Aspen's Poem Garden

Poems By Aspen

I Am The Quiet of the Falling Snow

posted:06/05/17



I am the quiet of the falling snow
shifting through the layers of dimension without distortion
while fragments of old reality shatter and suspend judgment
as all possibilities kaleidoscope about in abundance
and in anticipation of all potentiality.

I am the quiet of the falling snow
in the breathlessness of astonished wonder
as chills of beauty so profound
announce the hairs on my arm
now standing straight up
in speechlessness quietly exquisite
as my footsteps are met by the surrendering earth
allowing and permissive of my touch.

I am the quiet of the falling snow
crystallizing in shiny dewdrops on webs
of interlacing networks crisscrossing through the eons
on the backs of design messenger patterns
elaborately displayed in the horizon
yet subtle to the naked and unknowing eye.

I am the quiet of the falling snow
serenely dipping through the holes in time
and melting into chambers
with glistening receptors
enchanted with the notion of deciphering
if only for that instant
the mysteries that are found in the template of illusion.
I am that quiet of the falling snow.


Posted by: Aspen Comment

WEAVER’S STORY

posted:06/05/17




She sat crossed-legged and straight,
her back supported only by habit and resolve.
A shawl loosely folded around her shoulders,
promising relief, born only in faith
that it would provide the necessary warmth and comfort
throughout the cool fall evening.

Her face was still.
Wrinkles winding pathways around its surface.
Some lines were new and light,
barely claiming residence to the spot they occupied.
Others were deep and grooved, carved into permanence
by a sculptor’s harsh hand and a relentless sun.
Still others were worn and faded,
indifferent to the story that once marked their birth.
Now scrubbed and erased,
no longer a scar, yet the memory remains.

Her hands were strong and patient.
Slowly and precisely guiding the layers of dried grass and vine.
The light, now dim as the sun lowered in the sky, did not
disturb her rhythm.
Fingers once timid and unsure,
now easily sensed their direction
and gracefully laced the twine,
row after row, around the universe that was hers.

Her eyes were not vacant; they were deep.
Her stillness hid the symphony with which her prayers danced.
It was never the same:
sometimes a monotone low and intense,
sometimes a climax of discovery and decision,
often a lullaby secure and reassuring
offering communication of love and tenderness.

She followed the path of the sunset and slowly stopped her work.
Her eyes caught the colors that painted the sky,
as she silently blessed the mother and caressed the earth.

Posted by: Aspen Comment

That Which Is The Beauty

posted:06/05/17









She wandered around aimlessly amongst the weeping willows
and she was weeping too.
Only you couldn’t see the tears.
She wasn’t quite invisible, not really.
Her veils were transparent,
but you couldn’t see her tears, not really.

But I knew that she wept; I saw it in her form.
A surreal image projected through the mist.
A frail frame bent, looking for what isn’t,
and missing that which is.
That which is the beauty of the woman that she is.
She wasn’t quite invisible, not really.
Her isolation was translucent
but you couldn’t see the tears, not really.

But I knew that she wept; I saw it in her gaze.
A distant glance at nothing,
a frozen glare at pain.
A distant glance at nothing, she said she didn’t see.
A frozen glare at pain, she said she didn’t feel.

She wasn’t quite invisible, not really.
Her face was like a journal disclosing many days.
Many days of wandering
amongst the weeping willows.
She was weeping too, and now I saw the tears.
Rivers joyously cascading
and releasing all her fears.

Many years have come and gone, and she has found her way.
Re-tracing all her footsteps
and what was missed throughout those days.
While looking for what isn’t and missing that which is.
That which is the beauty of the woman that she is.
Posted by: Aspen Comment

THIS DIRT ROAD

posted:06/05/17









Ah, this dirt road breathes deep sighs of peace and joy,
quietude and solitude,
and whispers the footsteps of
deer and rabbits and so many brothers and sisters
that scurry about with the pleasure of sweet earth
beneath their hooves and toes.

This dirt road is graced by the shadows of
sandhill cranes gliding, clacking, laughing overhead
red-tailed hawks screeching their presence, and
red-winged blackbirds flitting from tree to tree.

And the creek meanders over, under, across
and sometimes swims the width of road
while cattails stand their ground in swamps and
frogs have won anew arenas,
and this dirt road offers a soft gentle bed for
those little beings awaiting a new day
to emerge once again.

This dirt road emerges again relieved by its
spongy, springy, tender body
that no longer sends dust to sting the eyes
and fill the nostrils of all animals who alight upon it,
but instead now receives the feet with a velvet touch
to cushion and help them along their way.

Listen…this dirt road tells the story of
dogs astray and woodchucks announcing
that spring has arrived this very day;
of horses and humans sharing relationship and companionship
as little children smile upon their backs and
wave to neighbors who lift their heads out of flower beds
to say good day, good day.

And sometimes it holds the memory of the cat
with lovely stripes or colors of black and white
who did not make it home that night,
while the flashlights searching and yearning
illuminated the tears that streaked the faces and the glimmer of hope
that was left with the footsteps now etched
in the memory of this dirt road.

Let us not forget the secrets, sworn never to reveal,
that this dirt road buries deep within its layers
perhaps about the children at last free
to hurry recklessly on wheels making grooves
within this dirt road,
or the friends that wander care-freely
and mingle stories and share their truths,
or the lovers holding hands and speaking dreams
and fears and words not said before
that come out freely and softly between them and
leave a trace of romance that fairies catch
and then shriek in playful ecstasy.
Posted by: Aspen Comment

ECSTASY WILL HAVE TO DO

posted:06/05/17








I am listening now
to an exquisite quiet
that rings so true
with a vibrancy that cannot be denied
its sacred origin

It is not just the sound
of rustling leaves in autumn trees
now preparing to release
nor is it just
the proclaiming of our feathered friends
urgent in migration
etching zig zags and diagonals
in the graying sky


No, I am listening to something more
it is the spell that happens
when the outer life
arrives and joins in harmony
with my inner peace
melting all distance in time and space
and dissolving all illusions
of a body alone
and separate from
and perhaps without spirit
enhancing its experience

Hard as I try
no word comes to my lips
true enough to convey this listening
so ecstasy will have to do


Posted by: Aspen Comment