Morning Meeting

        for my friend K.N.M.

 

Standing in the cool morning air,
in consideration of self and solitude,
a sudden joyous flutter distracts;
another self’s beating wings brush by,
for there will be sweet nectar
to imbibe in the bye and bye,
but first, a turn and a level gaze.

 

So pointed a greeting,
subject to subject 
—for we are each subjects
within a realm, a paradise,
sharing a language of wonder
whose name we cannot know,
but by all reckoning must be Life.

 

This shared gaze opens a window,
through which the bumblebee flies,
casting us only a sidelong glance;
engagement would only tarry
the work of bud embracing
on which all creation depends,
so to our tête-à-tête we are left.  

 

This wordless meeting draws me
to recall a nearly forgotten music,

a tune perhaps heard by us both, 
even if only in such waves and echoes 
as still radiate from the first such encounter,
which might well live on in fluid eddies
as the song of eternal return.

 

This mutual gaze cannot last,

for this, our singular moment, it must end;
this language we live
cannot abide the invariable:
all moments must transcend,
capitulating to the music and meter of next,
to the changing changeable.

 

We know one another only by sight,
and to that degree, perhaps not at all,
but the blessing that we have delighted,
to look and to see, with equal curiosity,
sharing the light of the same sun,
must have changed us, in ways we’ll surely discover
within the cocoons of our solitary dreaming.

 

© 2020 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen and songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com

 

Murmurations

Poetry in aerial motion,
a system poised to tip
and turn in unison,
each member connected
by choice to every other one,
as perceived by one’s
seven nearest neighbors,
seven by seven throughout,
individuals globally correlated,
without a particular leader,
to communicate clearly
and with economy
—at stake, flock survival,
the common good.

This dance above the water,
under the warmth of the sun,
surely offers the clearest portrait
of what democracy looks like.

© 2019 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

(completed 11:11 on 11/11/19; photo of flocking water birds taken at Elsie Roemer Bird Sanctuary, Alameda, CA on 11/10/19)

earth and air, water and light

—on the trail,
engaged in a counterpoint of breathing
over an ostinato of stepped footfalls,
meeting a rising and falling landscape—

ferns reach out to stroke ankles and shins,
as if to say,
too long, too long have you been away—

even the rising dust from these stamping feet
joins an alleluia chorus of motes,
dancing,
suspended in shafts of light,
trained and focused by the benevolent branches
of these sentinel redwoods
that guide this way;
it is a music of welcome,
quiet but potent—

sorrel and trillium,
their delicate blossoms content just to be;
even violet and columbine
speak a language of color and moment;
wild ginger carpets each moist patch below,
visually cooling the warmth of this day—

and ahead are the rocks,
tumbled there from time immemorial—

and imperceptibly the trail rises,
drawing nearer to a water music,
heard from over the next ridge—

mingled medicinal aromas
of coyote mint and yerba buena
drift from somewhere below,
or from over yet another ridge,
one that seems a world away—

an awareness overtakes,
of height having been achieved,
these feet drawn over pathways
traced earliest by small creatures,
then by migrations of deer,
and followed by others for millennia,
only to be discovered again, today—

then comes a sudden touch;
water reaches out whenever
riparian proximity is achieved
—playfully errant spray
tickles and teases the flesh
with its coolness—

rushing up from the depth and darkness
of its rock-hewn source to meet the light,
water rushes all a-tumble,
falling all over itself in joyous freedom,
to flow and drift into the meditative rest
of pools below blue-hued skies,
spiegel im spiegel,
there to be serenaded by what congress of birds
is berthed in the surrounding canopy—

too long, too long you have been away,chants the feathered choir
in their various languages,
but you are here with us now,
reply earth and air, water and light,
the only truth worth knowing—

but you are here with us now,
alleluia!

© 2018 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Confluentia

  for Maura Sipilä  

Music tumbles over exuberant waves,
voiced over by circling kittiwakes and gulls,
tumbling joyfully into the sandy shores,
crashing, unquelled, across stony shingle
into the headlands of my heart.

Wherefore, wherefore, ye winds?

To tantalize by stirring a symphony,
knowing that the world is broken,
as if such sonically blooming waves
could fill wounds that gape and cry.

Responses billow from overland:
trees hugged by children send time,
being a representation of timelessness;
gorgeously gazing flowers smile
while bees distribute pollen as favors.

Brooks burble, bubble and babble,
flowing thither from origin to origin,
touching, fresh to salt, in confluence,
merging and surging, joy-joining,
clinging only toward outward release.

Songbirds unwittingly serenade
every small creature that sleeps in shade
given by all that verdantly defines place,
and the bell rung to call forth evensong
reverberates with healing and grace.

© 2018 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen 

Afternoon at the Lake

There is a moment,
in the depth of the afternoon,
when the summer sun is hottest,
that the soft light of peace gathers
to settle the dust of day.

The tread along the footpath
does not disturb the hum of hushed bees,
nor the meandering of dragonflies
from shore over the center of the lake,
coasting on any errant breeze.

While the blue green algae rests
in a shaded nook along the far shore,
the black crowned heron stands,
motionless, watchful,
awaiting the slightest stir
in the shallows that might signal lunch
—food to fuel night flight.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Spindrift

Thoughts, braided like a tangle of seaweed, litter the shore of my mind,
along with disordered piles of stony shingle, briny spray opined;
my tread briefly marks the sand with my small journey to find
whatever peace may be encountered at the shore strand.

The ever-present howling of wind is like the thousand tongues raised
to the infinite powers of nature, exposed before all, praised
beyond the buoys’ gong; even the depths be upraised,
where all the naked truths are bursting to expand.

Turning these eyes out to the light that over watery depths coldly burns,
blinded am I, humbled to the core of a soul that still boldly yearns
to skim the distant calms with the great heron and least terns,
flowing through airstreams, released over water and land.

Love is like this, I ken; the crashing of angry waves, an outpoured release
of all the turbulence and strain, that all that is pained, pent and part surcease,
giving way, capitulating to completions, resolutions, stillness and peace,
while yet must continuous dilate and contract on demand.

Though mountains have moved and prophecies've been spent, parts hallowed
into whole and dismissed to a moment of reflection and rest, even wallowed,
by the momentary bubbly delight of spindrift spun and shadows followed,
even so, still and stillness is not completion, merely cessation unplanned.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Streaming II

Arising out of silence,
as phrases and phases
growing into movements,
into themes with variations,
that stream into being,
we flow on endless waves
of sound and movement.

If, at any point,
we this streaming is music,
we know that it flows through us,
like our breath and blood,
calling us to be consciously
joined to everything.

Music is our regulator,
our mentor and comforter,
at rest and in motion,
in silence and in sound,
in sickness and health,
flowing from silence
like water from its source;
Music must be our start and finish,
or so I pray
            as memory
            cannot serve me
            on this point.

Music has always been,
and will continue beyond us,
billowing and growing,
and growing beyond growth,
or, at least, beyond—
what growing is,
we may never truly know;
for while human experience
            is bound up in form,
music is outbound:
            form without boundaries.

Music, indeed our regulator,
mentor and comforter,
our rest and motion,
all silence and sound,
sickness and health,
(experience),
flowing from silence
like water from its source,
our start and finish.

Though God must be this Music
—the constant stream, flowing
through all portals of expansion—
You and I make a bridge called Now,
where the past is re-membered,
informing all future possibility.

Regulator,
mentor, comforter,
rest and motion, ocean;
silence and sound, found;
sickness and health, wealth;’
we are flowing from silence
like water from its source—
from were we start to ever onward,
together, we are Music,
in time and out.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

The Starlight Ballroom

With a subtlety
bordering on flagrancy,
every outer contour
of awareness
opens to the great dance.

So many strive
against conformity
by conforming;
proclaiming their uniqueness,
they spiral inwardly toward implosion.

Can you keep a secret?

This world of light and dark,
of beauties seen and unseen,
does not feel any dominion we claim,
and only just tolerates our presence.

In ever expanding waves of motion,
patterns weave an imperfect math,
advancing the latest musical form,
one poised to rend the fabric of time
and make everything new.

Given the choice,
I would rather unravel
into starlit dance.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

I and Thou

So slow, aye, so slow, I,
plodding the repetition of my path;
nearly weightless, you wait much less,
zipping from branch to branch,
calling with a flick and a click,
until, at this very moment, that
until now, you slowed to hover,
level with my eyes, to gaze,
level, within our space.

Locking eyes, at this moment,
‘tis a case of I and Thou;
but so briefly synchronous,
then quickly out of phase, once more;
a moment of unexpected depth.

What you saw in me,
I hope you could enjoy;
I so liked what I saw in you!

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Note to readers: Have you ever locked eyes with a hummingbird?

Well, this happened in my life, on June 29^th of this year, and I have been trying to find a way to write about it, ever since. Such a small happening, fleeting. But it was unexpectedly profound. I may write more about it, but this is what comes to me now.

It reminded me of the work of Martin Buber, of his book, "I and Thou", which has had such an influence in the growth of my philosophical self-- hence, the poem's title.

The Rose and The Ladybug

The rose,
past its budding,
past its blush,
starting to wither and such,
yet still luscious of bouquet.

The hand,
wielding power,
wielding shears,
with intent to cleave and clear,
clipped the rose at its stem.

Raised it,
with its fading colors,
the fading bloom,
for a final salutary sniff,
a last draft of heavenly perfume.

A look,
within the drying folds,
within still silken folds,
unexpectedly revealed a nest
for a green ladybug.

For rest,
whilst seeking a cosy place,
seeking a haven safe,
a rose might be a handy spot
to stop for the night.

Sun touched,
awakened, the ladybug rose,
awakened, out she crawled,
this ladybug, lately rose tenant,
to greet the day.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Anniversary Chard

You were here
long before we arrived
with all our worldly cares
and truckloads of things;
your presence
opened the gates of Spring
with this greeting:
Welcome Home!

Where you are,
we planted;
it seemed an auspicious spot.

You, however,
we could not harvest;
you were our first friend
in this amazing place!

Now, you are lanky,
trunk wrinkled,
falling down;
Maybe, after all these years,
so are we.

But we hang together,
clinging to this mountain
where morning fog crawls,
giving way to sunshine
and shimmer of sea.

Year after year,
we uphold one another,
old friends, together,
as we share this beautiful life.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

On a Wooded Path

                     for Emily and Ian on their 13^th Birthday

Witnessing
gentle rain
on a wooded path.

Two drops
sought safe harbor
on a mossy leaf.

They gleamed like gems
reflecting light upward,
from whence they came.

The clouds saw,
they smiled,
and they sang.

The leaf trembled,
the gems shimmered,
all joined in dance.

No better music
can ever be
than this.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

In the Garden of Delights: V. Perfect Storm

By faulty thinking and vision,
having achieved imbalance irrevocable,
there seemed nothing for it
but to throw a party.

Invitations addressed and sent,
an invisible feast was prepared,
a metaphorical table set.

Nothing left
but to await
the coming
of the guests.

First a gathering of winds,
from east and west,
from north and south;
well met were they in song
over a scarred and ravaged land.

The great whirling howl
stood time and travel still;
even the oceans stood in their tracks.

A quiver of lightning arrows
signaled volleys of hail and fireballs;
such foundations as remained
were shaken to the core
and submitted to a tired earth in defeat.

The seas and rivers walked upright,
dancing to the music of the wind,
joining a rhythmic patter of rain,
purifying all places low and plain,
in a symphony of lyrical wetness.

Into the deafening roar, I cried out:
“Save me, O Divine One, save me!
The water is wide upon the earth;
there is no place to stand,
and I drown in my own tears!”

“Save me from the drink!
Don’t let me sink!
Awaken me to think
beyond this gaping pit
of watery depths!”

My Dear,
this rising brew
comes to renew,
to save and sew.

These rivers of water,
walls and sheets of water,
with the leaky clouds and springs,
come by invitation to celebrate!
They come to wash, to heal, renew.

Allow your heart to be opened by your tears,
open your eyes and ears;
a way shall arise
beyond the rubble of former years,
a way of peace and wellness.

These watery guardians shall eventually recede,
their dancing shall give way to pure land;
in the places where monsters tormented,
sweet grasses and herbs shall rise.

Through the merry waving thickets,
a highway shall verily appear,
bidding you welcome
to a new journey.

O Daughter of Zion,
cast off the lameness
that paralyzes you!
Open your voice
to the dawn of day
with the new song
that all life is a celebration!

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

---
We are too rational to realize that weather is a wild party. All the natural forces are our neighbors who we might wish would party in a quieter and less destructive fashion. The destruction wrought at such times is an invitation to build anew, with better plans, better materials and better intentions.

Luke 14:16-23; Psalm 107: 29; Psalm 18:13-15; Psalm 69:14-15; Isaiah 41:18; Isaiah 35; Zephaniah 3:14

Involuntary Controls

Golden strands of light glide

off the salty soup of the sea;
while birds revel in flight,
calling out hellos to me,
wildflowers reach out to touch.

I look out from my thoughts,
these distractions welcome.

As I walk bayside along,
I am reminded of the sun,
of wild grasses and birds,
of sand and sea, of joys
that cannot be measured
by worth or priority, but
just because they are;
here I am among them
with no appropriate response.

This is all free, in a way
that I am not, nor can ever be;
choose my way as I will,
this parallel dimension
will tolerate my presence,
but not be fed by my music.

I now see our world,
of unmeshed constructs
and unleashed powers,
as an untamed world apart.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

(Reflections for Earth Day)

What Nyx Told The Philosopher

AWAKE, mortal! By wild horses drawn in teams,

you have come here on the waves of your dreams;
you to me my daughters duly have conveyed
and will return thee after what I have said.

KNOW that what can be observed is and must be,
whether or not you can think it or see
it shining brightly in the glinting sun,
have felt it or some other experience done.

But know also that what you have not seen,
felt or heard is, being beyond your mean
and feeble awareness and thought,
apart from the observable and the taught,

Any such is just as true and as real
as that by which you set your seal;
Reality is not as small as your mind,
but large enough to fit all and every kind.

Even both reason and opinion cannot, alone,
conjecture truth so complete and prone
to be fully fathomed by the human eye,
but, alas, these are the tools you have to ply.

Nature, unaltered pool of Being, is One;
from it all things rise and fall, ever redone,
as need and season call, or wit and wile
contrive through vision, putting craft to trial.

What seems static moves slowly to your eye,
but nevertheless has life, and then will die
to be reborn in a different form, visible,
or even, wonder of wonders, wholly invisible.

As much as you crave a truth absolute,
justice is found when the pure of repute,
mitigate the starkly formulaic with art,
arriving at an equity whose best part

Satisfies all sides to a harmonious end,
beyond which none further shall contend,
for all affected, touched and involved
shall truly believe the matter resolved.

So vital art is to nature, I converse
with you in this clear yet simple verse,
that you may completely comprehend,
remember, then impart to all and any friend.

And now, Parmenides, my speech being done,
I return you to the arms of Day, having won
knowledge of nature so noble and rare
that you must carry it forward and share.

And then, Nyx turned aside, with a sigh
and a smile, soft and kindly, yet wry,
while the hapless Parmenides was flung
into the chariot by which he was brung,
whereupon the daughters of the moon
whipped her mares over the cloudy dune,
finally dropping their guest in his cot,
violently waking him to think on his lot
and on all that Nyx had spoken
by way of her unusual token.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Morning Glories

The story

of the morning glory:
a wrangling of life entwined,
raveled, traveled, envined,
all for the majesty of purple blossoms,
reaching through sun-sums
and pollen-laden pie-skies
toward a heaven sky’s dome belies--
all hailed better in the songs of birds
than in my tangle of human words.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

I woke up from a dream where I was starting to recite this, but had to finish writing it in the awakened state... Funny how that is...

Dialogue

Light pierces darkness;
water kisses dry land;
grasses and vines
lift up their heads,
sing their beauty,
as seeds and as fruit.

Light speaks in darkness,
wine moistens parched lips,
bread responds to hunger,
lifting the soul, as
an open vessel,
into silent conversation.

See the light,
feel the water,
taste the earth,
sing the song
and know that it is
God, speaking with you.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

A View from the Garden

A butterfly sails quietly over sun-dappled leaves;

barely a whisper she makes in her journey,
but what the breeze sings while it lifts her.

The humming bird chooses this moment to land,
and, with wings stilled, looks lovingly at the world,
feeling a stillness from which to find revel in new flights.

Sun sends slant soft warming rays to caress all cares,
in this, the last flowering of summer's bloom,
known to us as the rosy blush of ripening autumn.

Summer has flown south to make way for winter chill;
the geese have all regained their far distant homing place,
while here the squirrels fidget and fuss over their winter pantries.

Small hands reach forward and up, fingers lovingly outstretched
to belovenly stroke tree trunks and the leaves in their turning,
waving with imploding delight when a leaf offers itself as an unexpected gift.

In this light more subdued, quiet calls one, upward and away,
to ponder the mysteries of our slow yet steady revolutions,
and to wonder why each moment could not be as perfectly serene as this.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen