Quarry House

Poem: The House on the Corner

2012-02-02T11:12:00.000-05:00

The House on the Corner

Windows are broken.
Paint flakes.
Outside, weeds reach,
conquering the porch,

which sags sadly,
the screen door flapping in the wind.
The slate roof, once so proud,
leaks.

Someone lives there,
quietly afraid behind well worn
curtains, peering out

at night, in the dark hours
when they cannot be seen.

It would take imagination
to want to live there, belief
that until the beams collapse,
and the walls fall in,
and perhaps even after,

there is hope.

==================

Like all my restoration poems, it has to do as much with life as the object. In this case, the object is a wonderful old house in Granville, NY, one of the next towns over from West Pawlet. You can click on the picture to get a larger version.

Tom

Poetry Fragment

2012-01-27T08:01:00.000-05:00

Always there is this,
the feeling of fading,
a ghost, not yet dead,
clinging to life,
fearful of both.

Sometimes you carry around fragments of poems, hoping they will flesh into a full poem. This one didn't.

The picture was taken near my home in West Pawlet, Vermont. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: How I See It

2012-01-25T07:39:00.001-05:00

How I see it.

In my eyes
you are younger,
smoother of skin,
wiser,
far more interesting,
thinner,
smarter,
stronger, more
desirable,
and more powerful
than you will ever believe.

This is not blindness.
This is love,
and it is more true than truth.

================================

This is both a love poem, and a poem about how God sees us. Finding a picture to do both was hard, so in the end, I picked something that is simply a picture, not meant to illustrate the poem, per se. This shot is of the window sill of the house I lived in while in Virginia. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poetry

2012-01-23T16:10:00.001-05:00

"What can be explained is not poetry"

- WB Yeats

Thoughts: The Guitar in the Corner

2012-01-21T13:25:00.000-05:00

Everything has a lesson, if we are open to it.

Today I cleaned house. It is snowing outside, and Rona is working. A good day for the normally mindless task of housekeeping. Haul a load to the dump. Check. Wash an absurd number of dishes. Check. Clean the counter, disperse the pile on the kitchen table, sweep. Check. Scrub a bathroom, sift through the piles around my desk, file in preparation for tax time in a week or two. Check. Clean the living room. Done. On the dining room.

Uh Oh.

The dining room isn't used a lot, so normally there is not much to do. But there in the corner was the guitar.

My mom gave me the guitar last Christmas. She bought it when she took a guitar class a couple of years ago, but it was too large for her, so she passed it on to me. It's a lovely thing, made of spruce in Quebec with a rich tone.

It's not my first guitar. I was given one of those cheap guitars that you give a budding teenager when they show a passing fancy to play. Cheap because why invest a lot of money in something when teenagers are notoriously famous for changing their mind again and again. I carried that guitar around with me for thirty five years or more, and never learned to play. Finally I gave it away. it had become something of a symbol of unfulfilled dreams. I actually felt relief when it was gone, my failure would no longer stand in the corner, constantly reminding me that I had never even given it a fair chance.

And now it's back, sitting in the corner of my dining room. It's been there a year or so. But today, instead of moving on with my cleaning, I pulled it out. I had bought a beginners DVD to play the guitar and I've pulled it out too. Today, or tomorrow, I will begin to learn the guitar. I may be 56, and I may never become Mark Knopfler, but I can learn something.

Then I moved to the second office. Where my kids often did homework or hooked their computers to a printer. It got me thinking. or maybe the guitar in the corner got me thinking.

I used to draw. I loved it. I have a great little plantation table that I bought to draw on. As I got settled here, I moved it to a little room upstairs, thinking to myself that maybe I would draw more. But the room is small and dark and shared with my dresser. I never did it. The drawing table is dusty and unused. I had never thought of it until the last week or two. What changed the last week or two? I began to take art classes.

Actually, Rona began to take art classes and I have been piggybacking with her when I am in town. We learn in an art gallery in Salem, NY, just a town away from here. It's a bright airy place with great light. I have absolutely enjoyed every minute. It's time with Rona, time to play with art the same way you do when you are a kid, with no pressure, and I have found that the light room made me want to do more. So now, probably later this afternoon, I will re-arrange furniture and move my heavy oak roll top desk upstairs, and my plantation table downstairs to a room with great light that I have been mostly wasting. I doubt I would have thought of it without trying the art class. But I am excited, because I think it will make a difference in terms of my drawing more, and in terms of the room actually being used more.

This is a pattern in my life right now. I am in Vermont where I have come back to a woman I loved 30 some odd years ago, and with whom I have a second chance. Because of being laid off several months ago, I have fallen into doing freelance work that is largely built around writing and photography, a second chance I didn't ask for, but was given. That seems to be a theme in my life - second chances. A life that is new, and familiar at the same time.

I have a quote on my desk by George Eliot - "It is never too late to become who you might have been."

So true. So true.

Tom

Poem: Ruins they say

2012-01-14T08:42:00.000-05:00

Ruins, they say

The stones lie in plain view
for historians and other writers of fiction,
half standing, half fallen,
an imperfect patchwork

half fallen to time and folly,
the focus of speculation,
guesswork and false truths.
Ruins,they say, forgetting

the beauty of what has survived, or
the possibilities of what remains.

=====================

This was inspired by a few days of being in Virginia, where I lived for several years, and visiting with friends who have seen me through divorce and rebuilding a life.

The picture was taken at Stonehenge, in England, while visiting with my kids. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: The Utter Uselessness of Facts

2012-01-10T15:10:00.000-05:00

The Utter Uselessness of Facts

I can remember the facts too clearly,
the quiet afterwards, after
the truth had been spoken
and settled over the room
like death, like a plaque of silent locusts
pausing before the feast,
my heart still, not beating, afraid
to break the silence, afraid
that continuing it's metronomic dance
would give the truth shape, and presence and power, sure
that speaking would dress it in mourning
and parade it around like a manic wrath.

And so, time stopped.
Life stopped.
Love stopped, and

truth, rearranging itself like clouds
on a March wind,
shape shifting with each new word,
each new revelation,
leaving you not bitter,
but breathless
at the utter uselessness of facts.

==============================

The picture is of the window in my kitchen, which somehow made me think of Emily Dickinson. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Quote of the Week

2012-01-03T13:48:00.000-05:00

"Adventure is worthwhile." - Amelia Earhart

Years ago, when I was in college, I used to put a "quote of the week" taped to my dorm room door. Some days, I would open the door to go out, only to come face to face with someone reading the quote. Years this or that quote, (which inevitably I have trouble finding) so I began to post them again. You will be able to reference all the past quotes by visiting the "quotes" label on the right column of the blog.

Tom

Poem: New Year's Resolution

2012-01-01T08:14:00.001-05:00

New Year's Resolution

There is nothing in writing,
no bold declarations,
just a quiet conversation
in the quiet moments before dawn,

less a promise than a plea.

============================

The picture was taken in Venice, Italy. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Thoughts: Neither fish nor fowl

2011-12-30T08:35:00.000-05:00

I have been in Virginia for the past few days, visiting with my son and traveling around to various family members. catching up, visiting friends.

Friends and long time readers know that I spent the first 54 years of my life in Virginia. Born there, raised there, had my children there. My parents were from there. I worked in Virginia all my life and through my work, I had traveled most of the nooks and crannys of the state. A history fan, I have visited more old houses, battlefields and obscure little places than you can imagine. I wasn't just "from Virginia", I was a Virginian, through and through. I lived there, and the state lived in me.

I moved to Vermont two and a half years ago to be closer to the woman I love. An unexpected gift of romance and second chances in mid life. For some time, I felt like "A Virginian in Vermont", loving my new New England home, but not feeling quite a part of it.

That is to be expected. Vermonters are delightful people, but Vermont is a rural state. They warm up slowly, get to know you slowly. Anyone who expects to land here and be an immediate part of the fabric of community, is probably in for a disappointment. This is a place for people in for the long haul. And those in for the long haul will be rewarded with deep friendships. But there is no pretend here.

Southerners are raised a little differently, but in reality, we aren't so different. The famed "Southern Hospitality" is more a veneer. It's easy to feel like, when you first hit a Southern town or church, that you are welcomed with open arms and a drop or two of honey. But in reality, under the warm veneer, Southerners too are waiting and biding their time and learning about the visitor. You don't really become part of the fabric of a place any faster in Virginia, than Vermont, trust me. The pretend of it all is, to us in the South, just good manners. It's not designed to be pretend, even if, in a way, it is.

The surprise for me now is that when I visit Virginia, it no longer feels like home. It feels like a place I was from. That's different for me, who was always steeped in the place I lived. For me, where I was from was the same thing as where I was. Now, it seems, it is part of my history. I go past familiar places and they are places where I " used to" do this or that. I have... a history.

For many, this is second nature. They have histories that have moved them from state to state, country to country. For me it was notable. No one, I think, not the woman I love, not my family, not my friends, could see me leaving Virginia. I and the state were one and the same. I was like a cat, tied to a place called Virginia.

If I am still like a cat, I am becoming tied to a new place called Vermont. It is slowly getting under my skin, becoming part of me as I am becoming part of it. I've been visiting some of the homes and museums and battlefields in Vermont. I am slowly learning Vermont politics. My life has shifted to a Vermont pace. Outside my house, I no longer fly the early American flag that was so popular in Colonial Williamsburg, with the stripes mixed with a Union Jack where the stars normally are. Instead I fly the flag from the Battle of Bennington, one of the earliest battles in the Revolutionary war with a rainbow of stars over a hand crafted "76". My poetry centers in Vermont. It is where I am from, not just were I live.

But at the same time, there is sort of a limbo. It takes one amount of time for a place to seep into you, but it takes longer for you to become part of a place. In the two or three places and churches I have been part of , it seems like five years is about right. After five years, people think you are there to stay. You are part of the landscape, in a way. They begin to open to you in a way they don't when you are just passing through.

So now, I am neither fish nor fowl. No longer a Virginian. Not quite a Vermonter. Fortunately I am sort of a long haul kind of guy. So I expect to be in Vermont for a long, long time. Long enough that the transition from Virginian to Vermonter that has already begun can be completed. And I am so enjoying the journey. My life is richer for the change. It has changed from a life of familiarity, to a life of discovery, and in that, is great, great joy.

Tom

PS, the picture is of the Bennington Battle Flag, similar to the one I fly outside my house. You can click on it for a larger version.

Pictures: Vermont in Winter

2011-12-29T12:18:00.001-05:00

Taken in Pawlet and West Pawlet, Vermont. You click on each image for larger version.

Tom

Poem: The Color of Snow

2011-12-27T07:22:00.000-05:00

The Color of Snow

A light dusting of snow settles over the mountains,
uniform, monochrome, brilliantly dull, all
to make colors
more alive.

===================

The picture was taken somewhere between Pawlet, VT, and Dorset, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Dancing on the Edge

2011-12-22T07:41:00.000-05:00

Dancing on the Edge

Somehow you never noticed
that the worst never happened,
that you survived, grew strong,
became more than a survivor,

an unlikely inspiration. not
by a storybook perfection,
all tidy and in place,
with flowers on the window sill

and cookies on a china plate
to punctuate the vignette
like a painting, a still life fit only
a museum or glossy magazine. No,

you took a different path to heroism,
your doors open, the curtains drawn back
from the picture windows. every dusty corner
revealed,

the chaotic struggle of love and fear,
courage and retreat, anxiety and passion
played out like a painfully human puppet show,
where all could see you

dancing on the edge of disaster,
afraid of the fall, yet dancing still,
a mad prancing
of imperfect hope.

=========================

The picture was taken years ago, it's of my daughter's cat Cleo, in a birdbath in the garden behind our house in Virginia. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Quote of the Week

2011-12-19T07:44:00.000-05:00

"“The days of leading countries or companies via a one-way conversation

are over. The old system of ‘command and control’ — using carrots and sticks

to exert power over people is fast being replaced by ‘connect and collaborate"

to generate power through people.”

- Dov Seidman, author of the book “How.”

Years ago, when I was in college, I used to put a "quote of the week" taped to my dorm room door. Some days, I would open the door to go out, only to come face to face with someone reading the quote. Years later, after the advent of e-mail, I began to put a quote of the week at the end of my e-mails, something I do to this day. I used to post these on my blog, and got away from it, but at times, people write me for this or that quote, (which inevitably I have trouble finding) so I began to post them again. You can reference the quotes by visiting the "quotes" label on the right column of the blog.

Tom

Poems: Two Advent Poems

2011-12-18T10:24:00.001-05:00

Fear Not

Fear Not, he says.

The mere words freeze your soul,

coming, as they dofrom someone with the power

to create, build up, or destroy

with a wave of his hand,

a power to change

your life, change

your future, wipe clean

your past,

or leave you utterly abandoned

to your flaws and failure.

Fear Not, he says

and every weakness is suddenly exposed

and you realize that control is not yours,

and your humbleness, once professed with pride,

evaporates in the reality

that there is much, so very much

to fear.

Except

that beyond your imagining,

the words are spoken with impossible gentleness,

not with threat, but with promise,

with love that knows all of you,

even the darkest corners,

the hidden failures,

the lies you tell others and the lies

you tell yourself.

He knows them, and that is not all.

He knows the greatest secret,

that if you allow it,

there is no fear.

Fear Not, he says.

==================

The Night Before Christmas

You Wait.

You wait in the dark

hours of the night,

somehow believing that the sky,

brilliant with dancing stars and

a moon, nearly full,

bring you light.

You wait.

You wait in the silence

of fields and cities,

in those silent hours

after midnight

when sheep and men,

exhausted, sleep.

You wait.

You wait,

out of the habit of your life,

of your world

that prays empty prayers,

unexpectant,

monotonous,

empty and unaware.

Unaware even, that

you wait.

That soon, to the most unlikely

of God's creations,

angels will sing;

a new light,

far brighter than dawn

will enter your life,

a gift, unexpected,

undeserved. A forever gift,

eternally new, powerful

and impossibly loving.

You wait.

============================

I was recently asked to write two poems for an advent service at Durkeetown Baptist Church. As I thought about how to do it, I thought about (among other things), the advent wreath, and how each candle has a meaning. There's the Shepherd's candle, the Angel's candle and so on, culminating in the center Christ candle. The unique challenge of these poems were to take the experience of groups the shepherds, or Mary, and translate it into the experience of grace that Christmas really is for each of us.

The painting is "The Annunciation" by Phillipe de Champaigne. You can click on it for a larger version to take in it's full richness and beauty.

Tom

Photographs: Historical Places

2011-12-16T16:55:00.001-05:00

These are all photographs of historical places that I have taken, just a sampling of what is my favorite kind of photography to do.

You can click on them for larger versions, and you can see more on the Quarry House web site.

Tom

Wisdom Letters now a free e-book.

2011-12-16T10:32:00.000-05:00

The Wisdom Letters has been available as an e-book for Kindle, Nook and other e-readers (for $2.99) for some time. Now I have also made it available as a free PDF download. You can get it here. (or click on the book cover above.)

Tom

Poem: The Definition of Poetry

2011-12-15T07:06:00.000-05:00

The Definition of Poetry.

Every.

Word.

Counts.

==================

I was whittling a poem down, from four stanzas, and it became a challenge to cut the poem down to it's essence, and when I was done, I had managed to capture the idea not in four long stanzas, but three short words. Sometimes, I suspect, poets have fun in strange ways.

The picture was taken at the Thomas Nelson House in Yorktown, Va. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: The Desk

2011-12-15T07:00:00.001-05:00

The Desk

This is where, before light breaks over the quarry,
I read the bible, where I stare out of the window
to places far away and deep inside, where
I work, plead, talk to friends, rant, pay bills, and cry,

where I am surrounded by reminders of success
and failure, where the ancient wood glows in the night
like captured sun, where any hour of the day,
I can see the one I love, eternally smiling.

Here, I see worlds from a computer screen.
I see worlds inside my mind's eye.
I find peace, and frustration, and fear.
This, is where I wait for God's breath.

This is where I write.

==============================================

Yes, this really is my desk. I was experimenting with light the other night and took the picture, and from the picture, this poem. Funny how one things runs into another in life, isn't it?

You can click on the image for a larger version.

Tom

Quote of the Week

2011-12-12T08:19:00.000-05:00

I can shake off everything if I write. My sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.
--Anne Frank

Years ago, when I was in college, I used to put a "quote of the week" taped to my dorm room door. Some days, I would open the door to go out, only to come face to face with someone reading the quote. Years later, after the advent of e-mail, I began to put a quote of the week at the end of my e-mails, something I do to this day. I used to post these on my blog, and got away from it, but at times, people write me for this or that quote, (which inevitably I have trouble finding) so I began to post them again. You will be able to reference all the past quotes by visiting the "quotes" label on the right column of the blog.

Tom

Poem: A Confluence of Lies

2011-12-11T06:51:00.000-05:00

A Confluence of Lies

You close your book,
aware of history being rewritten
not by the victors,
but by imagination,
fear, disbelief, lenses

driven by every mind's ability
to lie to ourselves more effectively
than others lie to us,

a confluence of lies.
like a river swollen in spring,
carrying us to the sea
of our own choosing.

===========

The picture was taken in Williamsburg. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Pictures: Vermont in Winter

2011-12-08T11:55:00.001-05:00

Last night we got a few inches of snow. I took an hour off from working (and looking for work) to wander around and take pictures of the winter fairy land in that hour after the sky turned blue, but before the snow melted off the trees.You can click on the images for a larger version.


Lake's Lampshades, one of my favorite shops run by one of my favorite people in Pawlet, Judy Lake.If you haven't visited her shop, you can visit her web site and get a taste of her wonderful work.

A barn on Route 30, on the way to Wells, VT.

A shot of the abandoned slate quarry in West Pawlet (Yes, that Quarry, the one I named my house and company after)

From River Road between Pawlet and West Pawlet.

Also on River Road between Pawlet and West Pawlet.

Dutchies

2011-12-06T11:07:00.001-05:00

Regular readers might wonder about the picture above. Certainly it is not pretty, interesting or artistic like most of what I post here. But for those of us here in West Pawlet, Vermont, it's a beautiful image.

Last Winter, in the spot the picture was taken, Dutchie's store caught fire and burnt down. The two men who ran the store and lived in the apartment above it, barely escaped with their lives, and they lost two of their beloved dogs. The store, here for nearly a hundred years, was rubble and ash

This isn't just a news story of another fire. Here in Vermont, country stores are often the heart of the town. They are not just a convenient shop to pick up bread and beer. They are where people gather in the morning and talk. It's where the kids go on Halloween to show off their costumes. It's where triumph and tragedies are shared. Will and Eric, who ran the store, were a combination friend, bartender, therapist, newspaper and more to people here.

For me, a newcomer, the store was where I met people. I would often go down in the mornings and get a cup of coffee and sometimes a breakfast sandwich, and sit for an hour or so reading or writing in my journals. People would come and go and Eric or Will would introduce me, and fill me in on who was who and who was related to who and what they did. That way, I slowly came to know people in this New England town where people are wonderful, nice and kind, but in a typical New England way, also private and not prone to show up on your front porch and say "Hi!" I've made far less progress in getting to know people here since the store burned down, than I did when they were there.

At Dutchies' you could always find good conversation, on almost anything. At Dutchies, I, and my kids, have made friends, talked politics or fashion, or families, or antiques, and always felt welcome. Always. Were it not for Dutchies, I fear I would always have been just "a Virginian in Vermont". because of Dutchies, I have slowly became a Vermonter. In a town that at the time only still had the post office and Duchies still open, it was the heart of this village, and losing the store was a blow to West Pawlet's heart.

But not a fatal blow. In fact, losing the store did a lot to bring the area together. A totally grass roots fund raiser brought in over $30,000.00 towards rebuilding Dutchies. A local restaurant added a dollar to the cost of meals to help raise money. A nearby architect donated his services to design the new store. Others gave money, time and heart. That gathering together made local and state news. Other towns had lost their stores, lost their hearts, but this town was not going to let that happen.

And yesterday, the heavy equipment arrived, and began to dig out for the foundation. So this dark, muddy picture is, a picture of hope, of rebirth, of the return of heart. It will take a while, but there is a new joy here in West Pawlet, a new excitement. Our friends are coming back. Our meeting place is returning. The Phoenix is rising from the ashes.

Tom

PS - I know it's not pretty, but you can click on it if you want to see a larger version.

Poem: Five AM

2011-12-02T06:36:00.001-05:00

Five AM

It is quiet,
not just outside where
the sun lies still beneath the mountains, and
the birds sleep, huddled

against the November cold,
where the wind has abandoned the night
and stars hover silently;
no, it is quiet

somewhere deep inside you,
where once your heart
railed and screamed against
Gods and fate, now

it is silent,
calm, and
strangely unafraid.

===================

The picture was taken at Emerald Lake, Vermont. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Quote of the Week

2011-11-28T07:30:00.000-05:00

"Let us be grateful to people who make us happy. They are the charming gardeners who make our soul blossom."
- Marcel Proust.

Years ago, when I was in college, I used to put a "quote of the week" taped to my dorm room door. Some days, I would open the door to go out, only to come face to face with someone reading the quote. Years later, after the advent of e-mail, I began to put a quote of the week at the end of my e-mails, something I do to this day. I used to post these on my blog, and got away from it, but at times, people write me for this or that quote, (which inevitably I have trouble finding) so I began to post them again. You will be able to reference the quotes by visiting the "quotes" label on the right column of the blog.

The picture is a random shot I took last Spring.

Tom

Poem: Delicious Beauty

2011-11-20T06:58:00.000-05:00

Delicious Beauty

In the dark hours before dawn,
you read your worn bible
in the November silence.

a delicious beauty in your prayers,
undisturbed, undistracted,
so powerful they fill the room,
fill your heart
to bursting.

A photograph taken in this moment
would show you, lit
by a single desk lamp,
the mahogany glow of your plantation desk,
warm and inviting, your head
bowed, alone in the dark, and yet

in this silence,
you are anything
but alone.

====================

I didn't have a good picture of my desk, so I used this shot instead. The picture was taken at Saint Thomas' in New York City. Middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the largest city of the world, and the church was empty, a place of total peace. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Memory

2011-11-16T09:56:00.000-05:00

Memory

Love, long past,
carved in stone,
hard and false,
colored by time

and memory
both more perfect,
and more broken
than reality, and yet

it is captured,
on display, as if
the vision of your inner artist
was God.

=========================

I cannot seem to break from my short poems. I actually set out to write a longer one this morning, and found this one instead. Alas, writing is only somewhat under my control.

The picture was taken in Venice. You can click on for a larger version.

Tom

Quote of the week: November 14th

2011-11-14T08:19:00.001-05:00

"Autobiographies ought to begin with Chapter two."
Ellery Sedgewick

Years ago, when I was in college, I used to put a "quote of the week" taped to my dorm room door. Some days, I would open the door to go out, only to come face to face with someone reading the quote. Years later, after the advent of e-mail, I began to put a quote of the week at the end of my e-mails, something I do to this day. I used to post these on my blog, and got away from it, but at times, people write me for this or that quote, (which inevitably I have trouble finding) so I began to post them again. You will be able to reference the quotes by visiting the "quotes" label on the right column of the blog.

Tom

Poem: Not Eternal

2011-11-13T08:21:00.000-05:00

Not eternal

Quiet.
An unnatural hush.
Dim lights

Frightening.
Promising.
A space filled

with contradictions,
like life,
like love,

like yourself,
and
all you know.

====================

The picture was taken in the chapel store at St Barts in New York City. I loved the chapel itself, but it was the bookstore that really sang to me. You can click on the picture for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Meditation in Saint Barts

2011-11-11T12:30:00.001-05:00

Meditation in Saint Barts

Rain and snow fall outside,
and the city streets continue,
chaos as usual, commerce
and constant movement,

the daily dance
of an entire city,
of society hell bent
on their progress,

Unaware of the miracle
in their midst,
of the peace, so close,
yet invisible in front of their eyes.

-----------------------------------

Yesterday I shot some photographs at NFL headquarters for a client. After I was done, I noticed that next door to the NFL, which is on Park Avenue in New York City, was St. Barts. Rather than jump into my car and head home, I went to the church, and sat and listened to the organ master play. It was a time of peace and prayer, and coming back out was almost like an assault with all the noise and activity. And from that... this poem.

The picture was taken at St. Barts. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

2011-11-09T08:46:00.000-05:00

Warm Spell

The weather turns oddly warm.
Insects are born early
and plague the house like
a modern day Exodus plague

with no Moses plea to send them away.
They flock to your lights,
dancing to music
only they can hear,

not unlike yourself,
whose songs and hopes
seem mere buzzing,
a plague even

and go eternally
unheard.

========================

We are having a warm spell here in Vermont. It's been a glorious fall this year. And yes, the bugs and mice are everywhere right now.

The picture was taken at Niagra, on the Canadian side. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Quote of the week

2011-11-07T07:23:00.000-05:00

"There are certain things in us that do not change. We all like to be unique, we like to be valued, we like to be complimented, and we like to accomplish things, for ourselves, our families, our community and out society."
- Dov Seidman

Years ago, when I was in college, I used to put a "quote of the week" taped to my dorm room door. Some days, I would open the door to go out, only to come face to face with someone reading the quote. Years later, after the advent of e-mail, I began to put a quote of the week at the end of my e-mails, something I do to this day. I used to post these on my blog, and got away from it, but at times, people write me for this or that quote, (which inevitably I have trouble finding) so I began to post them again. You will be able to reference the quotes by visiting the "quotes" label on the right column of the blog.

The picture was taken in Sterling, NY. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Night Walk

2011-11-04T10:47:00.000-04:00

Night Walk

You have been walking in the dark,
through forest paths you feel more than see,
moving by memory, by habit, by hope,

somehow stumbling less
than you deserve, believing
that in time you will emerge

to the early evening light,
that after your night wanderings
seems utterly

bright.

========================

The poem was inspired by the picture, which was taken in nearby Rupert, Vermont. (You can click on it for a larger version.).

Tom

Quote of the Week

2011-11-01T14:07:00.000-04:00

"To Believe is to be strong.
Doubt Cramps Energy. Belief is Power"
- Frederick William Robertson.

Years ago, when I was in college, I used to put a "quote of the week" taped to my dorm room door. Some days, I would open the door to go out, only to come face to face with someone reading the quote. Years later, after the advent of e-mail, I began to put a quote of the week at the end of my e-mails, something I do to this day. I used to post these on my blog, and got away from it, but at times, people write me for this or that quote, (which inevitably I have trouble finding) so I began to post them again. You will be able to reference the quotes by visiting the "quotes" label on the right column of the blog.

The picture was taken in Munich, Germany.

Tom

My second book, I think.

2011-10-31T12:48:00.000-04:00

Honestly, I am not sure if this is my first book or my second book. It's the first thing I ever wrote, and it was first published as a PDF book nearly a decade ago, before the lexicon had a word for e-books, and way before we had Kindles, Ipads and Nooks. Now, of course, I have "Love in a Minor Key", a book of verse, in print, so in a way, this could be my second book.

Now I have reformatted it so it can be downloaded and used on virtually any e-reader: Kindle, Nook, Ipad, even old Sony e-readers.

The Wisdom Letters is a gathering of essays, stray thoughts, poems on life, faith, humanity's quirks. Reader's of the first edition called it "Inspirational", "Just what I needed.", and "the kind of thing that draws you in."

A print version is in the works, and should be available soon. I'll let you know when it is available, in case, like me, you just like to have real books on the bookshelf to read, loan out, and make your house feel like a library!

You can get The Wisdom Letters here.

Tom Atkins

Poem: Praying for Strangers

2011-10-26T16:56:00.000-04:00

Praying for Strangers

You are in a strange place,
far from home, familiar and frightening,
silent.

You pray for strangers,
whose hearts you know
only by their words,

who nonetheless, are real to you,
so real that your prayers
carry power

that is not yours
to far away lands that lie
nearby.

=================

The picture was taken at Lithia Methodist Church, in Lithia, Va. You can click on it for a larger image.

Tom

Quote of the week

2011-10-26T15:11:00.000-04:00

"What is the use of running if you are on the wrong road?"
- Chinese Proverb
.
Years ago, when I was in college, I used to put a "quote of the week" taped to my dorm room door. Some days, I would open the door to go out, only to come face to face with someone reading the quote. Years later, after the advent of e-mail, I began to put a quote of the week at the end of my e-mails, something I do to this day. I used to post these on my blog, and got away from it, but at times, people write me for this or that quote, (which inevitably I have trouble finding) so I began to post them again. You will be able to reference the quotes by visiting the "quotes" label on the right column of the blog.

The photograph was taken at Emerald Lake, Vermont. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: A Change in Temperature

2011-10-24T12:54:00.000-04:00

A Change in Temperature

It is thirty one degrees when you wake
and there is frost where yesterday
butterflies danced on flower petals.

This morning, the flowers are brown,
corpses that wave in the wind
leaving only memories and waiting

for the bitter cold
that lies just beyond the quarry walls.

You are dressed in flannel,
an adjustment to the change in seasons,
visible plaid with green and yellow and gray,

unlike the other adjustments you have made
to pain and loss and fear, invisible
changes in the weather,

for the bitter cold
that invades your very soul.

==============================

When I left Virginia yesterday afternoon, it was in the upper sixties and I drove a while with the convertible's top down. By the time I reached Vermont, at two in the morning, there was frost. From that change in temperature, came this poem.

The picture was taken at Natural Bridge, Virginia, just this weekend. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: The Leaves Change

2011-10-18T09:38:00.000-04:00

The Leaves Change

The leaves change
as weather turns cold,
as autumn winds
bearing the smell of wood stoves
and decay,
swirl and dance their macabre minuet.

The leaves change,
a beautiful dying,
each day brighter, more vibrant
until autumn winds,
howling with winterous venom
rip the color away.

The leaves change,
a preparation, not for death,
but transformation
that laughs at death,
at winter,

certain
of spring.

=========================

The picture was taken some time ago, right near the border of Rupert and Pawlet, Vermont. You can click on it for a larger version. That's my faithful Isuzu Trooper far in the background, the perfect vehicle for a photographer - all toughness and glass.

Tom

Quote of the week

2011-10-17T13:49:00.000-04:00

"Be yourself. Everyone else is taken."
- Oscar Wilde

Years ago, when I was in college, I used to put a "quote of the week" taped to my dorm room door. Years later, after the advent of e-mail, I began to put a quote of the week at the end of my e-mails, something I do to this day. I used to post these on my blog, and got away from it, but at times, people write me for this or that quote, (which inevitably I have trouble finding) so I began to post them again. You will be able to reference the quotes by visiting the "quotes" label on the right column of the blog.

The picture was taken at the Thomas Nelson House in Yorktown, Va.

Poem: False Colors

2011-10-11T16:14:00.000-04:00

False Colors

You only think
you are invisible.

You only believe
you are not seen.

But, there you are,
a contrast to your world,
vibrant in your simplicity,
unexpectedly,
perfect.

=================

The picture was taken in Ontario, Canada. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Memory of Skin

2011-10-08T13:25:00.000-04:00

Memory of Skin

You sit in the October sun.
The unexpected warmth burnishes
your face with heat, your eyes closed,
remembering

nights long past,
the memory of skin,
not events, but of warmth
beyond touch,

beyond your ability to explain,
memories real and less so,
of perfect hours,
glowing into the night

and beyond.

===================

Years of taking pictures, thousands of them, and I had no image suitable for this poem. (Sigh.) but then, some things are better imagined than seen.

Tom

Poem: Two Doors

2011-10-03T17:37:00.000-04:00

Two Doors

Light comes from the windows.

As you walk down the hall,
that is what you see,
light that tells you
nothing, Light that beacons
like a siren song,
draws you from the dark, unsure
whether it leads you
to heaven, or hell,
but certain that which ever
you choose,
it will consume you.

============

The picture was taken at Mary Washington College. You can click on it for a larger view.

Tom

Poem: Six Hours

2011-10-03T07:46:00.000-04:00

Six hours

Your head spins,
full as a tornado
that will not end,
strewing ideas
and beliefs so fast they become
unrecognizable,
paralyzing,
as their current pulls you
over the falls
into the rocks below
where you are left
to die
or dance.

========================

I spent an extraordinary amount of time writing yesterday, with nothing worth reading to show for it. A place most writers have been so this is not a whine, just a fact. But that experience DID result in this short poem this morning. Nothing is wasted.

The picture is of Niagra Falls. I am told that a few people have actually gone over it and survived, though it is hard to imagine.

Tom

Poem: Watching the Maid of the Mist

2011-09-26T09:32:00.000-04:00

Watching the Maid of the Mist

You stand safe on the cliffs and watch
the boat, short and sturdy
nose its way up stream,
not in leaps and bounds,
but in tiny movements,
it's powerful engines as unrelenting
as the currents,
and for this moment,
a bit more powerful.

You recall that strength,
how once you felt alone
was strong, alone
was safe, until you found the danger,
how aloneness allows no rest,
no power that is not your own
sustaining you.
How any lapse

would send
dangerously careening down the gorge
to rocks that wait like Spartans
alert and still,
for your death.

You stand safe on the cliffs and watch
in fearful amazement
at the foolish courage,
at the dance of singular defiance
you once danced yourself
without watchful love
to hold you as you failed,
your breath stilled
in fear remembered.

================

Often, I think, fear remembered is the most powerful fear. It can spur us to do things differently and to grow and become more, or it can paralyze us.

The picture is indeed of the Maid of the Mist, as it inched towards the unrelenting falls of Niagra. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Truck Memories

2011-09-21T16:05:00.001-04:00

Truck Memories

Your grandfather drove such a truck,
and seeing it now
sweeps the past into the moment
and for a moment you are ten years old again,
watching his rough capable hands
shift the gears, a satisfying
click with each gear signaling
the simple mechanics
of getting from one place
to another without distraction,
able to focus
not on buttons and technology,
but the September high corn, green still
with golden tassels,
on your own past joys,
on lessons learned by life's weather,
the sureness that nearly every complication
your life has,
has nothing to do with richness,
or memory,
or forever.

=====================

The picture was taken as the Consider Barnwell farm, not far from me in West Pawlet where they make the most delicious gourmet cheeses, all named after towns near here in Vermont.

My grandfather really did have such a truck. Riding in it as a boy is one of my fondest memories, ever.

You can click on the picture for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Boathouse Thoughts

2011-09-19T22:26:00.000-04:00

Boathouse Thoughts

Tied by a single rope,
oars slightly askew,
the boat waits,
protected now,
still in still waters,
yet knowing
that this is not
what it was made for,
that every bent board
and nail
were constructed not
for stillness,
but to move
beyond this boathouse
to places
unknown.

==============

The picture was taken in Cornwall, England. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: You Cannot Remember

2011-09-15T08:33:00.001-04:00

You Cannot Remember

You cannot remember
that feeling,
that abandonment
of a child dancing to music
that resonates irresistibly,
sweeping your mind away, leaving
only an energy so pure
that it matters not
who is watching
for the whole world is inside
yourself
and the world beyond
does not exist.

Only in moments,
private moments
of sex and prayer perhaps,
does it flicker then leave you,
hungry for more,
wanting more than the moment,
unlike a child who has their moment
in utter joy, aware

of what you forget,
that this moment is not the last,
that music is eternal
and always
returns.

=====================

Alas, I searched all my photographs and had none that did this poem justice. My apologies to those who like my photos (sometimes more than the verse).

Tom

Poem: Be Still With Me.

2011-09-12T06:58:00.000-04:00

Be Still with Me.

Be still with me.
Feel my heartbeat,
know it, travel my journey

of a thousand cuts,
a thousand healings,
miracles of pain

That leave the most beautiful
scars.

===========

The picture was taken yesterday, 9-11, in Argyle, NY. We passed the firehouse on the way to church in the morning and these two men were standing stock-still at full attention. Hours later, when we drove home again, they were still there, perfectly in place, in honor of the lost of 9-11. Their stillness and honor was so much more touching, more real, more painful, than anything brought about by new, TV or the media. You can click on it for a larger version.

This brief poem is for all who carry with them deep hurts, that simply want them recognized and honored, however, or if, they have healed so far in their journey.

Tom

Poem: Any Journey Worth Taking

2011-09-09T16:28:00.000-04:00

Any Journey Worth Taking

Any journey
worth taking
will never be
in
a straight line.

There will be bridges
washed out, and rocks
upon which you will
bounce,
ripped by streams that leave you

with broken ribs and broken hearts
on the side of the road.

No journey worth taking
is monochrome.
There will be colors.
Colors you love,
and colors you do not,

bright and joyously garish,
that make you wince and laugh
as you step in puddles
uncaring

that the destination
is not really
the destination.

======================

Anyone else's journey not what they imagined? Embrace it!

The picture was taken at the Washington County, New York county fair. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Flood

2011-09-07T07:25:00.000-04:00

Flood

It rains,
day after day of grey autumn
that floods the creeks
with painful water,
erodes the bridges,
tears at foundations and bridges
both physical and of the soul.

=============================

The photography was taken in Rupert, Vermont, the next town over from me. You can click on it for a larger version. If you do, you can get some idea of the power of the flooding. This corn is in a field where the water had to come up over 7-8 feet from the creek (that's right, creek, not river) to even get to this field, much less come over in such force it could mow the corn down.

I like the sole stalk, still standing, in defiance of the storm. That stalk represents Vermonters to me in this time of recovery.

Tom

Poem: Once There Were Fields

2011-09-04T15:56:00.000-04:00

Once There Were Fields

Once there were fields here.
Sheep grazed under weeping willows
that danced green in the evening breeze, sipping
from the stream so shallow
the smallest lambs clambered lightly
through, cooling their new wool
in the spring waters.

Now, the willows dance no longer,
corpses in the morass of angry water
that swallow fields and life and hope
in equal quantities.

===============

The picture was taken near Pawlet, Vermont. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Light and Dark

2011-08-25T10:31:00.000-04:00

Light and Dark.

The light changes,
moment to moment,
depending on where your eyes
linger.

============

I seem to be on a short poem jag just now. I can't say why.

The picture was taken at the quarry across from my house. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Each Word

2011-08-19T07:55:00.001-04:00

Each Word

When your soul is quiet,
each word
matters more.

===========================

The picture was taken in the garden house at Montecello, in Virginia. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Exit

2011-08-17T07:44:00.000-04:00

Exit

Outside there is fog and you cannot see
the quarry or it's hard grey stone.
It is oddly dark for mid-morning
and even the birds are subdued,

their august song almost a dirge,
hesitant and fearful,
anticipating, perhaps,
you first steps into the dark

unknown, anticipating
a forever fog, a journey
that will damage you,
where unseen thorns

will tear at your skin,
tear at your heart,
draining you
of life's hot blood, unaware

that you have trod this fogbound
path before, that you are less afraid
of the scars of walking in the blind mist
than remaining here, in the dark.

==================================

The photograph was taken at the National Galleries of Art this weekend, as I wandered the art filled rooms with my sister. At the base of the rooms leading back to the main hall were these unique, unobtrusive exit signs on the baseboards. You can click on them for a larger view.

Tom

Poetry, Chains of Dust

2011-08-07T07:49:00.007-04:00

Chains of Dust

It is a habit,
nothing more.

a habit,
binding like chains,

captivating,
crippling,

dangerous, yet
strangely safe,

a sweet poison,
no less deadly

for it's comfort,
no less false

for it's
longevity.

It is a habit,
nothing more,

a catechism
of lies become truth,

cradling you
over the chasm,

weak as a baby
at it's soft,

threatening promises.
It is a habit,

and only you
cannot see

the chains
are made not of steel,

but of fog,
waiting for the morning sun

that only you
can unleash.

=====================

The picture is of a set of keys my son got a while back, part of a large collection of keys he has. Yoy can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: The Plunge

2011-08-05T07:26:00.002-04:00

The Plunge

It's a mess,
this mind of yours,
a jumble of fear and exhilaration,
of ideas so plentiful
you are paralyzed, ideas

so audacious
you wonder at your sanity,
afraid you will emerge the village fool, and yet

you can see it,
clear as a vision,
choirs singing glorious harmonies
like the sirens of Odysseus,
leaving you to strain at the ropes that bind you,
ready to plunge into life

ready to be the fool
if it means you rise from the sea
more loved, more who you are
than you are today.

=============================

There is a small brass bookmark on my desk, directly in front of where I work and write each day, that has a quote by George Eliot. It reads "It is never too late to become what you might have been." I have lived that quote. It is not without risk to reach for your dreams, even when it means taking steps that seem to lead backwards, or seem a bit mad to others. But, the reward, ahhh, ah, the reward!

The picture was taken at Carowinds, on a band trip with my son last spring. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

PS: I am trying something new. Rona, the woman I love, has long suggested that people might like some of my poems, with the images to frame or even to buy already framed. To test that theory, I am going to create the next few of them in a PDF. I haven't figured out how to make them instantly downloadable yet, but if you'd like a copy (see below to see what it looks like), drop me an e-mail and I will send it to you.

Poem: Meditation on Life

2011-08-01T08:04:00.000-04:00

Meditation on Life

The skull sits on velvet,
mocking any permanence you conjor
in your mind, in your heart, knowing
that in times, you will become his twin,

unless
you learn to dance,
share your wonderment like a child,
fingerpaint,
sing with abandon in the midst of strangers,
leave love in the laps of chidren,
create, even badly,
dare to fail,
dare to succeed,
dare to touch others,
and more frighteningly,
dare to let them touch you.

=========================

The picture was taken at the Sterling Renaissance Festival yesterday, as I visited there with my son and daughter. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Matthew 12:20

2011-07-19T08:12:00.001-04:00

Matthew 12:20

You dig in the garden.
The earth, wet from the night's rain,
falls apart in your hand,
dark and rich, full or promise.

You plant the small sprig
you have nursed for a season,
patiently waiting, waiting
for the first roots to reach out,
unreasonably

in water, waiting for life to spring
from this broken limb
of a flower once loved
until storms ripped it from it's source,
and left it broken on the grass,
debris,
waiting to die.

But it did not die. Not quite.
And you are here, returning it to the earth,
it's water fed roots hungry
for earth,
for nourishment,
for deeper life

as you set it gently down,
to begin
again.

=====================

Matthew 12:20 begins: "A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out....."

The photograph was taken in my back yard a couple of years ago. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Yard Sale

2011-07-09T10:10:00.000-04:00

Yard Sale

It is a morning alone,
and you sit on the front porch,
a few scattered antiques
on your front lawn, serving

as an excuse to keep you home
and write.

Here and there through the morning,
people stop
lured by the patina of old wood,
or the dull shine of dusty brass.
Their fingers caressing the grain,
remembering perhaps,
or imagining.

One by one, things leave
with these strangers, to new homes
that will love them more than you,
where they will not live in piles of clutter
in a back workshop,

and your joy is not in the pittance
you are paid, but
in knowing that while you sit and write
in the morning sun,

you have played matchmaker.

============================

This morning I found out that there is a townwide yard sale in West Pawlet, and it gave me a chance to clean out my project room, and make myself stay home and write. The picture is of my front yard halfway through the day. You can click on it if you want a larger view.

Tom

Poem: Psalm 28:1

2011-07-02T05:46:00.000-04:00

Psalm 28:1

There are those who can wait,
whose minds are calmed by the mere act,
the mere knowing that the message is sent.
They are content to wait.

But not most of us. No.
Most of us cry in anguish,
our pain like a fire, burning our heart,

unrelenting, blistering, desperate
to hear more
than God's deafening silence.

=======================

This poem came out of my bible reading this morning. The first part of Psalm 28:1 reads: ^"To you I call, O LORD my Rock; do not turn a deaf ear to me. For if you remain silent, I will be like those who have gone down to the pit."

The photograph was taken at the American Frontier Museum in Staunton, Virginia. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Porch Writing

2011-06-27T08:34:00.000-04:00

Porch Writing

Your feet are bare
and the falling dusk wafts cool
over your skin as night falls.

You are writing again,
not snippets, but sagas,
something lost in the maelstrom

of life, and slowly returned to you,
not by a lightening bolt of inspiration,
but by a slow letting go,

a striping away, like Michelangelo's angel,
captured in marble, waiting
for the chisel to set it free.

And so here you sit on your porch,
life's dust surrounding you,
the result

of effortless work.

============================

For those of you who don't get the reference, there is an old story/legend about Michelangelo that when he was a boy and was given his first large block of marble, he was asked why he picked that particular block. His answer was that he saw the angel in it, and wanted to set it free.

Yesterday evening I spent about two hours on my front porch with my computer, typing until dusk began to fall. In the end, I had two re-written chapters of my novel done. It's something I began years ago, wrote a bit on it, and then let it go.

But as if often the case, it would not let go of ME. Ideas are like that, sometimes. They just won't let you go. And you either give in to them and begin to make them happen, or you don't and something is missing, something is wrong, incomplete, untill you at least give them a real go.

And that is the thing I have discovered about ideas. I don't have to finish them or make them perfect. I don't even have to succeed with them. But I have to give them a fair hearing. I have to give them some time and energy and effort so that if I decide to let them go, I can say without regret... "I gave that one my all. I did my best but it did not happen.". Then the thought or idea will finally let me rest.

I never gave my novel a fair chance. I know some of the reasons, and can recite them like a litany of excuses. Because in the end, that is what they are - excuses. See, I know what it takes to write a novel. I've done one, some twenty years ago. I wrote that one mostly just as an experiment, to see if I could sustain a narrative for that many pages. Having never written anything longer than a short story, I was totally intimidated by the idea of writing a narrative that would hold together for a couple hundred pages or more. So I wrote something called "The Prophesy of Peter", sort of a fantasy novel, as an experiment.

It took a year. I didn't do anything special except write a night or so a week every week for a year. And then I had a novel. No drama, nothing special, just doing it until it was done.

So my excuses, while on the surface, might sound like logical reasons not to have written this one, which has lingered in my mind, for nearly a decade. But I know the truth. I could have written the dang thing any time I wanted. Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I had the power all along. I could spend a lot of time analyzing why I haven't, and I even know some of the reasons, but in the end, I didn't do it because I didn't do it.

And now I am. I've been writing for a few hours each week for a few weeks now. Part of that time has been experimenting, trying different voices, different tacts, and I ended up coming back to the original concept. So now, I've just gone to tweaking what's already written, and moving it all forward. No drama. Just doing it. Not even examining it too closely. Just getting it down. I can rewrite later. Now, it's just time to write.

I have been influenced a great deal recently by a book called simply "Do The Work" by Stephen Pressman. It's premise is simple. We often over complicate things, over think things, over analyze things, at the cost of not DOING. That if we want to actually do something. We have to do it. It sounds simple, but guess what... It probably is that easy most of the time. WE make it complicated or difficult. The work itself doesn't make it complicated.

This is something I already knew at some level. I certainly have experienced it. But like many lessons, at times the lesson loses it's potency by virtue of time, or events, or disuse. I needed the reminder, and Pressman's book came at the right time, just as I was experiencing reminders of the lesson in other aspects of my life.

I don't regret the time not writing on this novel. It's not like I haven't been writing anything. I've written poems, an odd story here and there, magazine articles, marketing materials, proposals, letters, emails. I just haven't been writing on THIS project. And in the time since I set it aside, parts of the idea have changed, grown richer, more heartfelt, less formulamatic. I think it will be better for the time baking in the background.

Why? Because I am enjoying it. I LOVE to write. And when I write something in that spirit of enjoyment, no matter what it is, it generally ends up being pretty good. No brag, just fact. I have rediscovered the pleasure of streaming together a long story, with a character deeper in history and flaws and strengths and growth than a short story or a poem allows. When I feel this way about a project, no matter what the project, it takes on a life of its own.

So, fifteen more pages down, who knows how many more to go. It's going to be a good year.

Tom

PS - the picture is of West Pawlet taken from the quarry across from my house. You can click on it if you want a larger view.

Poem: The Dinner Table

2011-06-21T18:12:00.000-04:00

The Dinner Table

The table is set and quiet
as the sun outside falls behind the quarry walls,
its weak orange light flickering like fire in the windows.

You good china sits silently,
waiting perhaps for good company, or
a lover to come in the night,

and sip spring wine with you in candle light,
soft and kind like memory,
softening all it touches

with grace and warmth. You wait,
silent as silverware, for your company,
not knowing who will arrive

and whether the dinner conversation
will sparkle, or fly with sparks,
and you are left with the anticipation

of a child whose father drinks into the night,
a nervous sort of anticipation
half wonderment, half dread,

counting somehow on the fine china
and gentle light to make things
right.

===============

The photograph is of my dining room at Quarry House. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Porch Sitting

2011-06-14T08:45:00.001-04:00

Porch Sitting

It is cool and dark on the porch.
You sit there, comfortable in the historic debris,
the peeling paint, the faded colors, looking

out into the bright green light of morning,
afraid to step out,
yearning for what

is right in front of you.

=======================

The picture is of the Dewy Inn, in Bennington, VT. Thomas Jefferson and James Madison stayed there and now it is nearly derilict right in the main section of historic Bennington. A lovely, almost ruin. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Graduation Day

2011-06-11T10:31:00.000-04:00

Graduation Day

Just like that it's done.
The speeches are made,
the last notes of the music are finished.
The hats, just a short while ago flying in celebration
have been picked up and taken away.

The hugs, tears, laughter, dancing, pictures
and promises are made and
the hall is empty.

Like dandelion seeds,
the winds of time blow
and we drift on air,
fate and our own internal geography

carrying us to...

==================

My daughter graduated from High School in Virginia on Thursday. So of course it got me thinking.

The picture was taken at the Salem Civic Center, in Salem, Va. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: The Grange House

2011-06-04T14:19:00.000-04:00

The Grange House

The house lies just over the hill from town,
up a dirt road that transports you
to a time of black and white photographs
and history books.

It is abandoned, a physical memory
slowly fading, like paint, like dusk, waiting
for the honeysuckle vines
to swallow it in a fragrant morass.

You stand there a while, and imagine
life filling the faded Grange House,
and for a moment, you hear voices,
calling out like your own past,

crying softly on the wind: "Please."
"Please.
Remember."

================

The picture was taken last weekend, near Pawlet, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Reflection

2011-06-03T07:44:00.000-04:00

Reflection

Six months in, you find yourself simpler,
more yourself, not
by shedding skins, tasks or delights,
but

by choosing,
stopping again and again
and asking
yourself

if this moment
reaches out to your dream.

================

For the past several months, I have been simplifying life and work.

It's something I have learned about myself in the past few years, that while I handle complexity well enough, I thrive in simplicity. Events in my life forced me into simplicity five or six years ago, but as I have recovered from that blow, I have also let life become more complex, and more scattered, and so a few months ago, I set out to simplify things again, this time more purposefully.

One of the most surprising lessons is that simplifying does not mean giving up the good things in your life as much as it means making conscious choices, focusing yourself at any given moment on one thing, not twelve, lets you do all twelve, only with better concentration, more focus and appreciation of what you are doing in the moment, and more effectively. And as I reflected on this in my journal writing this morning, this little poem popped out.

The photograph was taken on Rupert Mountain, not far from my home in West Pawlet, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Seven Rules for Happiness

2011-06-01T11:50:00.002-04:00

Seven Rules for Happiness

Be still. Let the sun and the wind come to you.

Be appreciative. There is always something.

Eat and sleep well. Savor both.

Find Beauty, It's not so hard.

Dance. At least in your heart.

Pray. He's listening.

Listen, the universe speaks in silence.

====================================

OK, I am not sure this is a poem, but I decided to publish it anyway, and poem is the closest I could do to naming it!

The picture was taken last summer, near my home in West Pawlet, Vermont.

Tom

Poem: The Art of Self Exposure

2011-05-23T08:59:00.000-04:00

The Art of Self Exposure

It is slow,
a deathly climb,
a tightrope dance
in darkness

with the dawn slithering
towards you, each moment
reveling your truest
beauty, your truest

fear,

until you stand,
sun reflecting off your soul
in a place where
you will remain frozen forever, or

where
you leap into the abyss
for the audience to see

all.

==================

This poem was written after reading this article on "The Art of Self Exposure" on the Oprah web site.

