Between the Aether and the Mud

We live

somewhere 

between the aether

and the mud.

Dwelling on the

dirt of the lives

we inhabit,

abiding as a “we”

in the shelters of 

our being.

The simple and glorious

transcendence 

of the molecules 

we learn to call

thought or feeling; and

sometimes even desire,

haunt us with 

meanings

we are not always

given to understand.

And yet, 

we persist

in the mysterium tremendum

as waifs looking for porridge

each and every day. 

Something small

for our bowls;

a tiny morsel for

which we beg.

Angels 

bound to carcasses 

with a call to 

wonder and awe.  

And, in all the

fanfare of quarks and quasars

as they perform their

murmurations all about us,

we are given

small moments of pause

in which we can -

as we close our

eyes - drink in the

clambering vastness of

the Yosemite Valley 

or the damp loamy humus 

of Great Redwood Sequoias

or the sidewinding curves

of the Delaware River.

Only sight,

only smell;

leave the understanding

for another day.

For today, just leave room

for your center to hold all

it consumes in stillness

and repose;

chewing on it slowly, 

so as not to choke 

on the grandeur.

Contentment

Is there a space in my aging 

where it is an acceptable thing 

to forget; a place where it is whole

to be weak, broken open, and to be undone.

Perhaps a knoll of sorts, where 

it is really just fine
to be disheveled of heart.
To lay off being driven for
perfection, and to just not iron 

the creases of my

life and work. 

A place where vital debris

may lay hidden along

the flow of this great river

with so much washing down

her length that - 

pieces 

drifting off into the eddies

at the end of streams that

feed her - 

quietly

without warning or fanfare.

Softly lost to her mighty flow.

But not truly lost.

A place of unperturbed repose
and unwind - a kin 

to Whitman’s need 

to lean and loafe at ease.  

It is here, in my me.  In the core 

of what I have built.  Behind the busy

sidewalks of forward motion and

progress.  It is here in the stillness 

of quiet pause and hungering toward

contentment.

For The Boatman

I have two coins - 

two old coins

for the boatman.

They are in my 

pocket this day.

They will be there

for the day I

stop drawing 

breath on this earth.

I would like

to think he would

barge me over

even without the fare,

but, just the same

take the coins,

take them from my

pocket and lay them

on my eyes -

for Charon.

It is the least

I can offer him.

 

His work is hard

and still so very

misunderstood.

He languishes

at the end of the 

thread of this human

strand, alone and 

still so very 

misunderstood.

As I said.

His patience

is so very ongoing

and without pause.

Aside his wooden vessel

he stands, and waits - 

the sand and stones between

his toes until a lifeless

corpse is dropped

on the gunwale plank

of pine become a bed.

And then, pushing off

from the edges of our lives

he is knee deep in the

death we thought we had

escaped. His toes now clean

of the gritty debris that lay

strewn all about our living.

He is giving us one

final honor, one more moment

of respite before the 

disolution of all we had;

of all we were.

Take them, friend -

whoever shall be there

at my end.

Take the coins from my pocket 

and gently lay them on my

eyes now closed in death.

They will be

for Charon and all

he has done to

carry me across.

For, when his work is

done, they are his.  I

have no more need of them;

I carried them, all my life,

for him; for the one

who shall set me down

upon the other shores -

on the farside banks

of the Jordan, or of the

Styx or Delaware.  The coins

are for the boatman

who is - as I have repeatedly said -

so alone and so very

misunderstood.