May you live long enough
to let your life return to
the pleasures of simplicity
—Terri Guillemets
May you live long enough
to let your life return to
the pleasures of simplicity
—Terri Guillemets
great horned christmas caroling owl
crooning to a nearly full cold moon—
aromatic firewood smoke dancing
with chill desert air and winter stars—
people holidaying with indoor trees
oblivious to nature’s nighttime party
great mysterious
multitudinous
voice of the sea —
a composite of all
sounds of the world
brought down
by all the rivers
in their courses
through the lands —
all the sounds
the earth utters
to the heavens
in its daily life —
the tinkle and drip
of pellucid springs
hidden deep in
remote hill countries —
the rattling laughter
of summer streams
with rustling leaves
and piping birds —
the deep whisper
of the woods and
the boom and roar
as they wrestle
with the winds —
the crash of waterfalls
echoes of mountains
the rush of storms and
roll and peal of thunder —
the merry shouts
of playing children
commingled murmurs
of manifold labor and
brooding world-spirit —
the clatter and
grinding of mills
the tumultuous
straining voices
of busy towns —
the world-embracing sea
has taken in and blended
and harmonized all these
into its own eternal call —
as you, child of the world
sit there and listen
your own comes back
to you in that mighty voice —
deep calling unto deep
the soul of the sea
to the soul of the man —
________________
Ecob began his sermon: “I have long wanted some one whose soul hears, to write a poem on this subject, the call of the sea.” The good reverend already had the contents of the poem right there in his prose; I simply set it free for him and sincerely hope that the new creation is to his liking.
“Another call from the spiritual universe is to the realm of sorrow. We are not good for much until our hearts are broken. I know of no more pathetic object in time than a man or woman who has come to middle life, still
“Sorrow cleanses our vision of misty humors, restores our spiritual myopia, so that we get a clear, long-range outlook upon the verities, the imperishable substances of the inner life.
“He has lived poorly who has come to mature years and has not been touched by
“Unless called now and then into the stillness and shadow of this common experience of sorrow, how would we ever be healed of our folly for the getting and having of things? What ministry of consolation and strength could we have among the sinful, the suffering, and the broken-hearted!”
—Rev. James H. Ecob, D.D. (1844–1921), “The Call of the Universe,” sermon, 1904
PHOENIX, ARIZONA
* * *
JULY 19
july the nineteenth
overnight low temp
of ninety-seven degrees
* * *
OCTOBER 19
october nineteenth
one hundred and three degrees
climate change is hoax
* * *
NOVEMBER 6
day before winter
ninety-three degrees
summer-autumn in phoenix
* * *
NOVEMBER 8
dear gods of weather —
will it ever rain again
in bone-dry phoenix?
* * *
NOVEMBER 14
now a week into winter
high: eighty-eight F degrees
that’s not fahrenheit
* * *
NOVEMBER 18
i begged & pleaded
for rain but now bemoaning
winter mosquitoes
* * *
DECEMBER 6
really, december:
high of eighty-two degrees?
oh no you didn’t!
* * *
DECEMBER 21
on midwinter day
seventy-seven degrees
a sunburned solstice
* * *
i am growing old —
many leaves of my memory
have yellow’d and fallen —
so that i am beginning to have
many secrets from myself —
i lost myself
and panicked
like a parent
who lost sight
of their child
— i looked in
all the places
i had been —
looked in all
the corners
of my soul —
it had been
so long since
i had seen
myself that
very nearly
i gave up —
but suddenly
one fall day
on passing
a mirror i saw
acceptance
in an old face
and realized
i don’t need
that little lost
girl anymore
laughed so hard
i healed myself
just like trees
my life is a mix—
seasonal change
and evergreen
Thigh-bone said to breast-bone:
“How fares it, dead,
now heart’s soft hammer
is silencèd?
How fares it, brother,
when the only sound
is slow roots thrusting
into the ground?”
Breast-bone said to thigh-bone:
“How fares it, friend,
with no errands to run,
no knee to bend?
How fares it ghost, now
the only stir
is of quiet becoming
quieter?”
Thigh-bone and breast-bone
said to skull:
“What of dead Plato
and the Greek trull?
How fares it, emblem
of death, set free
from wisdom and lust’s
infirmity?”…
—Humbert Wolfe (1885–1940), from “A Conversation,” 1932
“Growing old… that dreadful moment when we first realize that we are ourselves no longer young. It is an extraordinary moment: pain, denial, rebellion, hopelessness. It arrives in many different ways. It used to come with spectacles — but nowadays the babe wears spectacles; sometimes it creeps upon us with a little stiffening of the joints; one does not run upstairs quite as lightly as one did. It may even reveal itself in the impatience that is felt because people do not speak quite as distinctly as they should — an impatience to which the younger generation rudely refers as deafness. These are gradual intimations that we are not as young as
“There are abrupt ones — especially there is the glance into the mirror some morning, after a sleepless night. Probably every woman over forty-five has known the start of astonishment and dismay that comes with that glance… The woman who has had this slight shock before breakfast glances at her looking-glass many times that day, and always with a growing comfort, for as the day passes things change; her face is more alert, her eyes brighten, her double chin is, somehow, firmer. No; it was only fatigue from a bad night;
—Margaret Deland, “The Wickedness of Growing Old,” 1905
At 2 pm, doves coo
an afternoon lullaby —
drowsy ticking
drowns out work —
the clock’s face
and leaden hands
fall napping into
the hour’s warm lap —
minutes nod off and
sleepy seconds snore
digesting noon away —
time teeters —
its breathing slows
weighed down by
heavy parts of day —
bee-buzzed blooms
wilt white into winter —
hellish heavy heat
silently softens to snow —
lovely lustrous leaves
fall freckled in frost —
senescent slanting sun
solstices southward —
the young year yules
dizzily debarks december