AFTER THE LONG WINTER (A Sonnet)

The grass began to slowly show itself.

It seemed a little shy at first, but soon

received assistance from the helpful Elf

of March, and presently the lawn was strewn

with cheerful cloths of green. They watched and were

amazed. They saw her flower sprouts arise

and push the snow away. They heard a blur

of bird songs in the bushes and - surprise –

a wind of spring blew in from somewhere warm.

It seemed so strange – but then, they knew the truth,

that all of life is just as strange. A storm

of odd delights is what life is, a youth-

ful, loving mystery. They smiled and welcomed spring

and grass and warmth and every gentle thing.   

 

DANCING WITH SNOW

The little flakes fell down like cheerful kids

just out of school. We watched and smiled to see

their festive dance. It seemed as though the lids

of spring had been popped off and snow was free

to swing like eager dancers as it fell.

The piles of snow had almost gone, and March

was helping us to say a glad farewell

to winter. The year was marching through the arch

of triumph into spring, and these waltzing flakes

of snow were celebrating, so we stood

and danced together with the snow. It takes

some luck to get to 74, and could

old age be any better than to sway

with snowflakes on an early springtime day?

(Note: Delycia and I feel lucky and proud to be old, and therefore we gladly use the phrase “old age”.)

ON DARK DAYS

A Sonnet

They sometimes sit in what they call the sunroom

with its walls of windows, just to talk

and watch the sparrows chase the darkening gloom

of clouds and rain. It’s like the birds just knock

upon the feeder’s door and seeds come out

to them, and soon the darkness somehow turns

a little lighter and she almost shouts

with simple happiness. He always learns

a little more about her love of life, the way

she smiles and sometimes laughs to see those birds

beside the windows. Life, for her, is a ballet

of revelations, and when she talks, her words

work wonders on a rainy day. Their sunroom’s bright

when she and birds assemble with their light.  

A WATERED GARDEN

"Sunflower Garden", oil,
by Nancy Medina

As I look forward to seeing Delycia watering her flowers this spring and summer, it makes sense to think of my own life as a lucky and well-watered garden. After all, whether I notice it or not, things are continuously growing in my life – fresh thoughts, feelings I’ve never felt before, new cells arising inside me, youthful-feeling breath for my lungs. Each present moment, in fact, provides a brand-new start for me, like a young shoot bursting through the soil in springtime. Even on my dullest days, the flowers of promise and opportunity are popping into bloom all around me. The garden of this good world is fertile and fruitful. I just need to open my eyes and see it.   

HAM’S CASTLE

"Blarney Castle, Ireland",
oil by Hall Groat II

     Sometimes I think I need to get a larger outlook on life, since I don’t seem to have room enough to receive all the gifts I get each day. Perhaps I need to see my life as a vast castle that can easily hold the endless gifts I’m given each day, gifts like the sunlight that’s always somehow with us, the eyesight that allows me to look at the light shining on melting snow, the wind that whips up new weather second by second, and the full-of-life thoughts that arise inside me by the tens of thousands each day. Perhaps my life should be called “Ham’s Castle”, a palace with no walls and no doors, a mansion that widens whenever it needs to and welcomes the crowds of gifts that constantly surround it, clamoring for entrance.  

UNBELIEVABLE LUCK

    Sometimes my good luck seems unbelievable. I’m neither wealthy nor well-known nor uncommonly gifted, but good fortune seems to follow me everywhere. I often, for instance, can’t believe the simple fact that I’m alive on an astonishing planet in an implausibly beautiful universe – that somehow this person called “Ham’ has been given hundreds of millions of minutes of this thing called life. The whole mystery of my life seems totally improbable, as if a magician somewhere in the everlasting cosmos made some swirls with her wand and, presto, here’s Hamilton Salsich. And my incredible good fortune continues to follow me in a round-the-clock way – my heart somehow holding its rhythm 100,000 times each day, my blood reliably rolling through my body hour after hour, my lungs lifting and falling in a steadfast and distinguished way. All this, to me, seems so far-fetched – so deserving of awe – that it almost requires a down-on-my-knees, lost-for-words reverence.  

GLORIES AND VICTORIES

      

"Pretty in Pink", oil,
by Kay Wyne

     In one sense, I haven’t experienced much glory in my life, and the victories I’ve had have been of the unexceptional, unnoticed kind, but in another way, there’s almost always victory and glory all around me. Some small birds, as I write, are victoriously wresting seeds from the feeders beside the windows, and the sunshine is gaining steady success over the monstrous snow mounds in our yard, sending freed-up streams of water everywhere. There’s victory, too, in the tulips standing before me on the table, straight up and distinguished in a vase, as if saying to winter, “We blossoms are the bosses now.” And glory? How about the splendor made by the sunlight on the snow today, or the magnificence of the smooth blue sky, or the way each moment is replaced by a superbly new one? There’s even a kind of glory and grandeur in the simple fact that Delycia and I are sitting here together, peacefully and silently flowing along with the effortless stream of life.

DRIVING TO THE Y BEFORE DAWN

 There were headlights

letting themselves in

from the on-ramp,

and lights looking

like neighborly signals

as they passed us,

and lights in homes

that seemed like

signs of happiness,

even if the residents

were wishing they

were still asleep,

still in the land

where dreams of lights

can be delightful

and make sleeping

just as helpful

for good health

as treadmills and barbells

while working out

under lights

that never seem

to especially like us

at six a.m.

THE FIRE HAD NO POWER

        I no longer use the word “God”, since its meaning has become so  fuzzy over the centuries, but there surely is a non-material force (or Force) in the universe that has allowed gentleness and serenity to overcome fear and affliction, again and again down through history. Occasionally I think about the Bible story of the men who survived being thrown into a fiery furnace, and I start to wonder: What future fires, what pain and grief, may await me, and will I be able to survive, and even, as the boys in the story did, somehow flourish inside the flames of my suffering? Will I be able to face future troubles with poise and inner stillness, not by pretending the troubles don’t exist, but by understanding that there’s a warm and loving force in the universe that’s far stronger than any suffering I might experience?  I think of the Bible story as an allegory, in which the fiery furnace stands for any situation that seems to surround us with hopelessness.  Somehow the men in the story were able to feel fully the power of unison and peace that pervades the universe, from the farthest star to the smallest cell in our bodies, and somehow that power easily erased the disharmony of their situation.  The fire in their lives had no power when put up against the non-material power of peacefulness, and I hope that will be true of the various physical and emotional fires that will surely flare up in my life in years to come.

TAPS, FLICKS, FLIPS, POPS, WHISKS, AND SHAKES

"Bathroom Sink", oil,
by Elizabeth Fraser

This morning, with a short tap on the thermostat the flow of warm air from the furnace started. Then a flick of a switch sent light into the bathroom, and a twist of a faucet started water shooting into the sink. Later, a quick click opened the teapot, and a push on a button soon brought the water to a boil. I quickly flipped my eggs, the toast popped up, and breakfast was whisked off to the sunroom, where two friends clicked with each other while birds swished and shook around the feeder.    

SWIFT TO HEAR

"I'm Listening", oil,
by Kay Wyne

          I recall my father encouraging me to - as he put it - “be swift to hear and slow to speak”, and sometimes, at 73, I still see little progress in myself in these areas. I’m still fairly slow to settle down and truly listen to someone – slow to show people that I sincerely care about what they are saying. I act like I’m listening, true, but often my mind makes excursions in all kinds of directions rather than actually staying with what is being said to me. My dad would be disappointed to know that I’m definitely swift to speak, but not so often willing to wait patiently, stay silent, and actually listen to what someone is saying.  I love his idea of being “swift to hear”. I want to be able to suddenly stop everything in order to truly hear what a person is saying. I want to be brisk in bringing my attention when someone is speaking to me. These days, I like to live in a laid-back way, but when I’m listening to someone, I want to be swift with my kindness and care.

DOES A BREEZE EVER HAVE A PROBLEM?

"Marsh Breeze", oil,
by Laurel Daniel

     Sometimes, when some problem seems to be standing in my way, it helps me if breezes are blowing outside. Then, I either sit by a window and watch the breezes swaying the trees, or, better still, I walk outside, and soon a question comes to me: Does a breeze ever have a problem? A breeze blows freely and flexibly, flowing easily past trees and homes and cars and hills. If a breeze bumps up against an obstacle – what I might call a “problem” – it simply slides around or over or under it and continues on its easy way. You might say whatever situation a breeze faces is tailor-made for it, because it will always bypass it with style and effortlessness, and soon press on with its graceful cruise across the land. I guess the ease and smoothness of breezes brings home their best lessons to me. “Just loosen up, Ham”, they seem to say. “Be like a breeze. Go around, over, or under, and the problems will suddenly become opportunities for elegance and artistry. Just loosen up.”