The Squirrel

Often among the uncut summer fields

I see this backwards facing furry

question mark (although sometimes it is facing correctly)

wafting along with the bowing grasses.

The question mark emerges like a submarine

from the ocean of grass, like a sharks fin submerging

only to been discovered rising awfully close to where I am.

Sometimes the squirrel sits up, paws in prayer

or holding a nut he’s discovered (maybe he’s a she,

I can’t identify squirrel gender).

Then after the rising, he (or she) disappears again

making his way beneath the emerald grass ocean, stealthily

discovering lunch (or maybe an early supper if he

is older, a member of the geriatric crowd).

Whenever I see that question mark above the

fields, it makes me contemplate,

reminded of the many lives below

visibility, barely noticed, making their way through

life unnoticed, unrecognized, living life

not wondering what life means.







Richard W. Smith

June 3, 2011

My Local Library

Every day or so

I sit by a tall window in our

local library; same seat,

same scene.

Three large evergreens,

grass below,

plenty of robins

squirrels, geese,

ducks, sparrows

and of course

pedestrians, as well as

cars squealing

stopping at the mailbox.

Today

the raindrops slid

down the glass

highlighting the

trees

as though

they had been painted

by an impressionist;

soft, quick dark strokes,

on a glass canvass

highlight with grey

background, white drifting

clouds causing

those forever

trees to be

outlined in beauty.

For this particular

reason

I am grateful to be alive;

my spirit sings

my heart shed tears of joy

seeing this portion of

creation, feeling these

feelings and to

once again

sense that mystery

beneath all life.

Today I’m thankful

for the “living

of these days.”



























Richard W. Smith

April 26, 2011

Rowing For Home

Early morning my grandfather would

disappear into darkness

oars in locks

wooden boat scraping the salted

rocks as he made his way into the

Atlantic alongside old Plymouth

(as did some of his Pilgrim forefathers & mothers)

Rocking upon waves

baiting hooks for flounder, deep in the still

shady ocean, that

dark mystery holding plenty of surprises,

maybe a gift.

I spied on him from our cottage

attic which looks out over

wooden stairs,

leading downward to a

rocky seashore covered with

the flickering sunrise,

orange and gold,

as old Sol awoke.

Before breakfast the sound of oars and rusted locks

pulsing against a wooden boat

Sounded the news, “Grandpa’s back.”

I’d run to the cliffs overlooking the shore

alongside the wooden stairs

waving, and watching him drag his

boat across the sand,

reaching in and pulling a string of

flatfish all waiting to be cleaned,

cooked, and served for breakfast.

I never did fish in the Atlantic or own a

wooden rowboat. But I do rise early before the sunrise!

I go to an ocean of sorts, one old Freud

reminded us about, and in that ocean there is deep darkness

and mystery, sometimes there’s a gift-

sometimes the whale from the rugged depths surfaces

changing lives, revealing something of itself to a

fortunate observer who, notwithstanding the beauty, holds

this event close. So my boat is not wooden,

but I float on a sea of pages, ideas, relationships,

and beauty. Sometimes I make my way in that sea with memory,

and soft reflections. A few days my grandson even

hears me rowing for home, coming back

from a morning’s journey.

May 4, 2011

The Lost Mate

Along the roadside

overgrown grass, green

carpeted with discarded dots;

soda cans, McDonalds hamburger wrappers

lots of other windblown trash

she sits

as though incubating a new life.

She looks constantly about

this lone goose, an alien from Canada

having plenty of relatives dotting

the landscape

familiar sights

nuisances

to lawns, golf courses,

frequent crossing against

local traffic,

they’re often injured, killed

by impatient drivers off to work, to shop, or

home. She sits alone

waiting. I’ve passed her for the

last month seeing her patience

as she waits in the same spot he

left her. She waits for this

lifelong mate to return. How does it

feel, the waiting? The loneliness?

What hope could possibly feed the vigilance?

How long does it take before one

gives up the vigil and concludes he

never will return?

Cab she ever imagine a new

plan for her life?

Could she be courageous enough to

Move-geographically, emotionally?

I wonder if there are other geese who

Stop by to give encouragement, some giving

Reports of shared sightings of the lost mate?

Simple irritating goose

Along the roadside

Raising so many life issues, speaking

Deeply to human hearts a prophetic

Questioning word from the creator.





Richard W Smith

April 18, 2011

The Surprise

The wooded path

softly curved and

led around corners

among trees

all the time a

gentle puff of breeze

swayed the grass

and caused the flowers

fragrance to infect the

air, the vacuum of silence, as we

walked lightly and

then we turned

one more corner.

A startled speckled

fawn looked up from

her breakfast amazed to

see these alien creatures

her large brown eyes darting

from face to face

trying to make sense

of her revelation. She

decided after the silent moment

maybe it’s time

to leave and swiftly glided

through the woods and bushes off

the pathway and back

to home and safety.

So it happens to each of us

All the time- serendipity

and then, in our minds,

back to safety!



Richard W Smith

April 21, 2011

The Fragrance of the Divine Presence

I missed again…

proven by the empty room;

hollow sounding, nothing but a

fragrance

hinting at the Divine’s

lingering presence, the

odor of the depths,

silences, darkness, the

unknown life-

a tease for me to continue

on to the next room-

exploring creation’s house

room by room if need be

pursuing the elusive

shy center of reality known

only by absence, felt only by

breezes and rain, heard only by

whispers and echoes, seen only by

darkness’s light, a sideways glance.

No footsteps reverberate, no

footprints impression, no

tossed jacket over a

scrapping chair-

only a table holds reminders

of hope, anticipations,

urges, magnetic lines embracing

and encompassing us,

(although breaking free is easy)

Moving quickly day to day

covered by daylight and

moonlight-scampering for a

glance of fabric, a hint of color

to clinch this hunch that One

is over all and within all and

around all pressing, inviting

energizing and holding

lovely life.



Richard W Smith,
April 18, 2011

Robin in the Way

Friday morning I was walking our dog, Big Mac, as I have been doing each morning for nearly twelve years.  Mac is a Westie (his picture's on this blog home page).  As we crossed the nieghborhood street going towards the tiny local stream I noticed a lot of Robins. 
Some Robins were in a tree, maybe a dozen of them, some were walking along the grass beneath the tree, and then there was one standing in the middle of the sidewalk.  These birds were well fed and loud.
Mac was busy sniffing and not payng much attention to the birds.  But I was attracted to this one Robin who stayed in the center of the sidewalk.  The bord looked right up at me, almost trying to stare me down.  I decided he/she would probably fly off when I got a little closer.  Which the Robin didn't do.  The bird stood his/her ground and watched me closely, almost defiantly.  Mac still didn't notice anything.
As I came up to him I flinched  (like in a game of Chicken) and the Robin stood still while I walked around him/her on the grass and Mac continued, unawares, in hsi scenting project for the morning.  I looked back in a few feet and there was the Robin, turned around, eyes glued to my back (now front).  I'm guessing this bird was the leader of the flock!!!

The Camera Bridge

My wife, Ginny, and I were busy snooping out and photographing the early spring flowers peeking their heads up from the earth at Morton Arboretum this morning.  As we walked along the road towards Lake
Marmo we met a rather large and scattered group of members from the Arboretum's photography class. Ginny decided to stay at one place and was on her knees busy composing some of the small flowers into a creative scene. I decided to walk a ways away and try my luck with some of the snowbells still in white and riding the gentle breeze that cooled down the morning sunshine. 
When I arrived at the best spot for snowbells a lady from the club was finishing up her photoshoot.  I felt moved to say something to her, which is not my usual way of relating to "strangers."  I said, "I wish these plants would grow taller then we wouldn't have to bend so far to photograph them."  I noticed she had a Nikon, the make of camera I use, and asked how she liked it.  She mentioned she was new at this photography thing and was a true beginner.  I shared with her a couple of simple points to help her in her class.  We chatted about her son who was in college and doing some computer programming to help him in his project of instant shutter speeds to catch such things as breaking balloons, dripping water and so on. 
Finally Ginny showed up and the three of us got to talking.  We were ready to leave and mentioned that we were clergy, Presbyterian.  I mentioned that my photography was an act of prayer (contemplation) and that prayer was learning to "pay attention."  That's when she shared that she was a cancer patient and had been dealing with cancer for over a year.  She recounted all the types of therapy she had to endure and how well she was doing.  Then she mentioned that her two doctors were helping her with her spirituality and that she was a student in yoga.  She quipped, "Sometimes we have to get whacked on the head to learn to pay attention."  We shared a little more of her experience, our future plans,  and spirituality and told her we wished the best for her.
 As we left to explore more of the arboretum I was imppressed how God arrives when we connect to each other.  Even a simple Nikon Camera can be a vehicle to building a bridge that connects with one another.

Messenger

This poem by Mary Oliver could well be a job description for a pastor!!!  I love this poem!!!


My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird-
  equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect?  Let me
  keep my mind on what matters.
which is my work.

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
   astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
  and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
  to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
  that we live forever.


P.1 "Thirst" Mary Oliver.

Postcards

I send these tiny scraps of postmarked

stamp licked paper to family and friends;

sometimes they bear pictures of places

or humor, sometimes bearing the stain of

yellowed and aged paper holding emptiness.

On the back the small space allows for

minute bits of information, blips of communication;

an address.

Connections amount to no better than a pat on the shoulders, a

quick embrace, sometimes a slap on the head.

These minutias are bits of me for any that

care to read the outlines of my life and to

connect over the miles of space and tired trees and

even though you might not be able to decipher the scribble,

maybe a connection could happen-

a word, an image, even a laugh which would dive below

finger and eye, sinking beneath surfaces and we

might glance each other’s face.

“I wait for your

Response.”



Richard W Smith

February 21, 2011

Life Dyads

Deconstruction
Reconstruction

Shattered Glass
 Mosaic


Meaningless
Meaningful

Faithless
Courageous


Journey
Oasis

Blind
Sighted


Deaf
Hear

Cling
Trust


Slip
Adhere

Hesitate
Abandon


Despair
Wonder

Falling Apart
Pulling Together


War
Wholeness

Rain
Parched


Wilt
Bloom

Ending
Beginning





Richard W Smith

February 24, 2010

I Live In An Insane Asylum!

No insult intended.

I live in an insane asylum!

consciousness, the wheels of my

intentionality, the beating heart

the images of imagination are all medicated

rationalized and socialized in a constant system of

existing that is appalling

sickening and untrue.



TV eyes me every evening

programs and advertisements

full of empty unintelligent humor

driving me hypnotically to purchase some item

I’m convinced I “need”

all along this false desire

is useless. This unneeded item will be

replaced by technology in a few months

and it will perform much better

and for more money (or less)

doing what I didn’t need it to do to begin with.

Communication

instantly; unintelligible, inarticulate, incomprehensible.

No faces and pulsing blood needed, machine-talk

replacement for mind-talk, heart-chatter, saccharin for sugar.



Noise, now called music, in every corner of my

life banging and blearing, vibrating my insides

covering over any perception of life. Noise from traffic and

trains, footsteps pounding city pavement at high

decibels causing deafness, alluring my total

attention from the tragic

unjust and invisible nations and peoples

throughout the planet, imprisoning them at places

far from sight, only a 60 second blurb on the news

then forever forgotten.



Speed, a former drug in the 70’s, now an

addiction again, no stopping production or performance.

An elderly lady riding the same train for 30

years, back and forth for two hours, each way-not

alive, not alive! Rush, time-clock shuffle the dance

of faceless mega-companies, multinational hybrids

poaching and feasting on the unknowing speedsters.

Speed a way to mindlessly jog through an

unthinking, nonresponsive, numbness substitute

life into a dead end meaninglessness and a yard

all our own called “alienation.”



And lest you

imagine this asylum is only American

I assure you the halls of this place

extend throughout this Planet

and into all countries. This insanity is

toppled regimes and violence

where we sacrifice

lives for power and greed

kill each other “to get ahead”

try to outdo each other

like Cain and Abel

eventually killing each other

and constantly switching roles throughout history.

There is no political solution;

democracy or socialism,

of course not totalitarianism.

For these systems

are driven by human hearts;

broken, alienated,

estranged humans that will never be full,

unwilling to be healed

this people continues to drive the political.



Reminds me of an old actor, George Sands,

hung himself, left a note “Good by world, I’m

bored with you.” Other notes might be left; “I’m

afraid there’s no hope.” “I’m tired of hitting my head

on a wall eight hours a day seven days a week.”

Or the young married couple when asked about children replied,

“Who would bring a child into this world?”

The insanity can only be made palpable to those rich enough

 for the anesthesia: entertainment.

The great majority of the world’s

people cannot afford the drug

so they live their nightmare

from moment to moment

as characters in our movies.



The puddles remaining from this violent sea of insanity,

this hydrotherapy controlled by the status quo

sometimes puddles along the floor,

leaving possibilities in its aftermath

hopefully enough to nourish the rare

but not totally unseen

seeds of optimism.





Richard W Smith

February 15, 2011

The Weight of Christ

St Christopher stood seven foot five.

Seeker of servanthood; serving a King or following the Devil,

until he was found by a Child working

the dangerous river

bearing the travelers from side to side

sometimes on a terrifying journey.

Bearing the Child seemed so simple, so light

yet barely was the saint able to move between the shores

hardly could he lift those strong legs

to carry this traveler.

Shoulders bent, neck in pain, arms worn out

aching as he strode from shore to shore.

The child emerging from this hazardous journey

spoke of the weight on Christopher’s shoulders;

“The weight of the world from the Creator of the

World,” in response to Christopher’s lament

feeling as if he were bearing the weight

of the world.



Christ weights me down; wears me out,

sucks all my energy out from the struggle

of living life as a follower of the Child,

a curious and hopeful student

of this God-created world.

Sometimes madness wears my thoughts like a coat

covering me with the temptation of

things and wealth and amusement

turning me aside from a focused following.

Weighed down by Christ; trying to discover

ways to face society’s caged consciousness,

herd mentality (a la Kierkegaard) thoughts

in hypnotic trances that

fail my heart, often suffocating my desire

to be human

into robot-like playing with gadgets,

thinking of buying, buying, buying.





Christ weights me down

when all the minor notes, lesser gods

singing to me create illusions which I often mistake for truth.

Weighed down, deep down, by oppressive attention

and faulty perceptions enslaved into seeing reality or

what appears for reality until the

Child climbs across my shoulders and back

and journeys with me, travels

across the baptizing-stream throughout my lifetime

making reality hard and enabling the mud

to sift between my toes and it’s earth crust

and my ash to combine

transforming my servanthood

from the weightlessness of air to the weight of glory.











Richard W Smith

February 15, 2011

Crawling Toward the Light

Life is surfacing, escaping, crawling toward the

light as the winter thaw arrives. Smashing the grip of

blizzard’s snow, the frozen arctic blasts which pain

the lungs, catching one in the intake. Puxatony Phil

clambers from his chamber, February forecasts,

looking, spying, stretching to see his shadow predicting

how much longer we all stay below; within the blankets,

the covering of snow, the warmth of stoves.



We seem to crawl towards the light as springtime

Approaches; searching for that shadow in our heart,

Begging for the thaw to release our chilled self (that

Doesn’t give a dam about much). Reaching and pawing,

maybe some Top Hat old man will raise us overhead and

declare that we have found our shadow and now are

free to embrace it and be done with the current freeze and

winter snows that encase our lives.







Richard W Smith

February 12, 2011

Egypt is Free Now

We watched the screen as people battled

for freedom. We are distracted, distant, not understanding

what had been thirty years of life beneath

the hand of a unsympathetic ruler, a non-Egyptian.



We onlookers stepped back, for the most part, still indulging

our habits, rituals, appetites, personal concerns

while the circle filled with brave people, young, old

workers, struggling to live, gave shout to their

frustration, resistance, an end-of-the-rope anger

standing together and against unjust power and wealth and

control and abuse and injustice and fears.



The long eighteen days filled with camaraderie and uncertainty, fears, confirmed as horses raced their terror

In the circle but left the people unchanged and more certain of their commitment. Those long days; rocks flying, fists smashing,

shouts and stand offs. Jobs abandoned, homes empty,

tents constructed, make-shift triage. The cost, the payment

for freedom is high, life threatening, no guarantees. Most

nations were bystanders from afar, hands off, watching with economic interests, fears of contagion and

political disease passing  throughout the east of the world. But revolution is no small act,

 no short term fix or unthought-of track. Who knows what might happen with this house-cleaning,

who knows whose hands will grasp the loose reigns of a country and government?



Most people never change! This individual revolution

is as rare as the revolution of a country. Some people

struggle, most stand under the self-regime

which has been ruling them for a lifetime, unaware.

Blind and inattentive to the hardships, injustice, oppression

in their own lives as they live within the power of self-rule.

Watching from the distance, outside themselves, an act rarely

attempted, and the reporters within, silenced, jailed so as

not to communicate the movement that is mounting deep

within. Fearful of the arousal and new consciousness which

might break through. So fearful and self-destructive is the movement

that the self totters in vertigo even at the whisper of  rebellion.


The ruler turns up the army’s vigilance and grants it extraordinary power to intimidate.

Maybe the ruler’s control comes with entertainment, shopping and gadgets

and devices for instant miscommunication, quick meals and wines, movies and warm houses.

The control comes like hypnotism from things and styles and GNP concerns, Wall Street gambling,

their  retirees futures guaranteed. This kind of human injustice, technologically driven,

is as oppressive and insidious as Egypt’s Mubarak.


No wonder they killed Jesus!



Richard W Smith

February 12, 2011

Morton's Blizzard 2011

Winter’s blizzard blew in and covered roads

and homes and trees-and

filled the local arboretum up with snows

deeper than in many years of the

past.



The white covering blew and flew throughout the

Woods and up hills and over ponds

down paths and up onto a few nests

and down into a couple of holes where fox hid out.

The storm was furious, exhaling in gusts,

some seventy miles an hour,

blowing recognition away its’ breath

showing only whiteness covering the earth,

with quick bursts of high energy that

withstood any attempts to stand upright and rigid in

protest.



So the trees, thousands of them, assorted

varieties, shook and bent and some even snapped

beneath the beating winds, the moist weight upon

their branches. Trees swayed and broke bitterly frozen

upon the ground, exhausted from the beating;

bearing so much snow, so much wind,

some stood silently, others screamed with

falls left over leaves

fluttering to death in voices of outrage.

Animals

currently sheltering beneath these mainstays of life

stoically huddled, nests and tiny bird feet clinging to

branches, held on and hoped for sun to rise soon.



The darkness covered the destruction, staying longer

this night than usual as the skies

clouded from the blizzard refused to release the day

resisting the morning light, gripping the earth, rocking the trees

separating branches and dragging them helplessly

through the shadows scattering them across the fields,

among the paths, around the buildings that huddled along

the ridge overlooking the destruction.



The aftermath revealed the next day were like

the dead upon a battlefield, without medics available.

No trees stood all were at least bent

overwhelmed with the weight of frozen snows,

some trees shattered and splintered; a foot or two of trunk

upright, the rest felled and covered again and again

by deep snow. So life was stopped, inactive, decimated

pieces and pieces of life wrecked and strewn across

the fields and over the paths

and yet despite the cloud filled grey sky,

despite the inability of caretakers to arrive and

heal the wreckage-Spring will resurrect the blossom

and the tree.







Richard W. Smith

February 10, 2011

Flickering Mind

Flickering Mind



By Denise Levertov



Lord, not you,

it is I who am absent.

At first

belief was a joy I kept secret,

stealing alone

into sacred places:

a quick glance, and away-and back,

circling.

I have long since uttered your name

but now

I elude your presence.

I stop

to think about you, and my mind

at once

like a minnow darts away,

darts

into the shadows, into gleams that fret

unceasing over

the river’s purling and passing.

Not for one second

will my self hold still, but wanders

anywhere,

everywhere it can turn. Not you,

it is I am absent.

You are the stream, the fish, the light,

the pulsing shadow,

you the unchanging presence, in whom all

moves and changes.

How can I focus my flickering, perceive

At the fountain’s heart

the sapphire I know is there?

On Being

These two poems were very meaningful to me today, thought I’d share them---




On Being

By Denise Levertov


I know this happiness

is provisional



                    the looming presences-

                   great suffering, great fear-



                   withdraw only

                   into peripheral vision:



but ineluctable this shimmering

of wind in the blue leaves:



this flood of stillness

widening the lake of sky:



this need to dance,

this need to knee:

                         this mystery:

Huskies

There’s never been such a crew type of dog as

Huskies-jubilant, laughing, single-minded, and

Serious as they pull their sled

further, faster, running with boot covered paws

Along edges of mountains, across the “frozen tundra”

through miles of wilderness, between forests and out

across lakes frozen for months, and streams still

only half solid stuttering with trickles of

winter spigot of water.

Stamina never in question- pulling, all for joy!

Strong shoulders, thick fur,

working together, barking out their symphony

ready to move as they’re snapped into the

harness, no pausing, just unbridled energy.

“Look at me!!!” “Here I am!!!” “Come and join me!!!”

All grins and woofs inviting human notice,

Delighted in the attention, such openness, welcome, freedom.

Coats of all colors, eyes of blue and grey, fur

Bristling, those upright ears- all part of the package of a

Husky.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Richard W Smith
January 29, 3011

Something’s Wrong!

Something’s wrong---I feel it deep within.

Something is out of line, warped, circular,

Causing me to fail miserably at those

Friendships, relationships, casual contacts

From the everyday. Needless to say that

“Something” effects my perspective on other peoples,

It hides and appears at the damdest times

Creating walls of isolation, mucking my mind,

Making retreat my usual direction in life.

Fear, misunderstandings, inability to connect,

Powerless to push off the dock and into the stream-

Yes, something’s wrong and knowing at my life

Fogging my glasses, leaving me breathless, unable

To live existence without the limp of life.



I’ve had coffee these days, sat at the empty table,

Unfolded the newspaper, listened in on nearby conversations.

You can guess what I’ve heard, “Something’s wrong” and

Explanation and excuse, blaming, and frustration direct

The words, hold the conversations endlessly in

Suspension and never does it ground itself in the

Person’s heart and consciousness that maybe it’s

Them, maybe they are accountable and until this thing

Is addressed and the limp in life, the heartbreak,

the loneliness, the fears, the shame is recognized as

part of “us” and that we cannot fix it alone, by ourselves,

we cannot deny it forever, we cannot stuff it deeper and

deeper into the wounds and sores within without scraping

our hearts and the painful ache subsides, we will

tiptoe around the gash and bear the pain and

search dishonestly for some salve.



Whether we were born with this gash or got it from

Our society, whatever the cause, it is there in all of us!

Someone needs to show us the direction,

the way to bear this wound so that life can be lived

and dreams can be pursued, and hopes can be followed.



Sometimes, on my bed at night, struggling with sleep, mind

Racing nowhere but in circles, anxiety over some stupid decision,

Fear that I’m the only one in the human race bearing this

Gash, that I’m odd and strange, uncommon, sometimes

Just before sleep arrives there is a shadow I see;

two wooden crossbars just stuck deep somewhere,

heavy, and then I hear muttered words, agonized

speech saying “forsaken.” For some reason I sense that at least

someone else knows what I’m feeling and is in it with me to the

end.













Richard W Smith

January 28, 2011