Ladders new & ancient at Tsankawi

Ladders new & ancient at Tsankawi (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

On Achieving Spiritual Exile

In the background, golfers prowl the green at the Olympic Club,
stroke small white balls towards an elusive hole.
Vistas of San Francisco splay across the 48” screen
where talking heads move lips, spew words I cannot hear (Muted!)

From time-to-time
I see an image
flashing in
my memory.

Early morning: scents of Tide and Bounce,
the churning, sloshing washer, and the touch of soft linen,
yield to the undulating voice of a professor
blathering theories of historical authenticity—
sounds emanating from my Bose, (a Teaching Company CD.)

From time-to-time
the image flashes
on the screen
of my imagination.

The girl-dog followed me into the garage
when I toted a bag of garbage and an empty cardboard box.
I closed the door, entombing her inside that darkness
and wondered why the boy-dog barked.
It took a while before I noticed she was missing.

From time-to-time
I sense the presence,
a hand that stretches
out to my unknowing.

I walk the dogs before the heat of noon.
My cell phone rides in the back pocket of my jeans,
the Blue Tooth in my ear.
Necessary calls completed, leaving my hands free
for picking up their excrement.
(Forgot to check the level of the Truckee and the oriole nest).

From time-to-time
I tell myself
to think about
that image.

Dishwasher beeping end of cycle,
turn up the volume, Tiger’s teeing off,
fold the clothes and make the bed,
don’t have the time to think
about that dream.

The ladder propped against the loft
(too high, too full of danger).
Strong hand that reaches down to me,
(familiar guide from long ago)

It’s safer here, well-trenched within the land of doing.
Find comfort in the work.
Security eschews change.

From time-to-time
an image

Posted in response to Manicddaily’s prompt at dVerse Poetics where we’re asked to write about EXILE. You will want to read this wonderful post, learn a bit about James Joyce and visit the work of some other exiled poets! I took my poem in the direction of spiritual exile…there are times when we receive gifts we just don’t want to look at!


Four Seasons - Longbridge Road

Image by joiseyshowaa via Flickr

Submitted to Poetry Potluck:  This week’s theme is Reflections, Interpretations and Musings


Purple petals dance
with solemn passion,
swirl in a breeze
filled with promise.

Sacred fireflies
shine in the wild night,
reach into the doleful void
to dazzle.

A dead leaf swirls in
the center of a whirling
torrent, disappears
down the storm drain.

Earth convulses while
blizzards howl,
morphs in an empty afternoon
beneath hoary skies .

Sursum corda.

The word Sacrament comes from the Latin, to make holy. A sacrament is considered to be an outward sign of grace. Sursum corda is Latin for lift up your heart.

Big Tent Poetry–Introspection

Public Domain


A Cascade

When winter comes
will you be ready
to hibernate?

To go within
confront the truth,
when winter comes?

To feel the chill
of unlived dreams—
will you be ready?

This time of year
in cold and dark, we long
to hibernate.

Submitted to Big Tent Poetry: and to Leonnyes Z to A Challenge: