Morning Haiku Before Hunting

I cannot look out

without then seeing within --

how things fit together. 

-Byron Hoot

Soundings

I have no sounding board

but my soul, God's silence,

the limitations of my mind,

the borderlessness of heart

to seek my counsel in.

I would it was otherwise.

Much is learned in stillness

and silence and solitude --

some to reality embraced,

some I'd rather not

                              but can't refuse.

There are no deflections

of time and space.  I have learned

the beauty and fearfulness

of saying, "I am that I am."

And almost understand God's

                                             preference for silence.

-Byron Hoot

That Thing Called Time

There is little enough holding of what

there is of that thing called time.

What is left of  it  -- always less

return the longer one is in it --

we seek a grip, a grasp trying to understand

how it wants to be held.

                                       This, of course, presupposes

our ability to change, to sense that what

is is not as it has been -- no easy thing

as we often think, though know better,

that we can slow what cannot be stopped.

So learning what can be held,

what is to be released becomes the mantra

to greet the day --  a matter of knowledge

no words can hold, no grip can grasp,

that sense of having been given

what you could not have imagined

                                                       to ask.

-Byron Hoot

Poems From Appalachian Journey

This Old House

With joy I am watching my ninety-eight year old house disintegrate.  Intentionally of course!  I have a friend pulling the ‘60’s marlite board off the bathroom walls, exposing slats and two different types of beaded board from almost a century ago, taking it down to the skeletal frame.

I could have painted this room six years ago, but with an old house life is never simple.  Walls are not smooth enough to paint, outlets are missing or misplaced, the occasional hole – I know better than to cover that up without repair (but I gave it some thought).  The sink drain has breathed its last. Rotted wood?  This has to be dealt with! 

Put in that nice new overhead light?  Can’t – a problem with the electrical.  And so it goes. 

I’ve been eyeing the staircase for two years now, it had already been sheet rocked and could be painted, but I was told last summer I should remove the sheetrock nails and replace them. . .the house shifted when the foundation was jacked up a few years back.

You can’t do this until you do that which you cannot do until you do this which you will not be able to do until you have the money to do ________________.

I wish I could just make the changes I need to make in my life, “just do it!” they say.  Well, hey, I’d love to!  Doing it isn’t the hard part.  Getting past the undone items, the baggage and belongings of yesteryears, is the hard part.  What to save, what to toss.  What to keep, revive, renew.

I’m on a mission.  If I can fix, repair, revive and renew something within the next four months, it stays.  If not, it goes to a loving home when someone will have the time to enjoy it.  Do I need to describe how much I am currently throwing away, giving away?

Life lessons are there if we will listen. . .I draw hope from viewing the end result of the mudding, taping, sanding of the other bathroom we gutted last winter.  Pale green paint (the color I call “old green” like in quilts and McCoy pots from the ‘30’s and ‘40’s), finding an antique version of a towel rack, plants and linens are next.  

I draw hope from remembering I am not the person I was 10 years ago, 20, 30, 40, 50. What to save, what to toss.  What to keep, revive, renew.  Nothing ever lost, but everything put into a new and healing focus.  Joyful!  Jubilant.  And grateful.

Janey Pease

SPRING

First Blooming Tree of Spring

elbows leaning on the fence

in early spring

the tulip tree bends

and touches the road

lavender and pink

an extravagant loudspeaker

announcing spring

to winter weary people

frames with branch-black leafless trees

caught in winter’s gaze

Deep My Sleep

(a dream two weeks after my father passed away)

deep my sleep
and deep the dream that brought a river
rapid and sweet with hands lifted
fingers rippling west to east
green waters of the carolinas tumbling past my porch

clear and clean and smooth with round river rocks
waters pulsing
trees crowding the far side

waves streaming from the Source of all life
angels stirring the water after the long winter freeze

i was with friends in peaceful disarray
repairing a car
gathering broken pieces and putting them together

Then he showed me a river of the water of life, clear as crystal. . .and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. Rev. 22:1-2

Blue Ridge Parkway 

you remember the place                 

where the road tilts west                      

and the tips of mountains               

elbow each other                                        

and shove for position                               

dark and dusky beauties                        

in muted shades of purple soot                        

and blue skirt swirls                       

folded                                                  

pinned                                                

pleated                                                   

lined up in a queue                                

of their own mysterious pageant vying for validation                                                

as most beautiful                                

strong                                                           

and steadfast                                          

chunky mountains                           

flexing shoulders                                      

elegant with strength                          

like body builders                                  

oiled and primed                                               

narrow peaks                                       

scarce and scant                                                                       

noses high and broken at the top 

this range stiff                                         

fold upon fold                                    

tucked and starched                                    

with the valleys pressed thin

and this ridge rounded                                                      

filled with clouds                                                                                                                               water wave soft.                                      

smoke signal clouds                              

hover                                                       

watch                                                            

and float away 

this road the only caller                                                                                                            

my car reels and swings                          

now face to face                                 

honest and true                                    

now dos-à-dos                                  

sweet as a shrug                         

swaying right                                

swaying left                                          

contra dance couple                                     

in a jig with the hills 

i learned when i was four                     

to loathe                                                          

the common road   

trudging 

great lakes to chicago                                         

purest snow abandoned 

edging the path with debris

cars slogging west 

deranged dolphins                                 

with no sense of self                                         

i learned to love the back roads           

and the twisting shimmy                             

of the mountain path 

i see the sign that signals my descent 

something in me                           

reckless and wild                           

shudders and smiles

road worsens next seven miles     

Artist Statement:

Driving to teach, to intern, driving to go to Appalachian State attending classes, I see this often! The Blue Ridge Mountains have views of these mountains from every angle possible. . .even a sign stating “road worsens next seven miles” near Spruce Pine. The thought always crosses my mind, “It get WORSE?” But as I say, never an ugly drive in North Carolina.  

Blue Heron

(Canebrake ford)

in the beginning 

the spirit of God. . . 

this water is too still

and yet the heron comes

only with a struggle

the water comes

the water goes

and if indeed 

God's spirit broods

God's spirit moves

across this water

i too will live. . .

Ps. 41:1-3

Blessed is he who considers the helpless - protect him and keep him alive -sustain him in his sickness 

i saw a cloud today

i saw a cloud today

square as a post it with a torn and rumpled head of hair

streaming into vague flailing arms (fat baby)

leaning towards me like a kite

or a time-released photo

i don't know

i don't know

why i must say these things

why i must tell you such nonsense

but it was white

and childlike

joyful

and i just didn't understand it

SUMMER

Llamas

they say a llama will never be pink

and i get that

flower petals are pink and smooth

and smell good and llamas? 

not

they say a llama will never be yellow

and  i understand

because yellow is sunshine

high and hot above me

and butter

slippery smooth on my morning bread

but a llama smells and feels of the earth

rough

alive

with heavy breath

they say a llama will never be green

because green is grass and smooth and standing tall

but a llama's edges

curl

twist

and catch your fingers like an oily pillow

if earth is brown

and so i'm told

then llamas are brown

uneven

rumpled

rugged

small clods of dirt put together 

in useful patches of heavy smells and wordless promises

Still Life

still life rising from the earth

stronger than the breath of silence

three stone deep 

ancient keep

cat curled arms 

embrace the edge of home     

boundary the flowers             

as they rant and wither      

. . .we are still here. . . 

shabby stone  

stalwart chimney

field stone lone 

stark 

stable 

hope twists in furtive joy 

blue smoke hovers hints and whispers 

sweet fire waits a breath away

deep water sweet water well at the core 

heart pulse firm at the center    

. . .we are still here. . . 

still life rising from the earth

still life waiting  

. . .we are still here. . . 

"For there is hope for a tree, When it is cut down, that it will sprout again, And its shoots will not fail."

Job 14:7

Artist Statement:

I have always felt my heart flicker when driving through the country and seeing an abandoned chimney or foundation, the remains of a well, an abandoned garden along a broken wall with lilies or daffodils still blooming. It’s my respect for foundations, and the hope that something will come back to life - it moves me. It’s the physical representation of my hope for broken people.

Nine House Lights

too many lights

trace and track across this sky

behind my back 

they may be trading places

and how would I know?

some stare in blazing silence

arrogant

stable

steady 

cold

some tremble with a tender shake

and eye-blinking

stand twisting 

in the background

youngest child

speechless

mild

nearest and dearest

brightest star

flash of blue and white 

wavering rainbows

sweet sirius

outshines the sun

the sparkling one

the scorching one

drawing 

an arrow’s point

from the belt of orion

some join hands and shape a horse

a bear

a warrior

a drinking gourd for the thirsty

curve of sky

patted 

plumped 

bent in the soft shape of rising bread

curve of heaven

    star spotted

    light splattered

grass angels formed in shallow summer fields

my eyes to the sky

earth’s swift slant beneath me

http://www.space.com/5104-spot-brightest-starsky-html

Late Summer Gifts

had i known the secrets of weeds

i would have waited to snap them loose

from this tender earth

this year i left them wild

and with a tender tug

saw they loosened best

even weeds require grace

and when they need to travel to a better place

(not my garden!)

i contemplate mercy behind their demise

i might have missed seeing wild vines of morning glories

one white as early mist

one purple as dusk

nuzzling my garden fence

enduring

endearing

and undersized

tapping the ovals of small watermelons

planted by grandchildren

snagging tomato plants 

given by a son

pointing reedy fingers at melons rolling their rough sides 

into the maze of overgrown greenery

i might have missed half grown elderberry 

pale red paint strokes between the leaf and stalk

like the ruby throat of a nearby humming bird

wisp of a prophet

promising wine for winter when the berries ripen

and the healing begins

Fruit wines made from elderberry offer a variety of health benefits. . .may help to treat or prevent several common diseases. . .

http://www.livestrong.com/article/269213-benefits-of-elderberry-wine/

i hold the unknown singer 

i hold the unknown singer in awe

the uneven voice

the simple guitar

without fire and ice

untouched by second opinions

flowing waters

springs charged with simple life

straight from the heart

pulled from the rush of an underground river

no one heard until now

the uncorrected pitch

the unresolved cadence

breath that pulses like wind across the fields

midday in summer

clouds with unexpected heaves and switches

endless quiet surprise 

whose brush paints again?

the pattern of stepping stones 

spackled and spattered across the rivers

before dams made by man

regiment the flow of water

of words

of airs and jingles

the songs of simple singers lost in love with their own words

who boxes into the language of everyman

the first new thought you ever had

Old Home

i hear windows

shutting down

doors slam around me

with guillotine force

this house i inhabit

sash windows full-blown open

curtains like the sails of a ship

drifting

fluttering

bringing fingers of this heavy wind

to shift and dance around me

always in my mind

a picture of Jerusalem's wall in ruins

Is. 49:2, 16

He has made My mouth like a sharp sword,
In the shadow of His hand He has concealed Me;

Behold, I have inscribed you on the palms of My hands; Your walls are continually before Me.

I am a woman

I am a woman

hammer in hand

pounding like Noah

endless taps

on the boat of deliverance

for this family generation

the wind blows and i pound

the sun streaks its wheel

and i pound

and the very children i long to shelter

question me

Gen 6:9

. . .righteous, blameless, walked in close fellowship with God. . .

FALL

Leaves

leaves fly past my window

men on a mission

paratroopers sailing

flailing in silk

undercover agents

trailing in brown camoflage

jumpers

desperate to escape

or to save

the earth

cluttered in sincere intention

covering the tender grass

rain follows

grasses fold and tuck their green

into the center 

and wait for spring

Hogback Mountain Road in the Fall

slipping on the switchback road

twist here

circle there

up the mountain’s sharp side

windows open

wind snapping

like a rough shawl across my shoulder

sunlight sneaks and flashes on limbs

shaded like sweet citrus fruits of fall

leaves of tangerine

lime

grapefruit

lashed to trunks of putty and mud

raspberry trees

soaked in summer berry hues 

burn with longing and late harvest sparkle

pursuit of the mountain top

my heart’s desire 

fairy tale spiral staircase

grasps and grabs and thrusts me upward 

reveals the peak and shouts the end of mystery

a sudden summation of autumn

trees flatten 

colors dim

knowing all 

seeing all 

changes nothing

rock walls

terraced gardens 

waning mountain laurels tipped towards the sun  

back side shapes of mountains 

strange and unknown 

leafy strobe lights glitter as i wind down the ridge

street names 

hogback

turn again lane

laurel

overlook circle

aurora

horseshoe curve

little falls drive

roads wind and wrap like knots of a drunken sailor

maple branches droop and beckon

long arms and fingers

catch me in sweet embrace 

WINTER

Highway 221

tsunami of a waterfall

crashing down the rocky cliffs

to the side of the road

flash frozen water

cascading

curling 

coiling

down

swirls of water

churning over and over

fingers of ice

holding emotionless space above me

Michelangelo’s Daughter

i am a daughter of michelangelo

chipping away with sculptor’s mallet

to free the man i see inside

frantic task with hammer and chisel                       

rasp and rifler

chaos flying from my hands

wounds inflicted

drawn to your frame

your structure

block of granite

chunk of stone

reaching to embrace you

finding no softness

feeling no give

my ear against your chest listens

pulse pops

warmth spreads

i gather my tools

gather myself

moaning soft songs

wings folding like a mourning dove

melodies sloping downward

that only i can sigh

i take flight 

singing my story  

releasing my song

beyond range

distant  

clear

strong

your own song follows me

Artist Statement: 

Thinking about the precautions we hear about “not changing” a spouse, a friend, etc. But doesn’t motive matter? Are we reflecting a lack of acceptance for the other person, or isn’t it - sometimes – the respectful acknowledgement of recognizing their true self, and our desire to embrace it?

 “For Michelangelo, the job of the sculptor was to free the forms that were already inside the stone. He believed that every stone had a sculpture within it, and that the work of sculpting was simply a matter of chipping away all that wasn't a part of the statue.”

http://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/michelangelo

Shadow

a friend to my shadow

ally to myself

i won't leave behind

that side of myself

that stumbles and falls

muttering words

no one wants to hear

sticky hands

like a spider

climbing a mud-soaked wall

wandering hurt to hurt

wound to wound

waiting for the healing flood

in a desert land

i won't abandon my shadow

posing as whole

when my self

hidden behind me

weeps and waits

screeches and screams

at landmarks

in a world

that shouldn't be

in a world 

that some say never was

but i was there

elbow in my face

kidney punch if i ran

i will wait

til the molecules 

realign

and the vibrations return

and shimmer in song

and cells regenerate

til I see the shadow reflecting the joy

Safe

lean and tough

a rough hewn safe

the stone side of the mountain hugs its secrets

sunshine at midday

like the dial of the safe

reflects and flickers

sparks and stabs

circling past truth

again and again

spinning in surges like sunspots

waxing and waning like a moon on fire

starspots in flight

questions flicker and flash without rest

sos to a silent universe

save our souls

save our souls

save our souls

je suis trop tendre pour ce monde

je suis trop tendre pour ce monde

je suis trop tendre pour ce monde

i see you

but the earth opens between us

i hear you

but the song is silent

like a beggar

standing at the door

head bent against the portal

Artist Statement: 

I drive a couple times a week through the Blue Ridge Mountains, and I saw a far-off bluff with sparkles on a rock that reminded me of a safe. Then there’s the word, safe. I was aware of truth and new directions in my life, but everything seemed elusive (circling past truth) and I felt adrift. “Je suis trop tender pour ce monde” means “I am too tender for this world.” Some things remain unresolved, unlocked, unopened. . .but truth remains, kept in a safe place.

-Janey Pease