The picture was taken at Carowinds, near Charlotte, NC, on a recent trip with my son's middle school band. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Teacup Lives

2011-05-21T10:42:00.001-04:00

Teacup Lives

You sit at a table with a perfect stranger,
sharing coffee, sharing lives,
sharing brokenness over a cup of cappuccino

while outside it rains,
tears for the teacup lives
dropped, broken, repaired

but never perfectly.

==========================

Today I wrote for about two hours, finishing this poem. I have been working on for a few days. At one point the poem was one of the longest poems I have ever written, nearly three pages full of verse, assonance, alliteration, and clever (if I do say so myself) turns of words. It was one of those poems that kept you guessing, seeming to lead you in one direction, then twisting you unexpectedly in another direction through a labyrinth of verse. I really enjoyed writing it. I was kind of proud of it, since long poems are not my forte.

But then, I began to edit, and it changed. Bit by bit I deconstructed my epic verse, carving this little piece and that little piece, working hard to whittle away anything that did not have to do with the essence of the poem. When I was done, it was 7 lines. 7 short lines.

But it was truer. It captured, far more effectively, in 7 short lines. the essence of what I wanted to say.

I have always had trouble padding what I write. For me, writing anything good is often more about stripping away what is unnecessary than just getting the words down. It is something that at times, got me in trouble.

I can remember one year in graduate school at VCU, I wrote an essay for one of my classes. It was supposed to be something like 10 pages long, but my paper, when I was done, was only about five pages. The teacher made me take it back and revise it. I did, not by re-writing, but by adding fluff that filled the pages without adding anything to the argument. I got my 10 pages done and got my "A". But the paper, in my mind, was far weaker at 10 pages than it was at 5.

But, while I have always hated purposefully padding things, as a writer, whether it be "creative" writing like poetry and fiction, or "professional" writing like proposals or copy writing, my first drafts have tended to be wordy. It is as if I need to just throw a lot of stuff out there because it's all floating around, and then I need take the time to step back and whittle away to get to the essence. When I was in graduate school at Hollins, I had a friend there who pointed that trait out to me. Many times he suggested that I cut out huge chunks of my poem to make it what it really was. I often hated it, but he was always right. And I have carried that lesson with me for the longest time.

There is magic in finding the essence of something. I have a particular fondness of artists who capture the essence of something in a few lines. I can't do that. My own drawings are a thicket of lines and details, and people like them well enough to hang them in their homes. But I lack that ability to reduce a drawing to the essence. Fortunately I can do it with words.

Doing it though, requires a bit of discipline, and a bit of sacrifice. Creative people take ownership of what they do. It's not just something we write, it's part of us. And it's hard to cut off part of us, even when perhaps, it's not the best part. Those of us who have been through counseling over an extended time, know just what I mean, because that is at times part of the counseling process. But the rewards are great.

The rewards are not just that whittling down often ends up with something better, more true and focused, though heaven knows that would be a pretty good reward all by itself. But there is also the self knowledge that you have the power to create at your best. And that dear readers, is magical.

Tom

BTW, The picture was taken at Hildene, in Manchester, VT. You can click on the image for a larger version.

Poem: Nothing, but

2011-05-17T09:52:00.001-04:00

Nothing, but

You are empty today,
unable to describe where you are,
what you are feeling,

simply

drained.

Somewhere, you know,
there are cauldrons boiling,
gears whirling manically,
a whirlwind, potentially
devastating or magical.

You know they are there,
deep inside of you,
uncontrolled, dangerous,
furious and fearful,
desperate in their need

to escape.

Yet, when you reach for the door
to let them in, there is nothing there,
an eerie silence,
a promise of.........

============================

The picture was taken in an abandoned hotel in Manchester, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Of Gateways and Walls

2011-05-04T11:44:00.000-04:00

Of Gateways and Walls

You sit at an anonymous table
alone in a room of familiar strangers,
while thoughts without form swirl around you
like madcap ghosts, half horror, half comedy,

vague and lacelike, formless,
not real, yet immensely powerful,
gatekeepers of your heartcastle, unsure
whether the enemy you guard against

is them, or you.

==========================

The picture was taken in Rome. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Thoughts: A God of Second Chances

2011-04-24T08:37:00.000-04:00

It is Easter. I woke early this morning, and instead of going to a sunrise service, which I like to do, I walked to the top of the quarry and alone, watched the sun rise, thinking about not what the resurrection means, not to the world, not to mankind, but how has it changed me, personally.

This morning, I found myself thinking of my former pastor at Colonial Avenue Baptist, Branan Thompson. One of his messages and themes in 29 years of ministry there was that we were not to live on a "borrowed faith", that while we may have been brought up a certain way, that until we found our own way, our own path, we were not where we needed to be. As I sat on the top of the quarry, looking towards Granville, I remembered how Peter and Paul and others disputed whether it was Ok to eat certain things. A close reading of the bible shows real disagreement and for both, it seems to have been a matter of faith. In the end, though, it was not the fact or the action at all that was important. It was that each of them had a relationship with God, and that that relationship led them to a certain set of actions that they felt, within that relationship, would keep them closer to God. Branan had a consistent message, and many of us who worshiped under his guidance took away lessons that were profound and life changing.

That whole idea of relationship, and the importance of being in touch with God so that we can build that relationship and tap into his amazing love and power, brought to mind another pastor, Carol Johnston, from Troutville Baptist. Building that relationship with God one one of her major themes, and it was part of what led me to join that church, Because without the relationship with God (and those of you who read this and are not Christian, I suspect it is the same in your faith, whatever it may be.). Without time spent in personal spiritualness, focusing our minds towards God, we are are less than we can be.

Not "bad" - I would not say that. I know many, many people who have little or no relationship with God, but know and live the "rules", and they are fine, fine people. Admirable and kind and loving who lives good lives. Good people. But less than they could be. I've had periods in my life too, where I was distant from God, relationally, and yet was still a relatively "good" person. But I was less than I could be. Less than, I think, God would like me to be.

Thinking of Easter, I thought of that, and how relationship changes things. What happened after Jesus' resurrection was nothing short of a miracle. These disciples and apostles knew Christ. They had traveled with him and followed his teaching and preaching for years. They had a relationship with him. And his death broke them. But his resurrection empowered them. Not just because it happened, but because they knew him, and were open not just to the possibility that it happened, but to the power that he offered. The power to live a changed life. The power to become something more than they were.

Because they were not much really, when you look at them before the resurrection. They were not much, if you look at them before their relationship with Christ. But within relationship... they changed a world.

Scary huh? To know that much power is available to us simply by coming into relationship with God and allowing him to work within us.

I have always felt in my mind that God is a God of second chances. Certainly the bible is full of men and women who got second acts in their lives after coming into relationship with God. Those who came to Jesus directly and got to know him in person, always came away profoundly different. Healed. Changed. Transformed. The difference was in them all the while, but it was only in relationship that it came out. That they became what they could be.

I got a taste of how transformed we can become after my divorce. I was as broken as a man could be in that time. Many things contributed to my climbing out of that hole, A wonderful Christian counselor. A dear, dear friend. Hours and hours at prayer. And David Blugerman, the pastor at Wellspring Presbyterian, who lived the transformational love of Christ, and helped me see and experience what before, had mostly been theory and words - about how forgiveness breeds a resurrection of our own spirit.

It's a journey, this faith of ours, and the path can be twisting and surprising. Often, we are not where we think we are on that path. But if we follow it in relationship with God, we get second and third and fourth chances. That is one of the sweeping themes of the Bible. It is the message of Easter. David Blugerman often says that we can't sin (fail, screw up, flounder, ruin our own lives, pick whatever is haunting you) enough to offset God's ability to heal and raise us up. The resurrection was and is the embodiment of that. And that is why today, more than any other day, we can celebrate a love that has THAT kind of power.

After reflecting on the pastors that have made a difference in my life, I ended with prayer before I walked down to wake up my daughter and get ready for church. We'll hear wonderful music in a true colonial church in Manchester, a reminder of the continuance of faith through the ages. I am sure the sermon will be good. But I have already worshiped deeply.

The picture is from behind my house, one of the lilac bushes, just beginning to bud out. Here in Vermont, we are coming off the worst winter in 43 years, and so spring, even the first hints of spring, has a special glory to it. In the same way, after a tough time in life, faith, and rediscovering relationship with God through prayer and reading and meditation, can have a special glory after we have been through rough times without it.

May you all have a blessed Easter.

Tom

Poem: Wind Shift

2011-04-17T14:42:00.000-04:00

Wind Shift

....and just like that, the wind changes,
the clouds are blown in or out,
the thunder cracks the night,

and everything is different,
for better, for worse,
but changed forever,

unexpectedly new,
and in that moment we dance for joy
or curse the gods,

not realizing that what we see now,
that change of wind,
rarely brings the weather we think we see,

but instead,
something
entirely unexpected.

======================

Last night, my love and I were talking about changes in me and in my writing since I have moved to Vermont, and she asked me why I thought they had come about. As I thought, there were several reasons, but at the same time, I got to thinking about how often life brings change, and in the moment it happens, we are thinking it will end one way, when instead, over time, we find God has something entirely different in mind. And from those thoughts, this poem.

The picture was taken just outside Troy, NY. It has nothing to do with anything, but you can click on it to see a larger version.

Poem: Spring Ice

2011-04-07T10:33:00.000-04:00

Spring Ice

It is April, but
ice lingers on the trees,
bright in the afternoon sun,
a painful tease of seasons

a reminder of how time heals
but erratically, with cold pain
cutting into the new warmth
at the most unexpected moments.

================

The photograph was taken in Manchester, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Of Prisoners and Choirboys

2011-03-25T09:46:00.000-04:00

Of Prisoners and Choirboys

You look perfectly normal
the burrowing scars unseen,
cankerous reminders
of a journey through madness,
a decent deep, consuming,
painful to remember, impossible
to ignore, and age of imprisonment
so short and dark, it echos
in the night, like a train's whistle
crying, moaning n the night,
calling you.
Calling you,
God's own tears
calling you back to him,
each teardrop like acid
breaking the chains,
so you can flee
back to his sanctuary,
and sing.

===============

The title was inspired by Willow of Willow Manor, who just published a chapbook of poems.
The picture was taken in Rome. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Photograph: Hildene

2011-03-17T09:05:00.000-04:00

A photograph from the dining room table at Hildene. Hildene is the home of Robert Todd Lincoln and his family, Abraham Lincoln's son. And the table reflects an elegance that is missing in today's world, for the most part.

When I was young, I had an aunt, Aunt Helen, who was a throwback to this age, and at every meal, the table was set properly, with a full regalia of silverware and china. It was not that she was rich - far from it. But she carried that elegance in her and it spilled over to many of us in her family. While I do not eat this way all the time, I do like to eat in the dining room, with real china, pretty regularly. It somehow makes me feel rich, and more importantly, it makes me feel tied to my own past.

Tom

Poem: Somewhere Underneath

2011-03-10T08:09:00.000-05:00

Somewhere Underneath

Somewhere underneath
the snow,
there is life,
deep,
buried,
waiting,
no matter how hard the winter,
no matter how long,
it waits
for it's moment to erupt
to break loose
from it's white coffin,
to become color,
but
some winters are everlasting
unless
you have the courage,
and the strength
to dig
deep,
muscles straining,
to find the ground
and free it,
to find ground and say
to it,
here, is the sun,
arise!
Arise!
For leaving it to
nature, to fate,
to the seasons
often means death,
not of the flowers,
but of your own soul.
So dig. Now.
Trust the sun you cannot see.
Trust the God you cannot hear.
Dig. Now.
Lest your soul dies
and misses
God's persistent spring.

==================

The picture was taken behind my house, here in Vermont where we are having the deepest winter in 43 years. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Thoughts: On Driving

2011-02-28T13:22:00.000-05:00

I drive a lot in my work, and much of that driving is at night, often not arriving at my destination until late in the night, or very early in the morning. For some, that might be hard duty, but I find for me, it is not. Driving is almost a form of mediation for me, particularly at night.

There is something about cars, reduced to moving lights, that create a dance, something almost organic in their movement. I find myself acutely aware of their movement, their trajectories and speed, and in my mind, traffic becomes sort of an intimate dance, where the moves are all familiar, yet always changing and new, and the constant shift and change is almost intoxicating, yet at the same time, stimulates my mind.

I pray a great deal while driving at night. When I am called on to pray at home or at church, my prayers tend to be short, simple affairs, as if just by being called on with no chance to think on things, my mind freezes or at least seems to short change prayer with a few lines, that no matter how heartfelt, always seem somehow, difficient in thanking our God. Yet late at night, my prayers soar, almost like a psalm more than a mere prayer, calling out God's blessing on the people I care for most deeply and in detail, laying out the thankfulness of my heart and the struggles of that same heart with emotion few who know me would recognize. Transported to some mysterious place by the dance of lights and the drone of my engine that is not just heard, but felt throughout my body, I somehow feel close to the eternal in a way only the grandeur of nature approaches.

Driving at night, I think much about the people I love, and what I love of them. Last night, I spent over an hour simply recalling a brief time the woman I love and I spent together a couple of weeks ago. The joy in that remembrance was longer than the actual moment itself, and the appreciation of the moment was deep, perhaps even deeper for the remembrance that I realized in the entrancement of thought as I drove. Earlier in the day I got caught up thinking about my children, and the simple joy I have in their presence. This happens often for me, as I travel in what seems like silence.

It is only silence on the surface, but something fluid and alive inside. I don't always have words for these things, and if called on in the moment to share them, I doubt I could find the words, because they are more feelings and emotions than words, and words seem so thin in describing them. It is one of my weaknesses.

This is why I write poetry, I think. I am often trying to capture something later that I cannot grasp in the moment, yet somehow I need to get out. Often a poem comes in the long drive, or at least the subject or a phrase that is central to the poem.

I often wish I was better at saying the things I feel when I am in the quietness of my car, but I often find myself floundering. Still, I am grateful for a work that forces me to travel, and find these depths in myself, and at times, get them out.

I am curious sometimes, and perhaps some of you who read this can share with me - am I alone in the way driving moves me?

Tom

PS: the picture was taken while traveling, maybe a year or so ago. Pretty useless a shot really, except to illustrate a post like this one. But if you like it, you can click on it to see a larger version.

Poem: Waiting for Restoration

2011-02-25T09:20:00.000-05:00

Waiting for Restoration

You sit
alone
on a bench worn
with age
and weather,
rough to the touch.
stripped by winters,
void of paint,
raw
like your soul, worn
to a point near breaking,
yet somehow
still serviceable
because that is what you do,
what you are,
functional in your raw beauty
until you break
at one final weight while
waiting
for restoration.

============

The picture was taken in Northern Vermont this past fall. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Eternity

2011-02-23T08:10:00.003-05:00

Eternity

Eternity is measured
not by some neverending certainty,
but by seasons,
constantly changing,
always the same, always different,
in timing and passion,
in violence, brokenness and growth,
always something created
despite loss and destruction,
a universe of prayers
flying madly through the sky,
to and from a God,
who like a masterful conductor,
bring eternal order
from our chaotic pleas.

==================

The picture was taken at Lithia Methodist Church, in Lithia, Virginia. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: After The Chocolate

2011-02-13T11:46:00.001-05:00

After The Chocolate

After the chocolate is unwrapped and finished;

after the dinner is done.

After the card is read and put away in a drawer

or left in a pile on the table.

After the evening is past with it's artificial romance

out of hallmark and a hundred different ads,

there is this:

dedication and delight
in the one you love,

and that is surely, enough.

================

I hope my readers have a joyful valentine's day.

Tom

Poem: The Challenge

2011-02-07T12:51:00.000-05:00

The Challenge

The violin sits on the table,
the once perfect wood stripped of varnish,
its raw essence rough against your hands,
more real for it's texture,
two hundred years of history at your fingertips,

scars spider over it's face, like your own,
like your soul, each line
deep and telling,
mysterious markers, character

that can be seen and felt,
but still somehow,
leaving the story untold,
a thing to be wondered at.

The challenge is not
how to turn this distressed instrument
perfect and beautiful. That is easy,
a mere conjouring of sandpaper
and time erasing away the truth and struggle,

with gloss and shellac.

No,

The challenge is to save it's essence
while rebuilding it's strength,
letting the scars enhance it's beauty
while never, ever
destroying the truth,

until what remains
is beauty of another kind,
historic and new
all at once.

===========

This poem began to be about a table, but the idea of refinishing an instrument became more compelling and complete some how, and so... here it is. The picture is of a violin in Venice, not perfect, but perfectly beautiful. You can click on it for a larger version

Tom

2011-01-28T13:32:00.002-05:00

Leviticus 1: Burnt Offerings

The ground is deep with snow
and it takes time to dig out the cast iron fire pit,
and fill it, not with logs
but with letters of innocence,

from a time when you believed
more than could have been possible, when
love was pure, and you
felt what was not there, blind

to your own faults and to that soul
you felt so linked to, and yet,
were not.

You light the match, and flames leap
in a tortured dance, lighting the night sky
with their writing as letter by letter,
you watch your past fly

heavenward in bright sparks,
and then, like life, and at times, human love,
flicker out.

==============

The title and idea for the poem came from my bible reading in Leviticus this morning. Chapter 1 is about burnt offerings, not exactly what the poem is about, and yet, there are themes that link that book and this poem.

The picture was taken in Botetourt Country, at a church gathering a couple of years ago with my fiends at Welspring Presbyterian Church. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: The Fence

2011-01-26T12:59:00.004-05:00

The Fence

The fence has no paint, worn
from time and weather, broken
from accumulated weakness, grey
with age, a reminder

that change is slow, yet constant
and that we have a choice
of whether to let it in through the gate,
or let it slowly break us

into dust.

==============

Lots of change going on in my life these days, and thinking about it spawned this poem. The picture was taken in Wells, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Begging

2011-01-19T10:17:00.003-05:00

Begging

You are not accustomed to beggars,
and they disturb you,
reminding you of how much you have,
and of your own time as a beggar,

not for money, but for love,
for worth in another's eyes,
for hope to build on,
for things that were never to come,

and less valuable than you believed, less
vital to survival than you imagined, less
yours to earn than another's to grant,

and you remember how it all changed,
not by a gift, but
by your own understanding
that your worth is not another's to judge,

but yours and God's alone.

===========

The photograph was taken in Venice, Italy. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Letters of Fire

2011-01-17T07:59:00.002-05:00

Letters of Fire

Your eyes linger on the quarry.
Soft snow covers the thick ice,
perfect whiteness.

It is cold. Minus fourteen,
but still, without wind.

You stand by a fire,
small, dancing,
it's warmth a mere flicker
against the cold

as you read letters,
one by one,
tales of failure and fear,

of past and present,
stories of unwinnable wars
that are part of you,

even as you drop them,
one by one,
into the fire.

==============

It really was minus fourteen Saturday. And I have been playing with the idea of poems about cold ever since. More to come, I suspect.

The picture was taken down the road in West Pawlet, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poetry: A Moan to God

2011-01-12T08:08:00.002-05:00

A Moan to God

The church windows line up like soldiers,
dark against white paint, portals
to a sacred space long abandoned,
repainted every so often,
carefully tended on the outside, but abandoned within.

You go inside, brushing aside years of cobwebs,
stepping in dust that leaves footprints as you pass,
and settle on an oak pew, not too close
to the cross you remember
that hangs empty on the wall.

And you pray.

No sophisticated public prayer, this;
no rise and fall of perfect words or comfortable phrases,
no,
this is a prayer of pain unexpressively by words,
a plea, a confession, a moan to God,

your eyes open and unseeing,
your heart open and raw,
your truth here alone with you and God
for hours, until

you finally look up
and notice, not the cross,
but the windows, and how these portals,
so dark from outside, here in the abandoned sanctuary
let in light.

==================

The picture was taken at New Bethel Baptist Church, in Botetourt County, Va. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Waiting for Snow

2011-01-07T13:07:00.005-05:00

Waiting for Snow.

Outside it is gray. Old snow lies on the ground,
faded white, reflecting the sparse light
from the afternoon sun.

Inside, you sit at your desk,
waiting for the snow, that fresh brightness
that so unexpectedly

falls from dark skies.

=================================

The picture was taken in Manchester, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Journey to Beauty

2011-01-03T18:29:00.004-05:00

The Journey to Beauty

You remember this house
when it was a shell,
empty windows and doorways
filled with vines, gray and lifeless,

like yourself, drained by time
and wear, abandoned and left
to lie, no one caring enough
to repair or refresh,

not even, ultimately,
yourself.

You remember this house,
and where you began,
not with fresh paint
and glass, but down below,

in the dark grey of the foundation,
replacing the grey stones,
one after another, with stones
square and true, and

not of this world, perfect
because they were not yours, but God's,
waiting, waiting, waiting
for you to secretly lay them where, unseen
they would hold up the world.

You remember this house,
not the way it is seen today,
but as it once was, a ruin,
Aware as few are, to

the long painful path
from the edge of death,
to rebirth and renovation:
the journey to beauty.

===============

The picture was taken in Botetourt Country, Va., near Eagle Rock. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

A Virginian In Vermont: Christmas

2010-12-25T08:24:00.004-05:00

It is my second Christmas in Vermont.

There is something strange about celebrating Christmas in a new place. Whether it is a new place physically, like a new home or a new town, or a new place emotionally, after a death or divorce, there is something missing, a feeling of displacement, and often, loss. The traditions of the past are broken. The place the tree always went is no longer there. The ritual of putting together the Christmas villiage is changed. The children are no longer with you, living their own lives and creating their own traditions, while your tradition has changed.

Last year, I was new in Vermont and new to Quarry House. I felt alfloat without Christmas tradition. I put out my favorite Christmas decorations, but somehow they looked out of place. I had not found a church home, and although I went to church, I may as well have been in a foreign land.

It was not a bad Christmas. In fact, it was lovely. I had good time alone with Rona, and she fixed a magnificent feast, the kind of feast that was as beautiful to behold as is was to eat, the kind of meal that belonged on the cover of Southern Living or Yankee magazine. Having a holiday, with less people in it has an unexpected dividend - you get to spend more focused time with the people you love, and that is a blessing.

Another blessing came of the change. After over 25 years of doing Christmas the same way, in pretty much the same place, when you find yourself in a different place, with your traditions changed by either choice of circumstance, you rediscover the adventure of building new traditions. You could dwell on the change as loss, or the change as adventure. I have found it surprisingly freeing, at 54, to live in a new place, to celebrate less extravagantly, to find new places for the decorations that are part of my Christmas. But this year, I know where my favorite Lenox nativity looks good. I have a church I go to regularly. I am learning that here in Vermont, a white Christmas is the norm (and yes, there is snow on the ground.), and learning to love it.

Things are still in flux. My daughter, a senior in high school is with me for the first time in years, and with her here the house, there is suddenly baking and the house is full of good smells and sweet calories. And Rona, the woman I love and who I moved to Vermont to be near, has been in Florida helping her sister deal with sudden sickness and a new baby, so we did not know until a day or so ago whether we would celebrate Christmas together or 23 hours apart, and so there were no plans, something odd for a planner like myself. And it is only my second year here, and I am still learning the local traditions and things to be a part of.

I have learned this, something I knew in my head, but now know in my heart by experience. Christmas is a celebration that knows no bounds. Traditions are nice, but they are not the celebration. The celebration is either in our hearts. If we open our heart to celebration, we experience it. If we let external circumstances, like loss or change, close us to celebration, it does not exist for us. We make that decision, not life or place. There is adventure in change, chances to grow, to learn new ways to celebrate this most holy of days, to realize how universal it is, no matter where, or with whom, or even alone, we celebrate it.

This is part of what God wants for us I think - a better realization that if we focus more on him and less on the external, we are not "better" people. We are simply people who have learned that the power of joy is always available to us, if only we keep our focus less on the external, and more on the holy, on God and God with us.

May you all have a blessed Christmas, where ever you are.

Tom

=============

The picture is of the "Christmas Tree" my daughter made of our gifts.

Poem: December 21st

2010-12-20T10:38:00.006-05:00

December 21st

Outside it is granite gray,
dark and Vermont cold,
colorless, sleet clicking
against the windows in the dark.

Inside, your heart is in Italy,
vibrant, alive with flavor and sun,
memories of love and warmth,
of walks on canals, hands touching,

hearts touching,
color filling your days,
not just then,
but now.

===================

The picture iwas taken in Burano, Italy. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: A Winter Without Snow

2010-12-06T08:59:00.003-05:00

A Winter Without Snow

It is winter,
cold and dry.
The skies are dark,
and wind pulls at the bare tree limbs.

It is winter,
and there is no snow,
no comforting white blanket
to hide the painful bitterness.

It is winter,
stark and real,
and you are thankful,
for the warmth

of these four walls
of faith, love, hope,
and yes, the harsh truth
of winter.

=====================

The picture was taken in Newport, RI, last winter. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Night Drilling

2010-11-18T12:05:00.005-05:00

Night Drilling

Drilling in the night air
is a lonely affair,
thankless
and yours alone,
that probing
of the soul,
deep into your darkest places,
long suffering,
difficult,
too constant,
unsure
that there is an end to it,
too sure
that the years
of drilling
leave nothing
but more darkness,
a black hole
of heartache
from which
you will never emerge,
until
one day,
you strike light,
and like magic
you erupt
into morning.

==================

The picture was taken near Dorset, VT. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poetry: Sleet

2010-11-12T07:56:00.006-05:00

Sleet

Ice falls.
wind whipped,
clicking,
sleet,
cutting in the dark,
tapping
on windows,
angry
and cold.
Even the sound
chills,
a reminder
that in the world
we must tend
our fires
within,
diligently.

===========

No reading aloud today - I have a madhouse at work going on and practically no time extra.

The picture was taken just down the road from my home in West Pawlet. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

A Virginian in Vermont - Seasons

2010-11-07T06:46:00.004-05:00

I have been in Vermont now about 18 months, long enough to begin to get a feel for the seasons here. Like Virginia, Vermont has four distinct seasons (maybe five, if you include the few weeks in the spring that it rains and rains that the locals call "mud season".

Four distinct seasons is something I always loved about living in Virginia. I have had friends and family move to places like Florida and out west, where the seasons are not as distinct and for me, I would feel something was missing, a sense of losing track of God's own timing, without them.

That's silly of course, a notion, since much of the world does not have the very visible and tactile sense of changing seasons. But having had it all my life, it would be missed.

The four seasons are a delight, but different here than in Virginia. They run different lengths because we are eleven hours north than my birth state.

So winter comes earlier. We had snow here, capping the mountains with a lacy crown of white, in early October. It's now mid November and the locals, when we are gathered together having coffee in Duchies Store, seem surprised that we have not had a "real" snow yet. My daughter, who moved up here with me in June, thinks the idea of a "real" snow in November is unthinkable.

I remember when my sister moved from South Carolina to Virginia. It took a couple of seasons for her to acclimate to the earlier cold. I feel I have adjusted to the timing, but not the severity yet. It gets downright cold up here. People here just go with it, but I suspect when the digits on the thermometer only have one number in them, which is pretty common in winter, I won't fully adjust.

Snow lingers here. In Virginia, even in the western part of the state where I lived for thirty years or so, it snows, and in a day or few, it's mostly gone. Here, snow does not visit, it moves in. The ground stays covered much of the season in it's blanket of white. And the sky is gray much of the season.

No wonder Vermonters love their spring so much. The growing season is short here, but once the snow melts, the gardens here are glorious. And there are more nurseries per capita here than you can imagine. That 11 hour difference means we're not supposed to plant our gardens till after Memorial Day, but once we do, the who area explodes in gardens and color. It's like nature knows it does not have much time and moves in fast motion. By the end of June, the season and gardens have nearly caught up with Virginia, and for a month or two, the seasons seem in sync.

Except that here, with the exception of this summer, there is far less heat, and far less humidity. I did break down and get a window air conditioner in this, the hottest summer in 53 years in Vermont. I think I used it about a week or two all summer. If there is a perfection in weather, it is the normal Vermont summer. A few days in the 80's, mostly high 70's, and low humidity. Perfection for being out side doing anything.

And fall. Oh my. Again, it comes fast. The colors this year began to change in early September. I love fall in Virginia, but there is a light, probably again the 11 hours north difference, that makes Vermont fall color particularly brilliant. I've now had two falls up here, and they are amazing, but short.

Short because winters are long, and so here we are in mid November again, grey and cold and the trees are bare, and everyone is planning their gardens for spring. A beautiful cycle of change, growth, and endings that parallels life.

I do love my seasons.

============

The picture was taken a month ago at Burr and Burton Academy in nearby Manchester. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Hosea 13:5

2010-11-04T13:36:00.006-04:00

Hosea 13:5

You have cut back the thorns,
the only survivor of summer's drought,
those thorny fronds threatening
the color of God's summer, that

if left, would choke the life, the color
from the garden,
then die themselves,
a lesson you have learned

in your own life,
once so choked with thorns
that you could not see past them
to the life beckoning,

the life desired for you,
lovingly prepared
by a God who loves,
but expects you, not him

to be the gardener.

And so you have learned the lesson,
that even in the wilderness,
there can be life, joy and flowers,
that color can survive

even your own efforts
to starve it away,
and those things you have cut away,
those things long lost

are not lost at all,
but merely compost
for the coming spring.

=====================

The verse in the bible that this poem refers to reads: "I did know thee in the wilderness, in the land of great drought." It is from this morning's bible reading.

The picture was taken near Dorset, VT, this summer. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Serenity

2010-11-01T08:32:00.007-04:00

Serenity

Serenity.
It comes
not
in the seeking;
not in the chasing,
but in the stillness
within,

a willingness
to release,
to empty,
to make room
within,

to open yourself
to the peace
that is not yours to take,
but God's
to give.

----------------------------

The picture was taken on Rupert Mountain, not far from my home. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom

Poem: Rennovation Blues

2010-10-28T08:43:00.004-04:00

Renovation Blues

You peer in the window
of the ancient house,
a survivor for two hundred years
and more, now worn and tattered,

a relic of what once was,
and looking in, you see,
not the fallen stairs
and rippled plaster,
not the raw, scratched floors,
and layers of peeling paint,
but something else.....

You see what could be,
and in your mind you see each step,
the slow, laborious work
that if applied
could transform the house

from ghost to glorious.
You know the path to rennovaton
because you have done this,
rebuilding your own house,
brick by heart breaking brick

in the process of demolition and rebirth
that is the only road
from ghost
to glorious.

You peer in the window,
into the house that is not yours,
knowing that these walls are not yours to break down,
not yours to rebuild,

and you walk away,
crying.

=========================

I have Willow to thank for reminding me of the power of poetry when read. She recently had Whale Sounds read one of her poems and listening, I thought to myself, "I need to get back to that." and so I've gotten back to it. It may mean poems being a little slower to appear here, as it takes some time to do each one, but that's not all bad.

The picture was taken in Wells, Vermont, not far from my home in West Pawlet. You can click on it to see a larger version.

Take care,

Tom

Poem: More

2010-10-25T13:08:00.000-04:00

Poem: More

Be gentle with yourself.
You are more
that you imagine, more
than those you barely let in
see, more
loved than you can dream of, more
powerful than you understand, more
dreamed of, more
able to bend like grasses in the wind, more,
so very much more,
than you will allow.

============

The picture was taken near West Pawlet. VT. You can click on it for a larger version.