and singleness of heart,
All breathed as one and, as one, sighed:
Amen. 

© 2021 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen and songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com

Decoration Day

“Oh, say,”

the song begins,
as cortege follows caisson
to the altar of the vacant chair,
“Can you see?”

The band, impeccably uniformed,
follows, slow of cadence,
to offer last rites
for the flag-draped remains
of those days of yore and gore,
of that cause that is no more.

“What so proudly we hailed,”
at the blood-soaked field of battle,
where vegetation has at last returned,
and the songs of birds redeem all
that has been forgotten of the promises
of life, of freedom and of happiness.

“If a foe from within strike,”
few remember these lines,
“down, Down with the traitor
that dares to defile,”
over cans of beer and burnt flesh,
the memory of bands of brothers
and sisters, lost to time and tide.

“By the millions unchained”
to most blessed eternal silence,
“who our birthright we have gained,”
and then lost whilst a fool bargained
arms to nations, for the waging of more wars,
and dictated malfeasance
on “the home of the brave.”

“Can you see?”
The graves lie deep
beneath their heavy stones
and, even flower-bedecked,
unseasonal rains flow over them as tears,
to mourn the dead and the destitute living,
a reminder of our ultimate failure:
War did not vanquish war.

© 2019 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

//

In 1861, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., in reaction to civil war engagement, wrote this verse to the “Star-Spangled Banner” – which appeared in songbooks of the era:

“When our land is illumined with Liberty’s smile,
If a foe from within strike a blow at her glory,
Down, down with the traitor that dares to defile
The flag of her stars and the page of her story!
By millions unchained, who our birthright have gained,
We will keep her bright blazon forever unstained!
And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph shall wave
While the land of the free is the home of the brave.”

Garden of Delight

Hoo-hoo.    Hoo.
Who, who?    Who?

All beauty, all abundance,
lying in waste
and left to chance;
a garden of delight,
left in your keeping,
fallen into sad plight,
pushed to contortions
of distortions.

The owl’s head pivots,
but, alas, the indignities
lie arrayed in all directions,
and there is no place
where she may lay her head.

Hoo-hoo.    Hoo.
Who, who?    Who?

Who shall stand
when Authority comes,
calling all to account?

“No harm; no foul,”
cry thee unto the hills;
I hear ye, I hear the laughter
as rolling gales of hubris.

“Hang the prophets;
Hang the law,”
they taunt,
“We will do what we want.”

Hoo-hoo.    Hoo.
Who, who?    Who?

Who shall stand
when Authority comes,
calling all to account?

As surely as the sun rises
on the watchers and the holy ones,
Freedom is a sword;
all dance on a razor’s edge.

When the holy Storm comes
with it’s crucible of fire,
know that the angels,
terrible in their beauty,
follow closely after
to wipe away all trace
of offense, all corruption,
and then restore the garden to Grace.

© 2019 by Elisabeth Eliassen

//

I am become as an owl of the waste places.

― Psalm 102:6

But who can endure the day of His coming? And who can stand when he appears? For he is like a refiner’s fire and like a fuller’s soap.

― Malachi 3:2

Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time. Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, the only fact we have. It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death—ought to decide, indeed, to earn one’s death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible for life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return.

― James Baldwin, from “The Fire Next Time” 

Sutra of No More Sutras

Thus I have heard, once and forever.

In the wake of Shariputra’s death and parinirvana, Ananda spoke,
voicing the thoughts of those assembled.

“Honored teacher, we know your time with us nears its completion.
Pray, tell us how to continue beyond your extinction?”

The Buddha opened his eyes and offered his smile to all,
and then he spoke:

“For many years, we have thus assembled,
and I have given voice to the music of one vehicle,
three treasures,
four noble truths,
six perfections,
ten powers and ten precepts,
twelve causes and thirty-two signs.
I have spoken and chanted into the ten directions:
and these sayings and singings continue to vibrate through the chiliocosm. “

“To you, a good doctrine has been given,
acknowledged by buddhas and arhats,
past, present and future,
and expertly remembered by you, honored Ananda.
Many sermons have been set down,
by scribe after scribe,
in scroll after scroll after scroll.

“Good cousin, Ananda,
these teachings of the way
have been the making of a raft,
one strong enough to float above
the ever-flowing stream of happening
and even of dharma practice.

“But this raft must now be untethered and released,
and each adept must engage
the singular stream of unfolding—
the teaching, and also the teacher,
must be released into the wild unknown.

“Wherefore?
Because, any other course would come to ruin
in grasping and corruption.”

All present, on hearing these things, quietly bowed their heads.

“Do not sorrow, Dear Ones,
do not sorrow; the great void is not to be feared,
for truly it is indicative of endless potential,
which is Presence,
gleaming and differently perceived in each moment.

“How the good doctrine will flourish
on the ever-flowing river
cannot be foretold by the Tathagata,
nor by all the ranks of adepts in every dimension,
neither can time tell.

“To reside on the scroll
is to miss the point,
it is a surrender to inaction
that borders on forgetting;
one can rapidly become lost
in the thicket of serifs and diacriticals,
grammars and dialecticals.

“This leads to doubt.
Doubt leads to discussion.
Discussion leads to arguments and grousing,
parsing and chasing
after forms and meanings.

“In the end, this activity is
so tarry illogical
to the reality of eternal moment.”

The birds in the trees stopped singing,
cocking their heads to listen.

The butterflies found a place to light,
so they could hear.

The trees bowed their limbs lower.

“The chasing after merit
is also like the chasing after forms and meanings.

“There is only the Way,
and the truth of the Way
is where the heaping of merit occurs
never for the individual,
but only for all of existence,
as served by the Three Jewels.

“These Jewels are Buddha, Dharma and Sangha;

compassion, frugality and humility;

right view, right knowledge and right conduct;
thought, word and deed;
essence, vitality and spirit.

“Any heaping of merit is
unknown and unknowable,
but indeed present in eternal moment.

“Every being who does right in the moment
heaps merit onto the wheel of time and change,
for all and for all time.

“There is no such thing as competition;
all conscious right actions are integral
to the completion of perfection.
This is the essence of the Middle Way.”

A single ray of light burst forth
from between the Buddha’s brows,
touching all with understanding.
The birds, the butterflies and the trees
arose jubilantly.

“Take to the raft of the Way and journey.
Be the gift of goodness in the World.
Do not write it or discuss or plan it.
Be it, in the best way you can, in the moment;
this is how the teaching grows and spreads
to all generations.”

When the Buddha finished this Discourse,
all present were filled with the joy of this teaching,
and, taking it sincerely to heart, they went their ways.

© 2015 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Introductions, a Memory

Out of an abundance of need,
two women
—one a sister,
the other a friendly stranger—
drew together in an embrace,
propelled by the spontaneity
only a history of sorrow might trace.

In that moment,
one of life’s mysteries
would find full flower
and understanding.

In that moment:

One realized
her sister had spun
a mantle of love and beauty
large enough to cover family,
friends and neighbors,
while inviting many others in
—a sending of
her family’s values out
to grow in the world.

The other very nearly felt
the beating heart
of the lost friend,
and knew the depth
of that rhythm’s origins
in the family,
from which she had poured forth
as lightness and love,
later fully distilled
into a golden girl child,
united now forever with,
inseparable from, her mother
in death.

Two strangers,
in that moment,
may have shared one,
perhaps the same realization,
and tightened their hold
on one another,
with a strange mixture
of tearful elation and deep sorrow:

Fiercely joyous untold love
had been unleashed into
and would live on in the world.

Parting as strangers,
never to meet again,,
each was consoled
in the knowledge that
She and her Girl,
from whatever beyond,
were continuing
to make introductions.

© 2015 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

in memoriam Rachel and Annika

The Very Latest in Death and Nostalgia

I know exactly where I was when I found out Robin Williams was dead. I was at home, having just posted on Facebook. Another friend had just heard about it on the news and posted what she had heard. Seconds later, Robin Williams’ death was “virally trending.”

I was hit hard by this news, and I know many people were, nationally and internationally, but particularly in California and especially in the San Francisco Bay Area, where Mr. Williams was raised and where he honed is incredible talent. This news was on the heels of other celebrity deaths, and followed by other celebrity deaths, as well as the shooting of an unarmed black man in Ferguson, MO.

