In the Middle

Inspired by “How I would paint happiness” by Lisel Mueller,

and “I am out with lanterns, looking for myself” by Emily Dickenson,

and “The start of something” by Stuart Dybek

I was born in the middle of something,

Something that had been going on long before me.

I am assuming that whatever it is

will continue long after me.

I hope that I didn’t start this mess,

but maybe I can help to end it.

Perhaps it’s just a matter of a change in attitude,

a change in perspective.

Maybe, just maybe, I can be the difference

and be the beginning of something new,

something real and good.

But first, I must find myself,

lost in the darkness, I am,

but with you as my lantern, 

perhaps I can find my way again.

That would make me happy, 

like cherry blossoms in spring,

set loose by a sudden breeze,

each petal settling gently in

the palm of my hand.

And suddenly, there I was.

—Paul Causey

Poem for Bruce Linton and Appamada Friends

I take refuge in the sound.

Sounds that enter a fluid filled snail shell in our heads

pluck the nerves of our harp strings.

Sometimes, too much sound comes crashing in,

destroys the strings.

So, I take refuge in my strings that sing still.

I take refuge in the ducks palavering on muddied pond.

I take refuge in the bird calls welcoming a rest from sun.

I take refuge in the sigh of the runner stopping on the lane.

I take refuge in the songs of India emanating from the radio in the refugees’ hands.

I take refuge in the rush of water under the scurrying bellies of ducks,

in the gravel of the paths beneath our feet,

in the coded conversation of twin brothers walking by,

the leaves of trees whispering messages in the wind,

the roar of far-off traffic blaring by,

the laughter of the little girl throwing breadcrumbs to the chattering ducks,

the man’s hand patting the bark of the dying tree,

the creaks of my knees.

I take refuge that the ringing in my head is briefly veiled by the mist of outside sounds.

I take refuge in the heat in the spray of garden hose against our feet,

in the press of air against my skin,

in flapping of a cormorant’s wings.

I take refuge that none of this will last.

But it feels so good to be here, now, with you.

—Emily Romano

the start of something

the start of something always seems somehow

to only be new moments in perfect fit 

with everything already full grown,

softening belief that it is fate

which informs my life,

and the more I consider

such paths of inevitable destiny

the more I feel that fate 

makes plans only in my absence.

so thankfully I can say 

starting means continuing to make peace 

with this arguable dance of jurisprudence

that doesn’t offer freedom in any form.

which means I buckle up my dancing shoes 

on my feet of clay

upping the ante of being seen

dancing on water like a substitute savior,

and sinking,

realizing that nothing

not even the wet 

can be fully known

so no more starting 

but staying 

with the Zen master’s advice

that “when in doubt

turn to curiosity.”

enjoy the world that is a dream

and barely a description of a truth

that everything which will happen

happens today,

with all things arising

all at once

in an intimacy of essence.

—Ed Sancious

In the Silt

Inside there is a folded place.

It opens its wings

as the two sides of a shell,

a clam

or the bone white

angel shell, elegant

and ribbed.

Inside that place, hidden

dark in the silt of this beach,

a grief. 

It bubbles in the wash of my gaze:

a long-ago sadness,

a new one. 

Things were hard

and there was nothing to be done.

Things are still hard.

There is little to be done.

I let the bright-eyed mind

trace the old scar

and I feel the tremble.

Here you are, I say.

I am with you.

—Sarah Webb