Labor Day, To Honor Workers

Labor Day,
to Honor Workers;
a holiday,
a reason for rest,
no doubt,
a reason to party
and shout,
a reason to forget
what it’s about:
We made it a Holiday,
so we’d never have to
think about it again.

To Honor Workers
takes more than a day,
takes more than a say
in safety and pay.

To Honor Workers
takes more than a job,
more than a car-key fob,
more than a tip can swab.

To Honor Workers,
we need to know,
we need to grow,
and we need to sew
the world in our work.

To Honor Workers,
know the world is our work,
grow this job we cannot shirk;
sew us, from laborer to clerk,
in policies that truly care,
in wages that are truly fair,
in the one-to-one parity we share
because we are human individuals.

To honor Workers,
take people off the streets,
give them a job and a place;
give them a reason to be,
a community to be for,
give a damn about the people
and what they, what we, need;
we’re all here to be for one another.

Labor Day,
To Honor Workers,
this is indeed the test,
to understand the latitude,
to find the right amplitude,
build character and attitude
fitting for a world of work,
for the whole World of Workers.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Bay-wise Byways: 1. Cartography

Some will laugh
when they see me
plotting the geography
of my heart.

Starting at Mount Tamalpais
and ending at Cold Mountain,
the footpath rounds the San Francisco Peaks,
and touches the Four Corners.

Terrains are inconclusive,
but lines are deeply drawn.

Truly,

there is art
in such cartography.

To map your own heart:
breathe,
open wide,
move forward on the trackless path,
follow the bird in flight,
keeping to the middle ground,
mind the gap,
and rest when the sun goes down.

Where you are now,
be fully here,
singing the song of your soul.

© 2016 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

To Each and To All

When cloud dappled sky speaks
to light dappled earth,
We are a unity.

Bodies dash about,
thronging like the tides,
some huddling in pools,
while the greater array
eddies and ebbs, then flows.

All that might be planned
harbors no certainty,
but we forge ahead with intent.

Every measure, every moment,
is a work, a furthering, a passage
to any next, any new, any now.

Ships that sail do not all land,
but those that find harbor
disembark with gratitude,
blessing the firmness of land,
sending praises to Providence.

Settling in foreign places,
sometimes leaving all traces
of “home” behind,

Natives might eye with suspicion
these arrivals for signs of danger,
or threat of infection;

But, when the quake comes,
the fire, the flood or storm,
Everyone joins together.

When people-dappled life sings
to assuage a disaster-torn world,
We truly are a Unity.

And thanks be
to each and to all
for that gift, that blessing.

© 2015 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

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As a descendant of families who arrived on the Cape Cod shores of North America in 1620, I see today’s refugee crisis as somewhat parallel to that bit of our history. Refugees from foreign shores are fleeing tyrannies and oppression, in order to find a better life, or at least a place where they can be free to practice what they believe. To feel “at home” and to “be safe”, these are rare and precious gifts. Our history continually reminds us that we are most human when we share. So, on this day, tomorrow, and all the days that we are privileged to live, let us share what we have and what we love with one another. 

Meditations in Fast Times: 19. Time and again, before and after

Note to Readers: “Meditations in Fast Times” is a devotional writing experiment for the Season of Lent. Each day during the season, I am writing a poem as a meditation on, taking as my inspiration and intertextual basis, T.S. Eliot’s “Four Quartets”, as well as incorporating the daily office, current events, and other readings—some the same as those Eliot used while composing his seminal work and others.

                19.

Time and again, before and after,
Time and again, betwixt and between,
Time is eternal witness of timeless now,
a sweet, through-composed music
interwoven through the give and take
of every atom that constitutes here and home.

The part that is singular awareness
may be a guess, but it is a gift,
and nothing mere.

Sadly,
too many moments pass unattended,
too much of the mystery is missed
for the unnatural thrill,
the unfit distraction.

Many who claim to seek the
impossible union
miss the point
entirely.

Naming,
seeing,
practice,
reflection
and action
are, each and all,
the manifest,
vibrant and musical
intersection
of all that is.

Here is the sweet music
that stirs the rose petals
and each blade of grass,
while lulling tired eyes
and sweet dream bliss—
Here and always,
here and now,
and how!

Here and now is,
and is incarnate in everything,
Time and again, betwixt and between,
Time and again, before and after,
timeless here will always be now and home.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Meditations in Fast Times: 5. August and loveliest

                 5.

August and loveliest,
the middle-way tree
stands at heart, soul and center
of the garden of our seeking;
where we start from is home.

As clerkes fyndyn wretyn,
said tree was a delight to the eyes
and desired to make one wise,
if only one hooked the bait
and took of the fruit and ate,
though it was against park rules,
as surrounded by pits and pools,
confounding most efforts to harvest;
though a few did win the quest,
they were banished for their saucy ways,
setting a poor example for latter days,
even if felix culpa.

That was a kind of start.

All the places we go from home
are where we derive experience
and knowledge;
we all learn from our mistakes.

© 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

Sketching

Fast,
superficial, at first,
eye to hand to eye,
yet pointing deeper,
probing beneath the flat line
toward those dimensions
where light and shadow meet
in substance, form and life;
you have to dig a little deeper
to know what is really there.

Find,
find me;
find me in shadow,
find me in light
find me as substance, form and life;
trace the world around me,
place me firmly in it,
then take my hand,
hold me close
and tell me that I’m home.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

No Soliciting Sign

I have had a small sign posted in the window by the front door for years. It says, very simply, “No Soliciting”.

Every solicitor and door-to-door evangelist or canvasser on the planet ignores the sign.

I now have a larger sign in the window. Bold. Clear. Red and White. Let us hope it garners more attention.

However, what I really need is a huge banner, unfurled somewhere near the mailbox, perhaps even completely obscuring the front porch. The banner would read “No Soliciting”, in big red letters, but it would also contain the following, in smaller print:

We honor your religious views and your spiritual calling.

We currently subscribe to more newspapers and magazines than we can read.

We shampoo our own carpets.

We believe in a higher power.

We support—yea, even demand—democratic process.

We know about global warming; we're trying to lessen our footprint.

We are trying to get rid of stuff, not acquire more.
We drive as little as possible (because it is expensive).
We are taxpayers, and we like it that way.
We are activists.
We help our neighbors.

We are community volunteers.

We give food to the Food Bank.

We give clothing to the Shelter.
We support ASPCA.
We shop locally.
We recycle, repurpose and reuse and reduce.
We honor the Union label, and prefer it to Made In China.

We buy Girl Scout Cookies from Girl Scouts we know.

We give what money we can to just causes.
We are tired, downtrodden, poor and harassed.
We have to listen to the whine and hum of machinery all day, everyday.

We consider our home to be a retreat from all that and, with all due respect, from you.

We did not ask you to come with literature and a pitch for money.

We don't care that you have a license from the city to be doing what you are doing.
We do not have money for you.

We wish you well, but please, respect our privacy and leave us alone!

We give you our blessing to try your luck down the road!

Arose In Winter

i.m.  Pauline D. (1922-2011)

She had filled every role,
from child to grandmother,
from partner to friend,
from advocate
to the glue,
which holds people together,
if they will allow it to do so.

People mattered most:
family,
community,
the joys of fellowship;
the affirmation,
and meaning, of life—
a gracious and flourishing tree.

Time went on,
slowing movement,
but never dulling sense
in those matters
that meant most.

But, winter had come
and her tree
had long been losing
its precious leaves;
all her friends
were gone.

Home and place
had contracted,
from mansion to house,
to now a compartment,
too small to contain
the grandness or the minutiae
of her experience, much less
the people, places and things
that had been her life
and meaning.

The last leaf on her tree,
she realized.

I don’t know what I’m waiting for,
she said.

Though brought low by illness,
still was she able
to feel her feet
roaming the beaches
that had long memorized
her footfalls and
to hear the voices of those
whom she loved,
and who loved her.

Systems failed, though,
body resistant to the will.

Take me home,
she said.

From a final comfort
in her own bed,
she let herself go;
a well-loved, well-lived leaf,
the very last on her tree,
she let herself go,
to drift downward
to the ground.

Take me home,
her spirit breathed.

She was answered
by a breath of wind
that raised her up,
a small fanfare of fluttering free,
and carried her off to the sea.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen