Meditations in Fast Times: 8. Wind howls over the sea like a wraith

                 8.

Wind hovers over the sea like a wraith,
the howl and yell
measure time, and tell
the story of our weak and waning faith,
as it slowly crumbles into ruin.

Smoldering wreckage
we have not found,
loss incalculable by pound,
like another of a bygone age,
hijacked and crashed,
other hearts and hopes dashed;
our lives, those lives and these
traded for political gain,
or with revenge to appease
a movement not for peace,
only for blood-soaked increase
within a culture of death.

We stand at the shore,
praying for an answer,
hoping we are wrong, and more,
waiting for a cure for such cancer
—cannot this corruption finally be consumed
so that corruption itself will cease?
—We presume all are doomed,
but what was it all for?

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Meditations in Fast Times: 7. Words are a music that should really be just words

                 7.

Words are a music that should really be just words,
quothe the conflicted scribe.

Could words mean so much,
if there were nothing poetical about them?

Words, naked against the silence,
cannot be so transparent,
or what is the point (still or trembling)?

My heart overflows with the songs
I have learned from birds;
they sing to announce their rights—
all tongues must be skilled pens,
each a sword to defend justice and truth,
pointed and crafted, learned and remembered
—as well as to celebrate the communion of sunlit joys.

Along the way and wave,
words are like the intentions we pave—
for what poetry does not its people save?

— and each step we take
is eased by the music we make;
words must intend, when addressed,
to soothe the savage and his aching breast,
to be medicine that smoothes each crease,
to be the incantation announcing peace.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Meditations in Fast Times: 6. Down the garden path

                 6.

Down the garden path,
testing serenity with math,
and the music that rises
from the bushes surprises
even the studied guide.

Where have we been?
Where shall we go?
Shall we know what we’ve seen?
Might we encounter snow?
(Our thoughts, as we march along, glide.)

This journey is the set to which we dance,
even if the music is unheard;
we all make the same contract with chance,
might face an outcome absurd.

There seems nothing on which to anchor,
though the seasons return to redeem us, from loss
of perspective or frame, or exposure to dross;
time serves neither favor nor rancor—
results neither impress nor move,
nor bow to any conscience we might behove.

Time is a game played by children,
an ancient guidebook once said;
the author, sadly, is now dead,
but we can presume his advice
was meant to encourage and entice.

© 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

Meditations in Fast Times: 4. Flowers were our guests

                 4.

Flowers were our guests,
stopping with us
and blushing at our attention
to their beauty,
as if to say,
we just are;
in them is crystallized
the liquid potential
of increase and decrease,
of here, of now,
of gone, of loss,
of remembering
and return.

On the crowded city streets,
of a Winter day
the silent array
of lax and flaccid faces
reflects a vacancy, promoted
by distraction to distraction
by means of empty distractions
or at least none that edify.

Winter came to those streets,
but not to this garden,
where Spring still manages
to surprise with bright colors
to delight with intoxicating aromas
—ah, how intoxicating!

High in the trees,
the wise hoopoe bird
makes the rallying cry:
lost atoms, faces, hearts:
return to your center;
the outlier calling
is an empty journey.

Rose and jasmine,
hyacinth, Persian blue allium and iris,
showing through twisting honey suckle,
our flowers, our friends,
having come to visit,
are grateful to retain their seats;
the dusty bowl of petals
is no fit ending to their story
or ours.

© 2014 Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Meditations in Fast Times: 3. The continuous rumble

                  3.

The continuous rumble,
the watery babble,
the trending of disaffection
continues apace;
forward we tumble,
we rabble scrabble,
neither ending the dejection,
nor seeking to displace—
this no-wise movement
is how houses usher,
divide and fall.

Birdsong and flowers,
dappled light through trees,
lure one away from the smoky,
first world drawing room;
out through the French doors,
in through the hedge,
and into the garden we go,
following deception,
we do not know.

Ah, to breathe!
The lively stillness
dispels all former torpor
and mindless twittering;
the freshness of all that is real
reaches out from the day,
singing like a merry bell peal,
tugging the spirit, as if to say
your cares I beguile
for the while
you are here.

The soul cannot well thrive,
no matter what plot might contrive,
away from the gardens of Paradise;
tending the diverse flowers,
for weeks, for days or just hours,
allows one to realize
the duty bounden
on each person’s part
to nurture the beauty in one’s heart,
the garden of where you are.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Meditations in Fast Times: 2. Tolerance, she said

                  2.

Tolerance, she said,
is well enough and good.
Acceptance is better.

Acceptance
of conditions,
a simple recognition
of a basic truth:
each and all are.

The storm, settling
in for a daily dose,
clattering, cluttering, close—
an exertion
gripping mind and soul
—holding self in a
grip of judgment,
casting a dark cloud
over possibility;
simple
is the most difficult
condition of all.

The rhythm of feet to floor,
the staccato of many voices
against a descant of driving rain,
these are reminders;
the vastness of experience
is no different than the center
that is home,
and each foot fall,
each whispered prayer,
each meal lovingly prepared
is refuge taken in now
and everything.

The thunder and lightning
startle one from reverie;
muscles suddenly tense,
then release
into realized truth:
acceptance is nothing less
than an intimate engagement
with all things.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen