The memory of trees...

Even the blind will miss the trees

when they cannot drink the water

or breathe the air,

even the hardest hearts will mourn

the forests when children's bones

lie naked on the ground.

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We are ever...

We are ever enthralled

with the intimate Otherness

bodying forth from every strange

familiar thing we can touch and behold

in this wide and wondrous world.

Frightened to meet so much Mystery

in our deepest downest darkest hearts,

yet we go on longing toward our night,

lusting after the Fire devouring

all our boundaries and containments,

aching for that mighty Wind

sweeping away the cold ashes

of our lonely lonely

apartedness.

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Travel light...

When needless pricey trinkets crowd my sight

and boughten lies weigh heavy on my ear

and I need to be reminded wrong and right

and what things are really worth my fear

and what won’t hinder and what just might,

I chuck my worrisome and useless gear,

what hangs too loose or clings too tight,

leave that behind and pack what’s dear,

then close the door behind and travel light.

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Onliest...

I feel a season on the air,

a ranging, changing, rearranging

time for turning over,

turning color and turning loose

of all ill-considered

promises and every

uninvited expectation;

I feel a journey in my feet

away from greedy faces

and walled-in places;

heading now for spaces

unroofed, unmapped,

untrammeled and unpriced,

where love grows wild,

sinks root in stones

and flowers even

in the snow,

where tame is

the onliest

endangered species.

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Such a little...

Such a little time

to say the love

before we learn

the language

only angels know.

Such a thin space

to touch the face

that smiles

and speaks the name

that answers all

our aching need

before the heart

is still

and spirit flies.

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One more time...

In the morning, I’ll get up

and take a shower and go

to church with my wife;

I don’t much believe in church

anymore, but my wife

believes in some people

there, and I believe

in my wife;

I don’t believe in God

the way I once did,

But every day, in a thousand

half-hidden, irrefutable ways,

God says to me that She

still believes in me

and in all the people

I thought past love;

I’m going to take

Her word for all of this

and just go let it happen

one more time

for all time’s sake.

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Scatter the ashes...

Any place there’s water will do,

any small crack in the world

to snare a scrap of sky,

hold heaven’s light down there

against the cold dark ground,

open a window for a soul

just loosed, learning to fly.

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Near enough...

I believe

in the One

Who is All,

Small enough

To be one of us,

Great enough

To hold all of us,

Far and beyond

All understanding,

But near enough

for Love.

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Kingdom come...

There’s a storm on the wing.

Every false and flimsy thing,

the west wind will bring

‘em down to ground, fling

the pieces far. Let’s now sing

our Freedom song, let ring

our welcome to the King,

Lord of our becoming.

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If I'm careful...

If I’m careful today

When I go out,

Tread softly enough

The leaves don’t talk,

Sit still enough

To hear the grass,

Look closely enough

Into eyes that see me,

Let the wind blow through,

The sun scatter my shadow,

Let the strong Earth hold me,

Rock me on her mountain,

Plant me deep enough

Between her musky breasts

To hear her million heartbeats,

Then, if I’m patient and don’t ask,

A story might come

And I might live to tell you,

But if not me, someone,

If you'll listen, will.

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Grace is wild...

Oh, Grace is wild enough, I reckon;

She lays no blame and gives no credit;

She sends sunshine on the wicked

and cold rain on the good;

She insists God doesn’t keep score,

loves the unlovely with holy

ardor as much as loving saints.

Grace is plain about that,

neither graceful nor subtle

in her argument that God

doesn’t give a rip

about how right you are,

or what bad some say of you;

God just means you well,

wants to make some good

out of your messy life,

without even asking

to see your insurance card.

That’s what Grace says.

She has a sister, Hope,

who put down all her money

that Grace is right.

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Geese overr water...

While we were out walking

on the poet’s hill today,

Spirit descended with spread wings

like the Wild Goose alighting

on a lake still chilled

from ice banished yesterday.

“Soon enough,” She said,

“you will be forever present

to your departed moment;

while this lasts, be here now

by this clear light,

carried on the breath

of one bright morning,

fleeting and forever

real."

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...for the duration.

There are other places I could be today, but I'd have to leave this place to get there.

Right here is where I mean to cling for the duration. Maybe I'll die here, but for sure, this is where I'm going to live.

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For real...

Love God, the Rabbi said,

Love your neighbor,

Love yourself. He said it

as if it were all the same thing,

as if it were everything.

Anyone who has faith enough

to love has faith enough. Love

is all we can know of God

for sure, all we can be for real.

henrymitchellbooks.com

Cloudwalker...

Out early this morning,

gone following the ghost

through the foggy foggy dew.

So like a cloud she whispers

and moves on, almost gone

and never quite here,

ever just out of sight, but near

enough to feel her breath

on my questing heart.

henrymitchellbooks.com

The real thing...

Reuben is alive and well at Georgiana's Java Joint down the hill at 18 Church Street. The German-style potato salad is the real thing, too. You'd never find any edible so decadently delicious in Bavaria.

The java ain't bad either. Georgiana's double espresso will fuel you through at least three chapters, including a couple of re-writes.

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Friends and strangers...

If you follow this blog, you may have noticed that lately I've been posting a lot of poetical scraps and remnants I've accumulated over the years. My plan has been to retire and become a poet when I'm 80 years old. That doesn't give me much to finish with fiction. I may have to revisit my timeline.

In any case, the Main Muse has been telling me for a while now that I ought to try to get my poems published. I take her advice seriously. She told me for years that I ought to write novels. I should have listened sooner. But for now, I have a novel manuscript that I'm pushing to get in shape to submit (again). That done, we'll see.

Until then, novels remain what I write for strangers, for pay. Poems, I write for my friends, for love.

henrymitchellbooks.com

Any place...

Any place is home enough

With light and room

to wake up high

and scribble down the day’s

sweet words, then lay me down

in thin air to dreamful sleep.

Up and away on the mountain’s

shoulder, there waits a place.

I can’t see from here,

but her lines are fast bound

to heart; I feel the pull.

toward blessed somewhere,

by no strength that is my own

I rise.

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November nights...

November was upon us before we finally got an overnight freeze. We harvested the last of the garden greens before that happened, and afterward, it was time to dig sweet potatoes. The porch plants are spending the chilly nights with us indoors now.

We'll miss all our summer neighbors, but winter neighbors, yes, we do tend to love them best.

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Murmuration...

We seek Spirit

the way a camper

addresses his fire,

close enough to warm,

distant enough

not to burn.

The blinding flames

swirl and rise

to a murmuration

of sparks.

We stare at them

in long wonderment.

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...subversive.

So it may just look like bread to you. But I see (and smell) sourdough with dill and rosemary.
Jane Ella cut the rosemary by the back gate while I was kneading the dough. Three loaves came out of the oven, but one didn't make it to the cooling rack. It got sliced along the way

Making bread is essentially a meditative practice. Kneading is an act that engages the body and stills the mind. It is like rowing a boat on a gentle swell. Like being rocked in the womb, if you can remember that far back. Thought would just get in the way. 

Baking may be one of the most subversive spiritual acts we humans are capable of. Every time we bake a loaf, we can eat our prayer.

henrymitchellbooks.com

Thinking about God...

"Now I've got it,"

The precocious pupil said

to his startled teacher,

"Abraham thought up God."

Abraham didn't think much

about God, though; Abraham

just loved past his understanding;

God doesn't think much about

us, either, God just loves

beyond all our understanding.

henrymitchellbooks.com

Turn...

The season turns

And so must I

Find deeper woods

And broader sky,

Loose all the lines

That bind and tie

The soul that burns,

The wings that fly.

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When I lie down...

When I lie down to die,

Don't you dare cry,

For when my last breath

Is whispered against the silent earth

I will rise up a jubilation

That my tongue, while earthbound

Could never sing aloud.

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Dare...

Dare I pray for justice in this world,

I'm begging condemnation;

How can I ask for fairness when

My debt is more than I can pay or know?

The very ground I walk on is pure grace;

I'm better off to settle then for love.

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Colors...

There is a Light no eye can trace,

transcending each illumined place

We stand, struck speechless as we face

The colors of amazing Grace.

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Awash...

Awash in the impartial Light

Your way comes clear before

That no eyes trace but yours,

No feet but yours can mark

to tread your fruited way

To Glory's shine.

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All you can be...

If you love now

The long day is lovely,

If you hate this moment

The whole world is hateful,

Joy is not tomorrow,

Peace is nothing you hope for,

As your breath lifts your sternum,

As your hand reaches

To grasp gentleness or harm,

In this instant, all you can live in

Now, is all you are, all you can be.

henrymitchellbooks.com

When?

Where did we go wrong?

When did we miss our turning

And turn the mirror to the wall

And start to believe our shadow is our face?

Where did we begin to divide the Land

Into your land and my land

And forget we are the Land’s?

When did our People become

My people or your people?

To what dark Beast did we sell our souls

To earn the coin that buys our death?

henrymitchellbooks.com

Summons...

Last night I heard the wild goose cry,
She called me up from sleep,
I made to her a promise
That I am bound to keep;

She stirred in me a longing
That can't be put to rest
Until I rise and follow her
Away into the west.

henrymitchellbooks.com