Poet's Page

Poet's Page ~ December 2009

2009-12-03T09:29:00.000-08:00

Having lived much of my life in the midwest, I know, firsthand, about snow. In that part of the country, snow is almost a synonym for winter. Living now in the Sierra foothills, snow is less a part of the winter season for those of us below the snowline. This, however, does not keep us from having an occasional “snow day” when the world is white and the air is crisp and cold. When this happens, my thoughts go to snow as I’ve known it in all my life seasons. On one of those rare, snowy days, I wrote the following poem.

Snow

Snow in my childhood
meant sleds and boots and mittens,
cold and warmth combined.

Snow in my teen years meant
Christmas carols, laughter, and
drinking hot cocoa.

Snow in my twenties
meant travel in wintertime
and driving with care.

Snow in my thirties
meant “school’s out” for snow days and
children safe at home.

Snow in the foothills
means surprise, fleeting beauty,
a day to savor.

jbm

Poet’s Page ~ November 2009

2009-11-10T20:56:00.000-08:00

One of the loveliest experiences I know is having a new baby in my life. I recently became the godparent of two little boys… twins who were born a few weeks ago. Being able to spend time with them is always welcome and memorable.

The following poem was written for these little guys and all the other newly arrived babies.

Two Little Lives

These little lives are big lives!
Filled with the promise of worth.
These little lives are new lives!
Bringing new joy to the earth.

Two little lives with purpose and plan,
Each little boy with the soul of a man.

Two little minds, alight from above.
Two little hearts whose rhythm is love.

Two little sons that are ready to feel
Part of a family whose welcome is real.

These little lives are big lives!
Finding their place in the sun!
Come, let us give them our blessing!
Two little lives… just begun!

jbm

Poet’s Page ~ October 2009

2009-09-30T17:22:00.000-07:00

Spending a large part of my life in the midwest has given me a love for “season change” and all that it means in terms of weather and scenery. One of the things I love about where we live now, in the Sierra foothills, is that we do have changes with each season, including a certain amount of leaf color in the fall. October is when our leaf color is at its peak. Even with so much green of tall pines, we have beautiful maples that light up the green with red and gold and brown.

I often hear people speak of autumn as their favorite season because of its beauty. Beauty is an interesting word, an interesting concept, for truly, beauty resides in the eye of the beholder and is defined by what each beholder sees as “beautiful.” I have tried to sort out my thoughts about what “beauty” means to me in the following poem.

Beauty

Where does beauty live?

Beauty lives on the mountain
where fir trees touch the sky
like hands lifted in prayer.

Beauty lives in the valley
where generous fields
offer gifts of fruit and grain.

Beauty lives in the ocean
where sun sparkles and waves
adorn the rocks with foam.

Beauty lives on the desert
where sand and heat make water
seem a miracle.

Beauty lives in a child
whose laughter sounds like bells
celebrating the morning.

Beauty lives in an aged one
whose eyes hold the wisdom
of a life well lived.

Where does beauty live?

Beauty lives in the eye of the beholder…
above us, below us, around us!

Beauty lives in the seeing
of what is true and lasting,
of what is within us.

Beauty lives.

jbm

Poet's Page ~ September 2009

2009-08-31T15:47:00.000-07:00

September is often referred to as “back to school month.” I like this because some of my fondest memories are of the years when I participated in “the first day of school,” as a student and later as a teacher. I loved school. I played school when I was a child. I looked forward to the first day of school when I was a teacher. Something about “school” appealed to me. I was a “fit” in the classroom. So, it was no surprise when I recently participated in a workshop about “Life Purpose” and discovered that mine was to be a “teacher.” When I was invited to create a purpose statement about this role, I wrote: “I am a teacher. In my presence, people discover what has meaning and value for their lives.”

The followers of Jesus often referred to him as “Rabbi” or “Teacher.” Surely as they walked and talked with him, they discovered what had meaning and value for their lives. I sometimes like to imagine I was one of those followers, open and receptive to who and what he was, eager to learn what it meant to be about the Father’s business.

Teacher
Teacher teach me now
Empty me of what I know
Fill me with the new

Teacher teach me now
Quicken the questions within
Make the answers clear

Teacher teach me now
Empower me to serve you
In ways that bring peace

Teacher teach me now
Take my hand and lead me on
I will walk with you

Teacher teach me now
I will trust when I feel fear
You are my sure guide

Teacher teach me now
I love you with all my heart
You are my best Friend

jbm

Poet’s Page ~ August, 2009

2009-08-04T21:15:00.000-07:00

August marks the birth of Unity’s co-founders, Myrtle and Charles Fillmore. Myrtle was born on the 6th and Charles on the 22nd. Together they explored a new teaching that was enlightening and healing. Their exploration led them to the revelation that the new teachings were not new at all, but rather were a new way to understand the ancient teachings of one who demonstrated them in all that he said and did. His name was Jesus. The Fillmores called him the “Wayshower” and defined their emerging work as “a practical application of the teachings of Jesus Christ to every aspect of daily life.” As they followed Jesus as Wayshower, they became not only disciples, but wayshowers themselves.

Ask, Seek, Knock

They were disciples and as they followed in his way
They needed courage to do the things they heard him say.
They saw his power as he worked from day to day
And listened to him when he taught them how to pray.

They were disciples but there was much to leave behind.
The old commandments no longer satisfied the mind.
They wanted power to heal the sick and free the blind
And they were searching for the truth they had to find.

We are disciples, we walk the path he came to show.
We plant the teachings in heart and mind and there they grow
Into awareness of Spirit Life and Spirit Flow-
One Present Power that urges us to stretch and know-

If you come asking, the answer will be whispered in your ear.
If you come seeking, the mystery of your mind will be made clear.
If you come knocking, the latchstring of love’s door will soon appear.
So, freely ask and seek and knock and feel God’s Presence ever near.

jbm

Poet’s Page ~ July 2009

2009-07-02T16:51:00.000-07:00

Whatever else July holds for us, our attention turns first to the 4th and the red, white, and blue celebration of our freedoms. Whatever the dark places we find in our history, we never lose sight of the light that shines through it all, making our country the home we honor and love, the home that continually gives us another chance to “do it better.” This poem, found on page 58 of “Orange Cat,” speaks to this blessed opportunity.

Song in Minor Key

We woke up on that Sunday, like on any other Sunday,
and went about our business, as we did on any day.
Then the word came down and filled our ears.
We listened through our cries and fears.
“Our beautiful Pearl Harbor has been bombed
and blown away.”

We woke up on that Friday, like on any other Friday,
and went about our business, as we went along our way.
Then the word came down and broke our heart.
We watched our dream world fall apart.
“Our beautiful John Kennedy was shot and killed today.”

We woke up on that Tuesday, like on any other Tuesday,
and went about our business, as we did our daily round.
Then the word came down and struck us dumb.
We felt as though the end had come.
“Our beautiful Twin Towers have been stricken
to the ground.”

We wake up every morning, like on any other morning,
and we go about our business, like an old familiar dance.
And the word comes down and we decide
to take the lead or run and hide.
Our beautiful America still offers us a chance.

Somebody said, “Some things change you forever.”
Lord, will the change never cease!
Somebody said, “Some things change you forever.”
Lord, let our changes bring peace.

jbm

Poet’s Page ~ June 2009

2009-05-31T23:30:00.000-07:00

According to Wikipedia, Father’s Day was first celebrated in June of 1908. It was established to honor Dads everywhere. But, in my family, my Dad was celebrated for a special reason. He was born on June 3, 1900. he lived for nearly 98 years and he died on January 3, 1998.

In his long life, there were some things he never did. He never took a ride in an airplane, he never crossed the ocean, he never went to college, and he never read many books. There were, however, some things he did very well. He worked hard and provided for his family. He took care of his property and paid his bills on time. He supported his church and his community. He saved his money and made it possible for his daughter, his son, and his wife to earn college degrees. My dad’s education stopped after the 8th grade. He read well, knew basic math and he was a champion speller. I have many memories of my mom asking him to spell a word she was unsure of.

Dad had an inventive mind and often made up words that were a regular part of his vocabulary. I was grown before I realized they weren’t real words. One of them was "briggle," as in "If you’re not careful, you’re going to briggle around and break your neck." And there were phrases that I still use. For example, he might describe someone struggling to make ends meet as "living on the little end of nothing, whittled down." My parents experienced the Great Depression and I remember well the "fear about money" that permeated the culture in which I grew up. But somehow, I always knew my Dad would take of us. This little poem, found in "Orange Cat" (page 21) is dedicated to him.

Dad

What can I say about my father, my daddy, my dad?
What was there about him
that defies or deserves description?
Was he tall, was he dark, was he handsome?
No, not by common definition.
He was what some would call "nice looking."
He was nice looking, even though
he had lost his hair at seventeen.
He was not so tall, and the color of his skin
came from long years spent working in the sun…
on the railroad, for the clay works, in the garden.

He could sing, when he wanted to.
And I remember how, long ago, he played the harmonica
in a homegrown variety show.
He was friendly and he liked to tell funny stories.
He took care of things and always made sure the tank was full whenever my mother used the car.

He didn’t always know what to do with babies who became children, who became teenagers, who became college students and got married
and had babies of their own.
But he loved them, no matter what.
He believed in them, no matter what.

When I think of unconditional love,
I remember my dad.

jbm

Poet's Page ~ May 2009

2009-05-01T23:14:00.000-07:00

May is my birth month… my time to celebrate myself! Everybody has a birth month and therefore, a time to celebrate themselves. This may seem a little strange, given, as we are, to only celebrating on other people’s birthday! But I encourage you to celebrate yourself!! It’s easy! You can start by reading the following poem… aloud!!

Celebration

I will celebrate myself!
I will declare myself a holiday
and ask the banks to close!
My independence day will be a day for
picnics and parading,
for families and friendships and feelings.
My independence day will be a day
for stories and singing,
a day to look at faces and at flowers.

I will celebrate myself!
My birth will be a reason for gladness and gratitude.
My history will be a cause for remembrance and rejoicing.
My flag will wave from every tree and carry
the colors of the rainbow.

I will celebrate myself!
And when the day is over
and evening dims the sun,
a shooting star will light the sky
with one celestial firework!

jbm

Poet’s Page ~ April 2009

2009-03-31T17:16:00.000-07:00

Even as the season of Lent continues, so I continue to share poems I have written about this special season. As I write this page, we are coming upon Palm Sunday, Good Friday, and Easter. The following poems speak to what these days mean to me.

Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday…
Such an ordinary name for such an extraordinary day.

Palm Sunday…
The day he made it plain that who he was,
was real
and not to be denied.

Palm Sunday…
The day he set into motion the wheel
that would carry him through
crucifixion… and beyond.

Palm Sunday…
Another day of being
alone in the middle of a crowd ~
surrounded and
surrendered.

Good Friday

This day is called “good” and yet it honors
events that are hard to understand.

This day remembers how he walked on,
as he faced what lay before him
and knew it for what it was.

This day remembers how he wept, but did not waver,
how he finished all that he had begun.

This day is about asking and agony,
this day is about mystery and the awful clarity
that is, in itself,
a light in the darkness.

This day is about love.

Easter

Childhood memories
of colored eggs and pretty bonnets
seem so far removed from what
the day was truly all about.

Songs of praise and adoration
come closer, perhaps, to the meaning
of that early first day of the week
with its empty tomb and scattered believers.

Perhaps if we are to catch a glimpse
of that long-ago morning in that faraway place,
and even touch its meaning,
we need only to look and see
the ways it changed
the world.

jbm

Poet’s Page ~ March 2009

2009-03-02T15:13:00.000-08:00

Another season of Lent has begun… another time of preparation for the heartbreak of Good Friday and the wonder of Easter. For many of us these days are little more than rituals repeated each year. For some of us these days are almost like reliving something we remember from long ago. A few years ago I had the privilege of going to the Holy Land. Each place we visited was special in its own way, but the land was what spoke to me. Walking where Jesus walked was powerful beyond what I expected it to be. I have written poems about several of these places. The Mount of Olives was one of them.

Mount of Olives

Standing under timeless trees,
I gather a handful of olives,
fallen to the ground.

Scenes from ancient stories come to my mind.
With only a little imagination, I can see him
as he came to this place… alone,
away from the sight of the crowd,
to rest and pray.

Perhaps he heard the gentle breeze whisper
like the voice of the One he
worshipped, adored, obeyed.
Perhaps he leaned against a tree
and let its strength and ageless wisdom
seep into his bones.

Standing where he may have stood,
I feel myself touched by his spirit and
I am moved to weeping.

As tourists in that holy land,
we walked in many places declared by tradition
to be sites of gospel beginnings.
And as compelling as they often were,
none held the presence that this one held for me.

Standing under timeless trees,
I gather a handful of olives and put them in my pocket.

I have them still.

jbm

Poet's Page ~ February 2009

2009-01-31T20:32:00.000-08:00

Come, Walk in My Story
Our individual lives are very much like stories in many ways, stories told in the first person. And while there may be many characters and scenes in our stories, there is a point at which a special part is written for those special people who come to walk with us awhile. They may come as friends, family, teachers, children, lovers. Whatever their role, we may wish to say:

Come, walk in my story.
It’s a tale that can only be told
in the footsteps and the heartbeats
of each and every day.

Come, walk in my story.
You need only know enough of
what has gone before to sense
the reality of what is now.

Come, walk in my story.
I welcome you,
I have prepared a place for you,
I eagerly anticipate the communion
of mind, of soul, of body –
the trinity of spirit that each of us is
and which is now expressing as one.

Come, walk in my story.
In the pages of tomorrow
we will read the theme
unfolding here today.

Come, walk in my story.
There is mystery here and
meaning we can find and understand.

Come, walk in my story.
I love you, I surrender to you,
I openly dedicate my mind’s attention,
my soul’s awareness, and my body’s
comforting presence to your happiness
and growth in the days and nights of
our time together.

Come, walk in my story.

jbm

Poet’s Page ~ January 2009

2009-01-08T16:49:00.000-08:00

A while ago, I participated in a workshop that related to setting and achieving life goals. In one of the exercises we worked with the idea of defining “success” as “keeping our word” or “doing what we said we would do.” We were then invited to select a role that had meaning for us, declare ourselves successful in that role, and set a short term goal to demonstrate our success. I declared myself a “successful poet” and set a goal of participating in a poetry reading within a designated time.

I followed through on that goal and since that time, Wayne and I have self-published a book of my poetry. Faced with the opportunity of a new year of living and of writing a monthly piece for our website, I have decided to move from “jottings” to “poetry” and my goal is to share a poem (or two) each month. I want to inspire myself to write “new” poems with this goal, but some will be drawn from my book, “Orange Cat,” beginning with this one, found on page 32.

I don’t know where I’ve been or what seeds I’ve sown
that are bearing their strange and perfect fruit right now.
I don’t know what other lives have left their mark,
making me this interesting and sometimes dismaying
mix of generosity and fear.

If I did know what path brought me here,
would I search it out and better try to read its secrets?
If I could know who I’ve been and who I’ve loved
and how I’ve let my lives unfold,
would I try on those faces again and seek to understand
what message those eyes held for me?

Maybe it is well that I do not know such things.
Maybe it is well that what has gone before
has simply brought me here and it is enough.
Maybe it is well that everything I need or need to know
is right where I am, as I think these thoughts,
write these words, let them tumble onto the page
with only a little editing.

jbm