This poem is called Morning, which I liken to Spring. If you take the stages of a day, then morning would be spring in my calendar of thinking. This poem was written by my mom many years ago, I’m not sure how many, but at least 30.

MORNING

It cometh not with observation,
It cometh from afar,
Like bells within a silence
To the void where you are.

The earth has turned to catch the sun,
And tiny you and I
Respond to God’s arithmetic
With a giant sigh.

It is slow addition
From waste to arctic waste,
Vast oceans etch a silver trail
O’er hidden icebergs, chaste.

It laps the shores around the world,
It falls on flower and stone.
It creeps up steps and windows
Invading cot and throne.

From continent to continent
It picks its singing way.
Regardlessly it multiplies
‘Til stars break into day.

B.P. Daniel (1929 - )

The Sun Broke Through
by me, with apologies to the real poets out there

The sun broke through, we must find a trail,
Explore the woods, the creatures, the mountains.
Creator God, how do You know
Just when I need those glimmering rays of hope?
How does the crack of a branch under my foot,
The white tail of the deer flitting out of sight behind the Juniper,
The rock, dancing in the shadows, up to the blue, blue sky,
How does this beauty of the house of God
Bring back to my soul the virtue and serenity
My impoverished spirit is desperate for?
Now I flicker, now I leap, now I know, as best I can know.

photo: our property (can you see the jackrabbit in the center?)

Technorati Tags: poetry, beauty, God, woods

My husband and I took our kids and a few of the cousins ice skating on Christmas Eve. We survived with only a few bumps and bruises, remarkable considering that between just the two of us, we managed seven children under the age of 10 on the ice.

I must admit that my husband was not overjoyed when I suggested ice skating! I only bring this up because I want to encourage you to push past the common hindrance to enjoying winter sports: BBRRRR!!! He actually was so happy in the end that we went ice skating, mostly because the kids had beaming faces and have talked about it for days. As you can see from the pictures, this was an indoor ice rink, and really not that cold. Just bundle up and do it!

A quick note on ice skating safety. One of the skate guards noticed my four year old daughter, pictured above with me, and commented on how she was gaining courage and wanting to go faster, even though this was her first time ice skating. A Canadian, he said, “You Americans have a lot to learn! In Canada, the little children have to wear helmets on the ice.” He recommended putting a regular bike helmet on the littler ones at least. Think about it, a hard fall on the ice is no more forgiving than a hard fall on concrete.

There is a winter wonderland across much of the country and so much fun to be had! One of my sisters in Michigan just took her family on a skiing vacation to Boyne Mountain and, living in Oregon, I worked hard to resist the temptation to poke fun at Michigan’s mountains. They all had a fantastic time even without supersized mountains. Now, if you do happen to be in Oregon and want to ski, be sure to visit my friends at Berg’s Ski Shop for all your gear, and go experience some real altitude.

And don’t forget about snowshoeing, sledding, and snowboarding. Or just building a snowman! My kids’ personal favorite is a good old fashioned snowball fight. I am definitely in the winter mood, and if I don’t get myself and the kids out despite the weather, we all get cabin fever. My rule of thumb is that if it’s above freezing, (32 degrees Fahrenheit), out we go. An investment in high quality gloves, hats, coats, and boots is well worth it, especially if it means the whole family can play outside in winter weather for at least an hour at a time.

I know many of you are either stuck inside because it’s truly treacherous outside, or at the other extreme, you live in a location where it simply doesn’t get wintery. I found a great website, Apples4theteacher.com, with a slew of winter games and activities for kids that can be done indoors and still give your kids some winter fun. You’ll find winter crafts, stories, puzzles, coloring pages, and more.

If your family has a favorite winter past-time, would you share it with me? I’ll leave you with a wintery poem by that classic Scottish writer, Robert Louis Stevenson.

Winter Time
by Robert Louis Stevenson
from A Child’s Garden of Verses

Late lies the wintery sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding-cake.

Thank you, all veterans of all times.

I remembered an old poem my mom wrote, and rummaged around this morning and thankfully found it. Her father was a WWI veteran. He spent the last decade of his life confined to a wheelchair, the result of mustard gas from the war. My grandpa died before I had the chance to meet him. But, thanks, Grandpa.

ODE TO VETERANS
by my mother

Have you survived the overflowing banks
of spring?
Tramped the long road of summer to the end?
Withstood the heartbreak and chill all
autumns bring?
Seen winter come, and still have breath to
spend?

Then I salute you, veteran of earth’s day.
You who have flown from dawn to set of sun.
Soon you will rise beyond the Milky Way
The toast of all in heaven, the long race won.

No expression can capture perfectly what each family member or friend is enduring, but I hope this poem is helpful. I know that many of those who were killed on Monday had a faith in Jesus Christ - they’ve passed the threshold to the throne of grace.

On the Threshold

I’m returning, not departing;
My steps are homeward bound,
I quit the land of strangers
For a home on native ground.

I am rising and not setting;
This is not night but day,
Not in darkness, but in sunshine,
Like a star, I fade away.

All is well with me for ever;
I do not fear to go,
My tide is but beginning
Its bright eternal flow.

I am leaving only shadows
For the true and fair and good,
I must not, cannot, linger;
I would not, though I could.

This is not death’s dark portal,
‘Tis life’s golden gate to me,
Link after link is broken,
And I at last am free.

I am going to the angels,
I am going to my God;
I know the hand that beckons,
I see the holy road.

Why grieve me with your weeping?
Your tears are all in vain,
An hour’s farewell, beloved,
And we shall meet again.

Jesus, Thou wilt receive me
And welcome me above;
This sunshine which now fills me
Is Thine own smile of love.

Horatius Bonar

Introduction to Sans Souci Way

Sans Souci is French and means “without care.” It is also a tiny unincorporated community on the shores of the St. Clair River. The setting is on Harsens Island, a part of Clay Township, Michigan. There is a large State wildlife refuge located there where the geese, ducks, and other waterfowl stop in the spring and fall migrations. The birds come in, in great and small “V” formations to a safe resting place, a “home” along the way. For them a home is more than a place, it is part of a life journey, a verb, and so too perhaps it should be for us. We have just assisted the Township in making a grant application to the State to build a 3.0 mile pedestrian/bicycle trail (2 paved, 5 foot wide shoulders along the highway). The Township hopes the project will help promote tourism. Unfortunately the application was not funded.

Sans Souci Way
by Richard O. Smith II

Across the ancient sturgeon depths, on the south of the great blue northern channel, where a heron and a ferry lands, my first footsteps on a Clay pathway lightly tread. There foot by foot my arrogant hopes, like tied up driven dopes lay shoulder by shoulder along the way. Across the marsh, across the fenlands to the olde French trade of Sans Souci, I find a day of passing. Here the commerce on the waters passed from birch bark to cavernous steel, still silently plying the deep blueways, tollways in mind, tolls in time. Great chevrons home the atmospheres and flow to feed upon the flats and rest from nomad quests. Here the path of clay consciousness comes too, to rest from maddening quests in silted wild and creature shallows of Little Muscamoot Bay. A world away, a pause in time, the sub lime slime, a crayfish crawls all cares to a mud castle lair beside my toes a squishing. There prescient schemes do drift to dreams and it is cumulously noble to know nothing at all ~ ~ ~ while breezes blow clear through my ears.

photo credits:
http://www.harsensisland.com/photos.html
http://www.darlor-watch.com

The crucifixion of Jesus Christ took place in A.D. 30, on the Friday of the Jewish Passover week. This day is now celebrated by Christians worldwide as Good Friday. Even on the cross he reigned, and today is such a day to observe the ultimate triumph, as well as the passion, the suffering, the humiliation. This is a day of remembrance, mourning, and grief, a day to suffer with Him. I can suffer with Him as I contemplate and consider the injustice of the world, and have compasssion today. I can meditate on the hardship and heartache of the oppressed today, and pray for them.

GOOD FRIDAY
by Christina G. Rossetti

Am I a stone and not a sheep
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood’s slow loss,
And yet not weep?
No so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horrow of great darkness at broad noon–
I, only I.
Yet give not o’er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.

photo: Christ of Saint John of the Cross by Salvador Dali

A wonderful poem by American poet Anne Porter, in her mid-nineties when the treasury this is part of, Living Things: Collected Poems, was published (talk about a late bloomer), begs to be read:

AN EASTER LILY

[Ahem, the first verse
is now missing
because I was kindly informed
by a commenter below
That I was violating copyright law.
This beautiful verse
used to be about
A Paschal moon
Shining into our homes
With radiant ceremony]

…here’s the rest of the amazing poem,
I’m so sorry I can’t post all of it:

I for my part received
An Easter lily
Whose whiteness
Is past belief

Its blossoms
The shape of trumpets
Are mute as swans

But deep and strong as sweat
Is their feral perfume.

by Anne Porter

Though native to the Ryukyu Islands of southern Japan, I love the fact that the Easter Lily Capital of the World is on the southern coast of MY state, Oregon!

I’ve been savoring these days leading up to Easter, this most glorious of all Christian holidays. I’m trying to incorporate traditions into my family, and when holidays come around, I’m always on the lookout for a meaningful observance to weave into our life. I didn’t grow up with traditions, and even as a child I was very sad about that. I want my own children to be grown and say to one another, “Don’t you remember when we always picked out an Easter lily for our table, and one for Grandma, too?”

Take pleasure in this week, and hold onto your traditions or create new ones.

(I’m ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille.)

LUCY FAULL

Strong
And sure
Her words come
Through. Echoing
Stars that shone for you.
Treading paths alone and
New. Celebrating, fasting,
Feasting, living every moment–
Do you see a rose pushing through snow?
That’s how Lucy’s spirit is sure to go.

B.P. Daniel (1929 - )

Words cannot imprint
The world on me.
Only life can register
A blackbird in a tree.

Yet when the blackbird’s gone,
Words can make me see
His red wing flash in summer
Just as it used to be.

Words are not the same,
But they will have to do.
Life keeps disappearing.
Words bring it back to view.

B.P. Daniel (1929 - )

I had promised a March Madness of my mom’s poetry, and here we are with just a day remaining of her birthday month! So, I’m squeezing a few more in today and tomorrow, and I hope you enjoy these.

DOORS

When I am tired of opening and closing doors,
Of doing all life’s endless little chores,
I steal away to the fastness of my mind,
And manufacture doors of another kind.

I pile up words, hinge them with a phrase,
Then swing away, into my choice of days.
It is I who decide what weather there shall be,
And who shall sit with me beneath the tree.

It is an empire fit for a king and queen,
This land of words, that lies behind, between,
Just out of sight, in the forest of the mind.
Forever through its pathways would I wind:

Seeking to capture in its branches, taut and
still,
Songs that would haunt the lonely whip-poor-
will.

B.P. Daniel (1929 - )

Photo credits: Emily Blaylock (one of our wonderful nannies who took these photos on our last vacation to Victoria, B.C.)

Mom adds another year every ides of March, and here she is at 78! I caught her by a great old Juniper tree on our property that is about as much a character as she is. She said this particular tree “looks like it could be the backdrop for a horror movie.” Well, maybe at night it might look scary, but it’s one of my kids’ favorite little fort areas. For her birthday, we’ll spend the morning hiking around at Smith Rock, because it reminds her of Stone Mountain (where she lived for a bit and of which she has the fondest memories), and then enjoy some pumpkin pie with whipped cream.

I couldn’t find a poem she’d written about junipers, but here’s a lovely one about willows (because we grew up with a willow in our yard, not a juniper):

THE WILLOW TREE

When God made trees, so long ago,
The world was not yet full of woe.
But God in his foreknowledge knew,
And so He made the willow too.

There are trees so tall and straight and proud
They speak of courage strong and loud.
But there are moments, not a few –
For them, the willow weeps with you.

B.P. Daniel (1929 - )

And also, a birthday poem, which she wrote for herself in a way, because I’m giving her a birthday card with this poem inscribed inside! She may have forgotten that she wrote this…uh, probably not. She can forget what day it is but never a poem she’s written. She actually thought we forgot her birthday, because on March 14, she thought it was March 15.

May your birthday be:

Slow as molasses in January so you
have plenty of time to enjoy it,

Fast as an ostrich so you can cover
a lot of ground,

Sudden as a pheasant flushed to
wake you up,

Brilliant as a herd of flamingoes
to please your eye,

Chipper as a sparrow to give you
hardihood,

Wild as a wild goose to give you
adventure,

Beautiful as a swan to give you
serenity,

Strong as an eagle so you can reach
new heights,

Exotic as a parrot to show you the
strange unknown,

Wise as an owl with listening ears,

Happy as a lark singing,

Haunting as a whippoorwill so you
will remember it

Mom called Piranesi’s work “black and white ink” and said “he drew prisons, with staircases winding about and going up.” This sounded really awful to me. Why did you like these, I had to ask. “I don’t know, they just appealed to me. They were very spacious looking.”

A bit of research on Giovanni Battista Piranesi (1720-1778) revealed an Italian artist famous for his etchings of Rome as well as the Carceri d’Invenzione (imaginary prisons). There’s a whole stack of these prints (16 total) which are said to record a series of his own visions during the delirium of a fever. Someone else called them visual metaphors for the endless creative inspiration of the past. Whatever they are, I did not find them appealing, or spacious, but that’s just me.

ART

Art is a mixture of paint and oil,
The color of forgotten soil;
The smile of loveliness long dead,
The coffin waiting in the shed,
A face against a windowpane,
A lover in a country lane,
A looking in and a looking out
The silence of an unheard shout,
The sense of an impending doom,
The unreality of a room,
The lights and shadows of all our days
Pinpointed in infinitesimal ways,
Fixed in a painted pantomime
Plucked from the gutter of merging time.

Art is a mixture in the mind
Of images that twist and wind;
Evidence of an exploring heart
Tentative, lest it be torn apart.
Here is a smile, received over there,
Coloring two bits of separated air.
Here is the shadow for this degree of light.
Some form of shading makes up our sight.
Here is the height, and the depth below,
And here is the horizon that makes it so.
Our lives are so bound in intricate ways,
Bordered with gold and indigo days,
Flushed with the sun’s most fetching red,
Of art enough cannot be said.

B.P. Daniel (1929 -)

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I’m a terrible poet, and can barely judge good poetry, but I hope I choose some that will brighten your day. Here’s Mom by an abandoned house down the lane from where we live. I took this picture two weeks ago, and ironically, there’s an enormous bulldozer out there as I write, tearing that old house down to make room for a hay shed. A subtle lesson to enjoy the old, weathered, beautiful things while you can.

The Poet

A Poet is a man who tries
To cut the universe down to size
But yet retain the sense of space
While putting it in a certain place.
A poet with a little verse
Captures and giftwraps the universe.

A poet is a man who sees
The enchanted forest in the trees.
He sees the bird of happiness fly
In the land where people do not die.
These things and more the poet doth tell
In a poem that fits in a little nutshell.

A poet is a man who stores
Ideas in his dresser drawers.
With words he combs his tangled hair
And starts the day with “Change,” “Compare.”
And when the words begin to fuse
The poet melts into the Muse.

B.P. Daniel (1929 - )