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

La Habana, en versos libres: II. Dias Dos

Soon after the late night cabaret,
sooner than sleep, a mere dream,
sooner than rest can hold
the slumbering heart,
morning arrives.

Few people realize
there is a bird
that makes a sound
very like maracas,
but there it is,
in the second floor courtyard
of the Hotel Plaza,
making sure all sleepers awake.

Some of us stagger upstairs,
where breakfast and sun can greet us,
but not coffee.

Then we run
down the very same streets
as yesterday,
to a small restaurant;
we are here to learn
a truer nature of song:
song is
rhythm is
dance is
música folklórica
is one,
singular,
divine act
--this is, of course,
a revelation.

Afterward,
rushing to find lunch,
with all the people
rushing to find lunch;
rushing to find water
with all the people
rushing to find water
--these take much of the day;
I prefer the agua sin gas,
por favor.

A smaller walking tour,
to find reliable shops
and cadecas
takes longer than expected,
but we should all know better
--we are on Habana time.

Rushing into rehearsal,
we reinhabit
our soul journey songs.

The Spirit of Possibility
flies through one open portal
and out another,
a blessing on our efforts;

She is a songbird, of course,
and all the windows of Cuba
are open to Her.

The compositor de la música
has come to hear us
as we sing his music;
he is very formal,
but he did accept
our dinner invitation.

A shower of watery joy
bursts upon the terrace
and on all the city,
when the practice is done,
but we must run again,
to dress for evening
and catch the tour bus
that will take us
to meet our evening plans.

Under gathering storm clouds,
and rumbling thunder
immediately overhead,
the tour bus swallowed us up,
just as the rain begins again.

To Casa del Amistad
we go, for more,
but no mere music,
greeted as we are by
Orquesta Enrique Jorrin,
the legacy left by
the inventor of the cha cha cha.

A storm ensues,
perhaps a sign
that Changó
has joined the party.

Dinner, chicken or fish,
attracts a few stray cats,
who become beneficiaries
of a surreptitious largesse.

The ubiquitous mojitos,
followed by agua con gas,
Cocacola and bottles of Havana Club,
mix as you will.

We sang and danced
under storming skies,
we ate and drank;
the best parties
are those where
the stray cats are fed and
the servers also dance
to the magic of the music.

The storm passed,
the sunset was glorious,
and so was our evening,
our exchange of joy
in celebration
of musical meetings,
however fleeting.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Storm Eye Witness

From a troubled sea, I came;

From the tumult of my crashing waves,
longing for relief from my raging storm,
I came from a troubled sea.

Greeted by no berceuse
in this port from my storm,
instead by ringing and singing,
a laughing and crying and carrying on
about out and in relationships, on and off
emotions, pitching sonic waves and weavings,
an undulating web of rattling words in herds,
like the very waves I’d fled.

Troubled seeing, I became
witness to my world and wavering,
aware now that my dreams and waking
must be born of a troubled sea.

What started with prayerful hopes
ended with praying and awaking to active now;

I went up to thank them, to thank her and she,
but she conferred further blessing.

“You brought calm,” said she,
“having you here was calming,
like an anchor for our tossed ship,”
and from her I received kisses,
as though I had been the gift.

Thus anointed, I turned away,
thoughtfully moved to my return:
Eye of the Storm, I seem to be,
though storm-tossed I had felt;
calm came with me in my pocket,
along with my keys, my hanky and tears,
and fragments of hope and place
—and I never knew it was there.

I have had eyes, but did not see,
ears, but they did not hear—until now:
when you become the Eye of the Storm,
calm comes to be a friend and guest of your heart,
to share in the love, the pain and the laughter,
the onward, spiraling music of your being.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Updated 8/28/12:

Most of you don't know this, but my poetry is my diary. I sometimes write infrequently, but when I do write, it is to crystalize an experience that stands out and apart from the everyday. Music often inspires me. This particular poem was inspired by a performance of new chamber music in San Francisco by CMASH (an acronym for Chamber Music Art Song Hybrid). It was a wonderful performance! The lesson here: Art Inspires More Art!!! Find out about the wonderful people who make music happen at CMASH, and how you might even make a donation, by following the link. http://www.cmashmusic.org/

Sudden Storm

Clouds burst overhead,

yet wind floods the vision,
blowing rain sideways,
and the world flows away.

At last,
washed away,
we fall off the edge,
only to float upward,
improbable
as that seems.

Laugh,
it’s all we can do
when we find ourselves
on vertical planes,
horizons having
become extinct
in our wake
and our waking.

Laugh,
and look around,
and discover what you are:
a missing link,
a wave of laughter,
or a crazy music,
propelled omni-directionally
through a gold-lined, purple cloud of rain.

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen