The Tree Stood Planted

A tree stood planted

rooted in solid ground

and in that earth: it’s corner, it’s home, it’s rock, it’s bed

the world would turn but the space was his.

All manner of life revolved around him

Horns from cars would call and pass

Man and woman would walk beneath his canopy

Grass beneath his shade would grow and yellow with summer months that brought fireflies in the warm evenings to dance beneath the umbrella of his leaves

The scene would change in autumn months

Some years red, some years brown

the quiet months of calm and cool before a winter blanket comes to cloak the world in a different scene: the peaceful solitude.

12 months turn and still the same, his corner was his

he stood in all the ground he will ever know

So steadfast, reliable, comfortable, predictable

Ever changing and always the same.

Across the world another tree

rooted in some different piece of earth.

The scene is changed, the landscape foreign

the seasons shift in different rhythm

Man and woman come here too to shade beneath it’s glory

from my window I can see

a tree rooted in solid ground.

From rise to set my world revolves and I share the scenes this tree may view

day and day and day and day

But soon I might choose to kick my feet and wander towards a foreign soil

curious to see different vistas, different paths, different rocks and corners

and in this foreign home I could come to find

another tree rooted in solid ground

a corner, home, rock and bed

so precious and known, reliable and familiar

not more beautiful, but other beautiful

My soul is filled by both beauties.

How strange it is for me to think

that neither tree may ever see the other

Each corner where each trees stands planted is all they will ever know

yet I am born to flit between

and enjoy both for what they are.

No earth will ever hold me with such fervid dedication

but I am free to see, to be

a collector of visual corners upon this earth.

Plateau

I climbed the mountain by measured steps
Ascending up the face, inch by inch.
With rock and Mother cheering
My climb is marked by posts of note, reminding me the name of paths I’ve tred so far, pointing me to newer paths

but I stay my course.

Higher, higher, up I climb
Crawling to the blue beyond
I will tickle the sky’s underside as I pass through it to the heavens.

Soon, each labored step comes easy,
the path now levels out.
The cliffs below give way to even plain
And I shall go no further;
The heavens sit above my head
Within sight but out of reach.
“Take me higher!” I cry, begging the mountain to rise again
But for my view I only see plateau ahead and vistas behind.
Looking back, looking down, what views my climb has given me
But looking ahead, gazing up, what views are kept from me?
Bring me up, bring me there, that I may look back at where I am and finally enjoy the view.
I’m ready, I’m ready, but how to climb with nothing left to scale?
Forward is the only way to go, but to what?
I see so far and I see nothing,
Nothing but the skies above me
Teach me how to rise.

Sounds of the Day

I’d love to write

but honestly it is too lovely out to concentrate on anything;

in colder months I’m happy to look inward

investigate the writer

but now I just want to look out.

How could I hope to capture the glory I see around me?

Why would I want to capture it?

In fact just by capturing these thoughts

I fear I am missing a taste of glory

A thousand songs are ringing ’round me:

The song birds tune, familiar and expected

The wind’s soft rustle, calming and deep

The rattling sky with iron ships piercing through the clouds.

The sky could open and here I’d be

content to bask in the sight of heaven

for God must be admiring her work tonight.

The sun has set a million times,

a billion times,

a trillion times,

so many orbits, ordinary

and every orbit the same.

The sun will set in the same place tonight

yet the sun has never set like this before.

It would be impossible.

The sky is bleeding gold tonight

clinging to the last vespers of the day.

I never saw such a setting

Well not since yesterday.

But yesterday my head was down.

Yesterday my eyes were closed.

Yesterday my view was blocked.

Yesterday I was inside

investigating the writer.

I would sing with songbirds,

Would sing with wind,

I would sing with ships tonight

but I would spoil their sound.

That elusive silence I often crave

is not silence at all.

It is the peace to recognize

to hear, to see, to touch, to smell

sweeter sounds than I could hope

to dream up on my own.

I heard America singing in the next room

I heard America singing in the next room

The calls and cries of brothers,

sisters, mothers, others

In their sleep their dreams sing out

And every dream the same.

I see myself, so proud so tall

My muscled arm supporting you

Supporting us

Amidst a sea of panicked faces, we pace

So cool, collected

Nothing phases, nothing daunts

We’ve seen it all before.

The songs and sirens of today don’t startle anymore

With age, with time, with experience, with money

Nothing cries as once it did

Except my country

Singing in the other room.

I sing for you, my brothers, my mothers

But I fall short of singing with you.

Without a voice so hoarse from crying

Speeches spoke on my tongue pale to speeches you sang in my time.

What verse can you expect from me?

Who never sang?

Who never heard?

Who never felt?

Because the song was coming from next door

The fault of never venturing out falls on me

I claim the blame

But I was raised and urged to look

For fairer things

For lovely things

And hear the music spewed around me

Bland and simple, elegant, refined

And years later all I have

Are songs of patient melody

That push the next to harmony;

Happy to leave you singing in the next room.

If I raise my voice you’ll hear me

But it’s safe to bet we’ll never see each other

Why am I okay with that?

Because I’m comfortable with that.