Now and Then

Now and then,
in the glare of some too bright light,
there is heaviness to the world,
or perhaps it is this flesh
that weighs so.

We do not own this moment,
or even our memories,
for all things change--
we are all changing,
and soon shall all be changed.

As the leaves blush with color,
falling like showers of tears,
they seem a dry and wrinkled
testament to all that was,
both green and young;

But what these eyes have seen
lies deep within this soul,
a music of memories
rising to the surface,

now and then.

Now and then,
backward, then fast forward;
Autumn leaves give way
to light Spring eves,
with buds on all the trees.

Now and then—
who can say when?
—wistful memories
of so many days gone by
will rightly sing this soul alight.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

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

Trignosis 2.

2. mandala

the bud opens,
spiraling from her soft center,
reaching to the eight directions
and out toward the welcoming arms of infinity

it has been this way since before the dawn,
and thus it shall ever be,
song without end,
amen

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Flower

From ice,
wind blows,
swirls clouds,
forms snow,
then rain,
to crack
hard ground.

Sky smiles,
shoots rise,
bud grows;
sun-kissed
flow'ring
shows truth:
whole world.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This poem revealed itself to me as I read Chapter 59 of Dōgen's Shōbōgenzō

A Quiet Revolution

At sometime clipped,

by studied hand or wind,
winter-shorn branches,
in defiance of rain and cold,
stick out shoots and buds
like saucy little red tongues.

A green fringe soon arrives,
to dawn and then to crest,
with a hint of passion’s hue
blushing from unfurling tips;
daily, yet unhurried, arrives
some new, impish posture.

From ever entwining green,
flower buds arise, carelessly
insinuating most contrary beauty,
here,—within our noise and need—
even here,—from our crumbling rubble—
staging a popular dissent.

Wherever a war-mad world
breeds destruction and death,
a counter-insurgency rises,
peacefully demonstrating,
affirming life’s supremacy,
in brightly arrayed revolt.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

False Spring

Sun-slammed waters
slide recklessly
along the shore,
blooming flame-like
over the sand;
the day has become
visceral and potent,
blinding.

Birds dance among waves,
as if charged with fire;
breezes do not cool,
but billow warmth
that, rising in clouds
like laughter,
lifts the level
of nature’s conversation
from the depths of survival
to the heights of delight,

completely free of care.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Spring Song

Slow away the old year passes

            when the silent flowers
            write our tunes
            and tell us how to sing them.

Dawn alone has known it from the first,
            the subtlety of their muses,
            guiding them open with warm light,
            to reveal the vibrant chorale.

That is the way of spring:
            the flowers awaken under the sun,
            whose songs awaken our senses,
            until we cannot but join them, singing.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Futility

Winter: low,
cold,
in arms,
breathless,
yet possible.

Winter lies low:
close, cold
within the arms
of breathlessness
and possibility.

Winter night lies low,
closed and cold,
holding, within desperate arms
of drawn silence, any breath
that could be misconstrued as song.

Winter night lies low, hushed,
closed off in bitter cold,
holding possibility at bay,
for as long as any breath can be held
away from inevitable amplification
into the possibility of Spring sun and of song.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen