Turning

Leaves cascade to the ground,
a small music,
played by the wind;
it has begun,
this turning,
detaching
and falling
to freedoms
complicit with windy whims.

It is just the beginning
—we must be clear about that—
the start of a dialogue, a transition;
each leaf, as it turns,
glows, even as it fades
under the Autumn sun,
and, dying, dries,
and when it falls,
this is only a newer
hello,
the very latest one.

A slow dance,
this seasonal song,
is merely one of nature’s
many conversations;
the cold breath of Winter
may find an answer
in the winds of Spring,
or a balmy reply
on Summer’s sunny crest.

To turn,
to burn;
to prance
and dance,
unpinned
by the wind,
upended
(mayhap unintended)
and made free
to flee and be
and to become,
with all and some,
wholly changed material,
electrically ecstatic and
eclectically charged
for both the now and next.

© 2013 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

Unexpected Rains I

They drifted in swiftly,
clouds, full and black,
giving up as much rain
as stored in their silver coffers,
a solemn offering,
a duty and service
to any valley, plain or hill
they encounter on this,
their journey that never ends.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Inside the Spiraling Moment

Floating from inside an interior web of warm vibrations,

Surrounded by blossoms within a glorious garden of sound forms,
I know my own voice rising, falling, and melding there, too,
Liquid, lucid, filling any welcoming space,
Longing to meet and melt into surfaces,
Hard ones, all the better to contact with gleeful bounces,
Soft ones, all the better to contact with joyous embraces,
There to be absorbed into a new life, a new being.

Inside such spiraling moments,
I know myself to be present, and
I know the presence of others,
I know we are conjoined not only in common outward purpose,
But also by a shared interiority that must be the home of Universal Heart,
That heavenly realm,
Which, while existing beyond past, present and future,
Lives within the sound of our voices,
For it is woven inextricably into our very flesh,
It is woven inextricably into all that is seen and unseen,
And, unfolding from the stillness of silence,
Is proclaimed in every unbidden gesture of beauty.

Music is indeed the most heavenly gift of all,
For even as we thoughtfully create and recreate moments in sound, in music,
We are the manifestation of the music of the spheres.

Music is at once the question and the answer to all our questions,
A map across the trackless desert to the Beloved,
A living and breathing Is-ness that renews Being
With the will to strive for an eternal More
In every Moment.

Music is analogous of the mystery of Life,
a meeting of spirit and witness
that flows continuously,
like radiant heat,
from the center of creative Being.

Inside the spiraling moment,
I drench myself,
I lose my self,
I find selves joined within selves, our very selves, ourselves;
I meld within the everlasting arms of Other,
And apprehend the infinite beauty of us All.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Book of Hours

As if in manuscript,

our days and hours
drift, as they will,
like autumn leaves
falling from a tree.

Pages turn,
although some marginalia
tries to overcome errata
by means of a tenuous grip
on aging parchment,
so to further one conversation
over another.

Pages turn,
witnessing the passing
of time and place,
and people.

As the pages turn,
we remember
the counterpoint
of joy and woe
as a fuller music,
more strident,
even more poignant,
though now we sense it
as a gentler melody.

As the pages turn,
a time will come
when we are there no longer
to witness or feel the change,
and no witness left to us.

Pages turn;
for now, awareness and being
are grounded in being fully here,
of mind and spirit,
while we can be,
to greet the subtle music
of sun and moon,
even as the body
drifts away, towards
a different kind of voyage.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen