Rivers : Rainer Rilke

May what I do flow from me like a river, no forcing and no holding back, the way it is with children. Rainer Maria Rilke

The Story of Water

It starts somewhere high in the hills – so little of it would ever fall directly to the streams of course. Some of it pours across the earth and runs into the shapes of runnels, more of it leaks from the ground – the way you cried that first time, and it all seemed so…

Yearning

Free me from these tremors that awaken me in the night when my only company is the shimmering call of the owl in the trees below my room.   I was remembered by the tall young man from the place where the sky never touches the line of hills around it; the way a shy…

Clouds

I would find her in the sky If she was only passing by Like the tears of birds that fly Beneath the clouds at play But now the chorus is all done and in my heart I heard no one Just dreams of memories begun for those to small to say Of how we tasted…

Sand is just Tiny Mountains

The haze of a world, long forgetful of the iniquity of snow, suffuses all to turpentine and rags brilliance, animated by the maelstrom of the small creatures of God and the sapphire crunch of parched grass points to the distant blue hills.   A tower stands alone, with all the others, steeped in birdsong rich…

the line where two things meet

my telephone has two cameras that perform magic to blur the backgrounds of photos into gentle irrelevance as though metal and glass could see the beauty of a flower and the ugliness of my neighbours house.   But when I pointed them at myself, it could not find the Old Man, could not find that…

River Pebbles

About a river valley and a mountain, and how the water and the air so often disagree.

3 Dark Rooms

3 vignettes of Hope found in dark rooms.
“What hurts you, blesses you. Darkness is your candle.”
― Rumi

Doha for the Valley

A tree is a lifetime, standing alone, in a crowd creeping slowly to skies, with clouds that moan, loud.   Snow clings to the mountains, mocking their boughs, in winds hum, keeping their secrets close, water they’ll be, come.   A lifetime like a tree, all these branches, where we lay Were their lives a…

Raspberry Leaf

Her face is lost to me now – no contact, no photos, just memory calling forth the taste of cinnamon and raspberry on her lips and frozen shards of river ice in her eyes.   On the river she floats like a dandelion seed, effortlessly turns flushed with a joy that is not of me,…

Three of His Houses

“The places of quiet are going away, the churches, the woods, the libraries. And it is only in silence we can hear the voice inside of us which gives us true peace.”
― James Rozoff

Ghosts In The Forest

They came quietly white and blue across lawns of dying and green, beneath the terror cries of silver vessels that tore the sky.   Who made this path? Who feeds it with the heavy tread of a thousand feet in empty woods? Who placed these stones along this way? Who built this place?   Lie…

Rivers are the Children of Mountains

That it all came to this: Stories of Rivers, Trees and Mountains. No one cares really, they just nod and smile. It’s my turn to talk when he picks up his drink When he talks it’s my turn to drink.   In this way the world goes on, I know you’re hurting – and I’m…