All in all, it was a very depressing week. Everything in social media filled a spectrum from “death and depression” to “cute animals” to “don’t judge what you don’t understand.” The newspapers were not far behind that mode of “trending,” focusing on failures of all sorts (building failures, political failures, police failures; in short, failures of judgment in all forms).

When I went to the grocery store, I could not help but notice that the magazine racks were filled with retrospective magazines on Elvis Presley (died, August 16, 1977), Jerry Garcia (died August 9, 1995), Bob Hope (died July 27, 2003), Princess Diana (died August 31, 1997) and others. Robin Williams will be the next honoree of one of these, I am sure. And I have to say, this is very sad. We loved these people who led very public lives, but the inability of our culture to let go after celebrities have died is really unhealthy.

We are being manipulated by this constant parade of celebrity deaths, and we don’t even realize it. If you think about just those stars listed above, you realize that most people 14 years old and younger have no idea who those people are, don’t know their contributions to culture, and what’s more, aren’t interested in finding out. Why should they?

But for those of us who do know and remember these people, the fact of their mortality is a reminder to us of our own.

Friedrich Nietzsche posited that our harboring of nostalgia is a way of using the past to forge an idea of the future. Never mind that any nostalgic view of the past is utterly inaccurate and could never pass muster today, much less be put to work tomorrow.

“But wait!” as the young set says, “that is exactly what is happening!” And, to a great extent, it is true. Nietzsche would be railing against the same things, if he were alive today, as in those years when he was alive and his thought was in full flower. And that is very, very sad, indeed.

What most people don’t realize is this is a psychological and philosophical condition, called by Nietzsche ressentiment. The condition is characterized by defeatist feelings, cynical attitudes, belief that institutions and individuals are hostile and indifferent; this condition results in expressions of fundamentalism on all levels, as if returning to a mythical past, characterized by either extreme authoritarianism or anarchy, would be the solution to every problem.

Look at the unrest in our world. You can see it in every tabloid, not to mention in the more legitimate news media. Celebrity wars. Male culture bashing female culture. Heterosexual culture bashing homosexual culture. Race wars, religion wars, wars of greed and ambition, ad hominem wars of indifference and stupidity are being waged all day, everyday, everywhere. We say to our dead heroes, “rest in peace,” while fervently praying for a peace we cannot hope to achieve on this planet while we are in the grips of ressentiment, where every gesture is negatively judged, where the innocent are blamed for the bad things that happen to them, where corruption seems to trump all those human values we claim to uphold, where we decide to join ghettos, rather than learn to live with in harmony others and the environment, so that we can get together to solve real problems.

When I see on Facebook side-by-side images of Hitler and a liberal politician, with nearly matching quotes, I think, wow! This is really sick! Can the person who shared this really believe the sum of that life is equal to the sum of this one?

Not only is it crude. Not only is it simplistic. It is malevolent. Unfortunately, I think some of the people who post these things really do believe them; some are highly educated people, but they are frustrated by something they cannot even properly articulate. There is a festering of impotent rage in our generation, and to a great degree this rage is an inherited legacy. “Teach your children well” to some people meant passing on a rageaholic culture of negativity to the next generation. As Nietzsche pointed out, this is an individual’s act of revenge upon society.

Having grown up among people who were trying to make the world a better place, one that is color-blind, equitable, and harmonious, I must admit this is disillusioning and disappointing. What kind of a world have I brought my children into? What sort of people are these that build a life and behave in it such that machines and money mean more than the lives of people?

The media that daily pumps out such negative drivel exists to bring us down, to keep us cowed, to amaze us with our own stupidity, to get us all fighting with each other. That must be the intent, otherwise, why publish it? If we are all fighting with one another, then it is easy to bring out the guns and fill up the prisons, is it not?

Faith is an empty word unless it leads people to build a temple to Love, inhabited by people performing good deeds and working at breaking down barriers, to nurture and feed the hungry, to employ the willing and able, to build people (all people) up to something better than what the past offered. I don’t know much, but I am sure we cannot rest in peace until we conquer our natural tendency to self-destruction. We cannot honor the dead when we are such a tortured mess of ambivalence and misanthropy that we cannot honor the living by doing right by them.

I see the very latest in the world of death and nostalgia, and I do not like it. It makes me feel shame for the whole human race. I do not want to go down that path—for the way is down, indeed.

I hope you feel the same way. I hope you will add yourself to movement and uprising. It could be that I mean “a movement” or “an uprising” – but what I am saying is do not go down. Go up, and bring someone along with you! Let us all rise to our very best potential, however we can. That is honestly the only way to honor the experience of life and all the wonderful people that have lived it.

Fallen Leaf

The falling leaf
tumbles in song,
a sentiment swept along
by the relentless wind,
whose soulful breath provides
counterpoint and amplitude.

The tumbling leaf
brushes by the cheek
of the budding rose,
arousing its petals
to release divine fragrance,
by way of blessing and gratitude.

The tattered leaf
leaves bits of itself
embedded wherever it lands,
continues, even while it dies
to sing, in joyful abandon,
life’s magnitude.

Never ultimately sung, this leaf,
atom by atom, dust to dust,
over the whole wide earth,
nurtures the sacred soil,
indicating an essential truth:
to a single miracle, death and life allude.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Eleven, Eleven, Eleven: a meditation

November 11^th has become less a day of observance and more sort of loaf-around, generic holiday kind of day. Is it blasphemous for me to say such a thing?

How many people realize, or remember, that what we call Veteran’s Day was a day that was intended to mark the cessation of war in the world?  Armistice Day was what they called it, back then. It is known elsewhere as Remembrance Day, a day for red poppies and solemn music, for prayer.

The day commemorates the signing of the Treaty of Versailles, commemorates the end of “The War To End All Wars.”

The irony, of course, is that this treaty did not end all wars. It did not even completely end the hostilities of World War I. The armistice served to drive further political wedges that led the way to more militarism, more bloodshed and ethnic cleansing—all of this leading directly to primary causes of World War II. The reasons for this are many, not the least of which was the redrawing of borders over traditional ethnic boundaries to placate certain authoritarian leaders who were looking to an expansionist land-grab to shore up their fascist, totalitarian dominions.

What happened in Europe is nothing less that what happened to the ancient Jewish tribes in biblical times; the cultural centers of many small states were destroyed or heavily damaged, and the people were resettled to other places, so that the conquerors could have their traditional homelands to use. The economy of Europe was made unstable for generations.

But, let us set aside this observation and engage an aspect that is elusive and theoretical.

Armistice is only a temporary function; it is an agreement to ceasefire while negotiations are made for a peace that will hopefully be lasting. The unfortunate truth is that war has become an economic tool too useful to turn aside for anything so difficult as cultivating a peaceful world.

Indeed peace, as a theoretical, like infinity, it is too difficult to contemplate. Essentially, it means that people have to strive for the best of everything in a way that is cooperative rather than competitive. The human psyche is only prepared for domination, for dominating or being dominated. Our brains are preprogrammed for quick reactions, but only from the lowest part of the brain. Lashing out is the first response; it is so much easier than having a reasoned conversation.

So, this is possibly why we, in the United States, could no longer call this remembrance Armistice Day. The name had to be changed, in recognition that a lasting peace was no longer the objective. We had to pay homage to the instrument of the hegemon, by honoring the sacrifice of its pawns.

Blasphemy! (I can hear the grumbles.)

The ancients recognized the problem. If there was to be just governance, the arbiter could not very well be human, given how we are each and all preprogrammed to react from our lowest, when challenged. This is how it was expressed, by an old geezer named Isaiah:

Why should you be beaten anymore? Why do you persist in rebellion? Your whole head is injured, your whole heart afflicted. From the sole of your foot to the top of your head there is no soundness—
only wounds and welts and open sores, not cleansed or bandaged or soothed with olive oil…

Your country is desolate, your cities burned with fire; your fields are being stripped by foreigners right before you, laid waste as when overthrown by strangers. Daughter Zion is left like a shelter in a vineyard, like a hut in a cucumber field, like a city under siege…

If you are willing and obedient, you will eat the good things of the land; but if you resist and rebel, you will be devoured by the sword…

See how the faithful city has become a prostitute! She once was full of justice; righteousness used to dwell in her—but now murderers! Your silver has become dross, your choice wine is diluted with water.

Your rulers are rebels, with thieves; they all love bribes and chase after gifts. They do not defend the cause of the fatherless; the widow’s case does not come before them.

Times have not changed, in several thousand years, nor has the inherent nature of people.

We do no honor, to war dead or war living, to perpetuate armed conflict! I do not agree that we need to honor bloodshed. I will never agree to that!

The spoils of war are destroying the hope that life can continue on this planet. We teach our children war games, but not how to resolve conflict from our highest selves. We teach that killing is honorable, and what is worse, we make guns available to everyone so that they can use them for that purpose—as if it is a sacred right! Children die in our streets at home and in foreign streets where our soldiers patrol. Ignorance and thoughtless waste abound in a world that is, by nature, beautiful, if only we wouldn’t pollute and profane it.

We should not honor bloodshed. I do not agree to that.

I believe we can only honor our Veterans by working toward a world without weapons, a world without war, a world without dominating bullies.

Verily, I say unto you, we have more important things to do than appease (and act as pawns for) bullies! Life, as we know it, is at stake.

The only true Armistice Day is the one where we all win, and we all become veterans to a past that is over and done.

The old geezer envisioned it this way:

They shall beat their swords into plowshares,

And their spears into pruning hooks;

Nation shall not lift up sword against nation,

Neither shall they learn war anymore.

Honor our veterans for their service, but not their servitude to a culture of corruption and death. 

Strive for good, heal the sick, uphold the widow and the orphan, clean up the polluted planet, teach new ways to deal with conflict.

Let us not wait for the Eleventh Hour that signals our destruction; let us begin, this very moment, to build anew.

Ready?! 

GO!

Falling Silence

Snow,
falling on earth,
falling on snow;
snow, the falling silence,
covering frozen buds
brought forth last Spring,
buds intended to form new thought,
that might grow and be taught,
rather than swiftly and blindly caught
to be cut down, to be lain
in frost-bound graves.

Snow,
blanketing earth,
carpeting earth,
a covering, a silent prayer
for the return of Spring,
whose sun-warmth will melt frost,
warm and awaken cold roots,
encourage and tend new shoots
beyond the reach of cold brutes,
to raise new buds to bloom,
to bring blessing, peace and new fruits.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

rest in peace, beloved children

-the world is indeed a better place because you were here

Softly

Softly, they fall;

some into the snow,
some into the soft earth—
they fall, these blossoms fall,
to falter, to fade and to fail,
the evidence
of that transience,
of that impermanence
that divides us,
yet that sings to us,
most especially when we
do not want to hear
the music of passing,
the words of parting,
to feel the emptiness
of longing
for the departed
One.

We long
for the song
of your presence,
in our sight,
in our hearing,
in our arms,
where so soon ago,
you were, every moment,
a thread in the fabric
of our days and our being.

Our tears are shed
in private silence
for being left behind;
indeed, we might gladly
have gone abroad with you,
oh, Beloved One.

We whisper a prayer to you,
oh, Vibrant Lovely,
hidden from us.

We sing a silent song for you,
because we know
that it is but illusion
that separates us
from one another.

Our tears,
they wash away
the sorrow of our loss;
for it is a sad truth:
though we can no longer
hold you in our arms,
we can still feel your kisses,
and know your presence,
and hear the sound
of your voice,
on our hearts.

You will not rest,
where you are,
and neither will we rest,
until the wheel of time
places us, once again,
in intimate proximity.

Oh, Beloved One,
Love to You;
Dearest One,
Good Night.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

--This was written about the loss of a dear friend in 2009, brought to mind
by the passing of a colleague this week. Sing on, Todd, in the heavenly choir!
And may the winds carry your tune straight to our hearts. --

Memorial Day

Open, oh holy earth,
open and accept this flesh,
this flesh that once breathed
and walked carefree above ye,
little knowing, little knowing.

We have committed much to death,
where we might have planted seeds for peace;
we have committed too many to war,
where flesh has lost to gross weaponry,
and, dear earth, you have lost holy ground,
to the insanity of blood and rubble.

Open, oh holy earth,
open and accept this flesh,
accept this sacrifice
we made unknowingly,
and now painfully regret;
please let us consign to you
the body of our honorable servant,
late and lamented, spent
—renew the sanctity of your guest.

Then, allow us to attend to thee,
oh, gentle—oh, most holy earth,
—to tend those wounds
we made in the name of death,

to amend for our grievous sin
against you, against life,
little knowing, little knowing.

Open, oh holy earth,
open and accept now this flesh:
a living sacrifice
to life and renewal,
to seeds and growth,
to nature and nurture,
to love and life,
to life loved,
as never life
has ever
been
by us
but, nevertheless,
is
in you.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Twilight

          a song for Good Friday

          Before I go may I linger over my last refrain, completing its music, 

          may the lamp be lit to see your face and the wreath 
          woven to crown you.

                       Rabindranath Tagore
                       Fruit-Gathering: LI

Steal in,
Steal in softly,
Steal in silently, sweet thief;
Flow into my vision, my being,
Like the drawing on of dusk.

Soothe away the aches and sorrows,
Smooth away all worries and cares, and
In your ebbing tide, wash me, from inside out,
Until you ebb away all doubt, all guilt, all traces of ugliness,
Until you fill my veins and my visioning with beauty,
Gently restoring me to the pure essence that was born of you.

Steal in,
Steal in softly, Beloved,
Steal in slowly, sweet thief;
Flow like jasmine scented dusk into my senses,
Sing like the nightingale in my veins,
Melt me into your consciousness,
Fold me into your arms
Until I am nothing,
But a memory fading on the horizon,
As the light fades from flame to rose.

Steal in softly, and
Sweetly end our song,
Signaling night to draw a discreet curtain
On our eternal embrace and slumbering.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This poem was written in 2002, and has a companion piece that is for Easter.

This text has been set to music by composer James Hurd.

Check back on Easter, if you want to see the companion piece.

Wake Up Call

Weeping

and the sound of stone scraping on stone
announced a blinding light.

“Come out,”
called a voice,
distant, yet familiar;
far away, yet close by.

A call from one world
to another,
as yet unrecognized
by an object.

“Friend, come out,”
the voice softer now,
closer, kindly.

Could it be for me?

Rising with effort,
encumbered
and stiff,
the faintest trace,
the faintest memory of I
shuffles toward
a bright world.

Sleep,
it has seven beneficial qualities:
    sleep heals,
    sleep relaxes,
    sleep stores focus,
    sleep sharpens memory,
    sleep checks appetite,
    sleep supports a positive outlook,
    sleep calls forth a morning filled with light.

But the wake up call
goes one better than sleep:
love of the Friend is greater than death.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Bell Jar Studies

2.

The delicate flower,

alone in moist soil,
blooms shyly.

Overexposure
to burning rays
unsettles
the fragile atmosphere.

Moisture,
like love,
is withdrawn.

Lack of attention
to need,
from without
and perhaps even within,
results
in death.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Unexpected Rains II

The clouds had indeed come swiftly,
full and wet and black they were,
strewing tears of agony and grief;
it was truly a solemn occasion,
and they knew, better than I,
who and what had been lost.

My own tears now follow theirs,
and our comingled sorrows
soothe a world road-weary
of the march of pain and death.

This journey never ends,
‘tis true as true can be,
but this path we have washed together
shall be rendered clean by our service,
and will be lined with early flowers.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Flowers I Have Culled

Flowers, flowers I have culled

from the garden of your disaffection.

Small they are,
yet poignant—
they offer a wistful air,
as if afraid to breathe.

Yes, I have culled flowers,
flowers from the garden of your disaffection,
and I have put them in the sun,
to dry into memory.

Small and sad,
vague and rootless,
I could never get near enough
to find the center
so to transplant them
into more fertile soil.

So the only recourse
to their withering
is to cull the flowers
and to dry them,
like the tears I have shed,
to preserve their essence,
yet let them fade
into a less painful memory.

Perhaps I should walk away,
but there is yet a tristesse beauty
that draws me to care, and so
I continue to cull the flowers,
if only to preserve a beauty
that might have opened to the light.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen