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The use of language as
a means of expressing what is in your heart as well as
that which you observe is another way to use the creativity
within. Since
I was about 23 I have been jotting down
my thoughts and feelings in ways that seem to surface
poetic.
Some are worth sharing, some are just for my journal.
I share these observations
on nature and singular moments of my
younger years. These
were written when I lived in Connecticut
from 1973-1986.
The beautiful illustrations
were created in watercolor by Susannah Fiering,
a talented artist living in Berkeley. After seeing her
work, I admired her style and asked if she would try
illustrating some of my poems.
She read the 8 poems below and created absolutely
perfect imagery to accompany the words.
I love seeing these illustrations with the words
I’ve written - expressing another vision of the original
moments from whence they sprang.
Channing’s poetry with
Susannah’s illustrations.
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SOUNDS OF NATURE
Darkness,
echoes of night,
Insect rhythms
rap through trees
resting outside my window.
Cool night air
touches my body
relieving the hot,clutching
air of day.
Stillness bounces
from the dimly lit pavement,
and from the locked doors
of sleeping houses.
A dog barks.
The sounds of nature triumph
As we rest.
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SPRING SNOW
Snow - heavy, wet unexpected.
Like an illusion of winter past
You come this spring day,
a last effort of winter to live on.
Clinging with wet fingers to ground,
trees, skin and hair.
Your time is short as warmth
betrays you,
melting flakes into rivers and puddles.
Liquid against your will,
passionately lingering where you can,
leaving your last touch on our memory
for tomorrow.
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SPRING
Glorious Day!
First of Spring!
Resounding in air waves,
warmth and rebirth.
Joy in new creation,
bursting heart of love.
Blooming into tomorrow
as if it were to be
the last.
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RAIN
Rain, melting into mirrors of pavement,
while ribbons of color run to me from
green, red, yellow and white lights of night.
Steamy clouds of mist pass across
the road lit by moon and rain.
I move as in a dream,
crystally aware and spiritually dancing –
turning, swaying, bending, reaching.
My eyes drink this liquid beauty,
and I am nourished in ways of the spirit.
I am singing an inner song of praise.
Peace and joy flow from me
as ribbons of love dancing with the clouds.
Yes, God, you hold me and rejoice in my
love for You.
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Sweet
night air, still and settled over the summer earth. You
hang on wispy fingertips in my bedroom of love. Seen you
are not, but every breath I take and every move I make
is labored by your presence.
You seem to cling to me and my love, not to bed
sheets, twisted between legs and over half torsos. Even
through the window you do not breathe. There is no breath
in you.
Stillness is your life, whereas ours is breathing
rhythm, constant. Crystally aware am I of what separates
the inside from out: skin. Once cool, breathing flesh
is now damp and prickling in your clutch. Restless in
sleep, I move as underwater flora. My eyes open, then
close. I am surrounded by your touch, unwilling to release
me. Motionless, you wait through passing hours until with
the morning, cool breezes bring life to the air that you
held in death grip. Come, morning air!
Rush with gentle strength through my open window
- first breath of the new day. Fill again this room of
vacuum void with air life. Let me stretch and awaken to
the curtain curling in joy of movement after the motionless
night hours. Breathe I will, deeply filling the inside
of me. Refreshing inner spirit and strengthening outer
gesture. I arise in morning light and move into
the new day, relieved that fresh air triumphs over the
hot night’s clutch.
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RAIN
VISION
Rain, you melt my vision
and cut through my mood,
changing my focus.
Now there is warmth and
security within.
Away
go the costumes and the layers of pretending. Wash
me, wash me.
There are so many years
of deposit,
One added to the other.
Rinse it all away, rain,
until all that is left
is me;
the core, the essence,
without which I would
not exist.
I will start afresh,
as the new day after the
rain.
Arising, I will feel my
vision,
my spirit stretching,
feeling daylight,
ready to live, to love,
unprotected,unpretending,
because finally - -
I have dared to be me
–
and won!!!
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SPRING NIGHT
On these first warm nights of spring
I hear the rumble of sounds of the world
outside my window,
as if they were coming to me
from all the way around the world.
I feel the wounds and vibrations and rhythms
of life all over the earth melding into one sound,
continuous; mankind alive, moving,
breathing, sweating –
always alive whether asleep or awake.
It is as if the earth itself is breathing
with life from within,
deep in her being.
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THE STORM
It is late night, and in my bedroom alone
I lie back about to experience God’s theater.
A window shade cuts the square frame above my bed
in half and blinding flashes of white light silently light up the dark room.
Moments later the earth trembles, as does this building and my bed.
Rain comes singularly, then in torrents against the pane
making beautiful moving shadows on my illuminated wall.
Suddenly, despite the power of the storm I feel no danger,
but am transfigured to an awareness of symphony being played.
The rising power of energy – liquid, light and sound –
are building, then yielding in perfect unison and harmony.
I am surrounded and awed by this rhythm,
both delicate and brutal.
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Slowly energy fades and the shadows become still on my wall.
Rumbles become distant and lightening dimly flashes.
The city’s silhouette darkens against clouds moving eerily
as clear sky appears yet within the night.
Silence, and rain is falling only from gutters off tall rooftops.
Drains empty onto sidewalks and parking lots.
Two children sleep together close in a bed for one –
secure in the warm comfort of each other’s presence.
And I remain alone, here – thinking of my love so distant,
yet filled with the power of our love as was….the storm.
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Other Favorites
My Symphony
To live content with small
means
To seek elegance rather
than luxury,
And refinement rather
than fasion.
To be worthy, not respectable,
and wealthy, not rich,
To study hard, think quietly,
talk gently, act frankly.
To listen to stars and
birds, to babes and sages with open heart.
To bear all cheerfully,
do all bravely,
Await occasions, hurry
never.
In a wor, to let the spiritual,
unbidden and unconscious,
Grow up through the common.
This is to be my symphony.
- W.H. Channing
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Other Favorites
…and after
Sept. 11th -
TRY TO PRAISE
THE MUTILATED WORLD
Try to praise
the mutilated world.
Remember June’s
long days,
And wild strawberries,
drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles
that methodically overgrow
The abandoned
homesteads of exiles.
You must praise
the mutilated world.
You watched
the stylish yachts and ships;
One of them
had a long trip ahead of it,
While salty
oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen
the refugees heading nowhere,
You’ve heard
the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise
the mutilated world.
Remember the
moments when we were together
In a white room
and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought
of the concert where music flared.
You gathered
acorns in the park in autumn
And leaves eddied
over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated
world
And the gray
feather a thrush lost,
And the gentle
light that strays and vanishes
And returns.
Adam Zagajewski
(Translated,
from the Polish, by Clare Cavanagh)
From THE
NEW YORKER - September 24, 2001
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Other Favorites
Mary Oliver:
Little Summer Poem
Touching the Subject of Faith
Every summer I listen
and look under the sun’s brass
and even in the moonlight,
but I can’t hear anything,
I can’t see anything - - -
not the pale roots digging
down, nor the green stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves deepening
their damp pleats, nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the
cobs.
And still, every day,
the leafy fields grow taller and thicker - - -
green gowns lofting up
in the night, showered with silk.
And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing - - -
I am deaf too to the tick
of the leaves,
the tapping of downwardness
from the banyan feet - - -
all of it happening beyond
all seeable proof, or hearable hum.
And, therefore, let the
immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch
the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the
trees, and the mystery hidden in dirt
swing through the air.
How could I look at anything
in this world and tremble,
and grip my hands over
my heart?
What should I fear? One
morning in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn’s
beautiful body is sure to be there.
- MARY OLIVER (from West Wind)
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This set of 8 original poems by Channing Miller is illustrated
by watercolor artist, Susannah Fiering.
Order the set of 8 for $25.00.
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