tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46145098866047365882024-03-18T15:54:37.118-07:00Dreaming Out LoudA writer's escape into the inner world where imagination meets virtual realityStirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.comBlogger138125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-69650216751149643872024-03-18T15:37:00.000-07:002024-03-18T15:37:07.140-07:00New Moon<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhijeXlnJFPnzq-DxHJbfGTl4V4kG3YA-5dqrDgoGxEH9RpLrRTMurC2g8DQ7QSF2SKLCDQ48RMGv__F_4MK7MnrxY7M95ug6n7Pnj9nSASyTFx9z2xIWTVCwcXOWrBhPL76mgZFRJIQLk9JmqffllTg_CpSuluZUXrSzzx4jmJ60ckIxXl3rOWhXE8Wds/s2992/20240312_192037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2992" data-original-width="2992" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhijeXlnJFPnzq-DxHJbfGTl4V4kG3YA-5dqrDgoGxEH9RpLrRTMurC2g8DQ7QSF2SKLCDQ48RMGv__F_4MK7MnrxY7M95ug6n7Pnj9nSASyTFx9z2xIWTVCwcXOWrBhPL76mgZFRJIQLk9JmqffllTg_CpSuluZUXrSzzx4jmJ60ckIxXl3rOWhXE8Wds/s320/20240312_192037.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>The Farmer's Almanac tell us to plant<br />When the moon is new<br />Water the seeds with your spontaneous tears<br />Pray for the merciful sunlight<br />Know that insects burrow from below<br />And birds watch for the fruit<br />Rabbits and deer will nibble<br />And new shoots will emerge from the snow<br />Long after, when you've almost forgotten<br />You'll look up at the full golden moon<br />Amid her billowing skirts of clouds<br />And remember to harvest.</p><p><br /></p>Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-65930534981403040642023-11-19T17:08:00.000-08:002023-11-19T17:08:27.675-08:00Holding Pattern<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVLbxbiRZ9fnVXhaT1aup2AW0ZW_ztgm1HIXhwm5JyD0FbfZNwZSkfK2yiClGTdVD8eGXHwmuEwAUYUOEJ7CDZYMFunO6yqAG2f522YkEca6L60YSNpcFzDRhFfGm7_glZXNoQFvOGmWunxF87XeN8CqRMGuFeHPxjQ7oSOhuY0FhN_JMEalpYCZWDEx0/s2992/20231031_145357.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2992" data-original-width="2992" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVLbxbiRZ9fnVXhaT1aup2AW0ZW_ztgm1HIXhwm5JyD0FbfZNwZSkfK2yiClGTdVD8eGXHwmuEwAUYUOEJ7CDZYMFunO6yqAG2f522YkEca6L60YSNpcFzDRhFfGm7_glZXNoQFvOGmWunxF87XeN8CqRMGuFeHPxjQ7oSOhuY0FhN_JMEalpYCZWDEx0/s320/20231031_145357.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Myriad designs appear</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> <span> </span>shifting,</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span style="font-size: medium;">Impossible to predict,</span></span></p><p><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> <span> </span>their scope or temperature,</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> <span> </span><span> </span> mood or longevity.</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;">How capricious</span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> <span> </span>our elusive, ephemeral life.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;">That much we </span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span> </span> can depend on.</span></span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpODZmPG3tY95Jl4Ut4Rs4z1Yv63Fhw6cnEtPiF6kr0-siO499vAmAx-_QZdqCk0wuJ5liGmFv70pE50R9bS-QzX4xGhFkOTOfjrzU94Ubw0aW1DWCJgG5yNvS5cAtzVYHCvPEwXY1fTILiWZqlG-95YAZYKRiv5BONFgZxVDc0hHmktFsqPi6oEpIMMU/s2992/20231031_144207.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2992" data-original-width="2992" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpODZmPG3tY95Jl4Ut4Rs4z1Yv63Fhw6cnEtPiF6kr0-siO499vAmAx-_QZdqCk0wuJ5liGmFv70pE50R9bS-QzX4xGhFkOTOfjrzU94Ubw0aW1DWCJgG5yNvS5cAtzVYHCvPEwXY1fTILiWZqlG-95YAZYKRiv5BONFgZxVDc0hHmktFsqPi6oEpIMMU/s320/20231031_144207.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span><p></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p>Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-3311584819970554142023-06-07T20:05:00.000-07:002024-03-18T15:31:25.381-07:00Burning Questions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZMJ0KQiWUosGJQ1KxvNq-PgERaRTSqbp572NsF7XZG7xd8FXsm-Fdl9sfbOwEssYkYUbQfNLW6xVMCrQhcl67dRKTH-PilYLk42Gi0roLgNQ-nBVMrMoae51BMNJ0jn8IjFLRpMiJ9-mUSj_FoZ1P7Y3TTb4ev0You6ADIdQ19KgjaA9bFnLuV5MLSOs/s2905/20240218_135356.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2283" data-original-width="2905" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZMJ0KQiWUosGJQ1KxvNq-PgERaRTSqbp572NsF7XZG7xd8FXsm-Fdl9sfbOwEssYkYUbQfNLW6xVMCrQhcl67dRKTH-PilYLk42Gi0roLgNQ-nBVMrMoae51BMNJ0jn8IjFLRpMiJ9-mUSj_FoZ1P7Y3TTb4ev0You6ADIdQ19KgjaA9bFnLuV5MLSOs/s320/20240218_135356.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Can we be friends?<br />Can we survive?<br />Can we agree?<br />Can we believe and disbelieve<br />And still agree<br />And still be friends<br />And still survive?</p><p>The thread between<br />You (the big you) and<br />Me (the whole me)<br />Feels strong and insubstantial,<br />Like the air we breathe,<br />The inscrutable sea.</p><p>Smoke drifts down from Canada,<br />Refugees from Kiev,<br />Great white sharks upon our shores,<br />Arctic curlews leave.<br />I dream of flooded floors<br />In a second story home.</p><p>When the smell of fire<br />Decorates the yellow sky,<br />These uninvited facts<br />Creep in and multiply.<br />I wake and rub my eyes<br />While the birds cry.</p><p><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p>Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-37158595097675410562022-10-26T17:48:00.005-07:002024-03-18T15:53:36.185-07:00Portal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ95bLpG_xXjAv1vlvYxTr9cGiekP1q5vcyYn1B6ZnR697daWSZpsQg7kpSssuKXkYOfYXL3x3NcMxIWK2Sss7FIH_d5RMChsaD6XgQF0vAaXLBHho2g0oOnfAjKGnlByMoBc6Q9fFH_axfPRl3t52kSf9-uaIaoEqsjvMMqBeBdMzrLYG30oc0koR/s4000/20221021_152736.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ95bLpG_xXjAv1vlvYxTr9cGiekP1q5vcyYn1B6ZnR697daWSZpsQg7kpSssuKXkYOfYXL3x3NcMxIWK2Sss7FIH_d5RMChsaD6XgQF0vAaXLBHho2g0oOnfAjKGnlByMoBc6Q9fFH_axfPRl3t52kSf9-uaIaoEqsjvMMqBeBdMzrLYG30oc0koR/s320/20221021_152736.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br />In the stream of my day<br />ripples cause barely a stir;<br />contentment is tangible.</p><p>Sun on the water<br />spreads like a blanket.<br />Nothing new or exclusive.</p><p>Time has no relevance.<br />We only give names<br />for efficiency.</p><p>To clasp mental hands<br />and smile at the same<br />wind in the trees.</p><p>Still, I try to memorize<br />this feeling moment -<br />Save it like a favorite movie.</p><p>To run in that space<br />between waking and sleep<br />when I sync to the heartbeat of the world.</p><p><br /></p>Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-1876709478673720742022-07-10T07:33:00.001-07:002022-07-10T07:33:32.174-07:00The Life You Carved Out<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I love the summertime, Grandma.</div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I love the life you carved out.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I love the summertime, Grandma.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I love the life you carved out.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I love the summertime, Grandma.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I love the life you carved out.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I love you, Grandma.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I love the life you created.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Thank you for letting me laugh with you at the end ...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">When they told you, "Welcome home."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div>Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-37540316389347159322022-02-19T11:54:00.002-08:002024-03-18T15:49:44.668-07:00Nocturnal Visitors<p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdgyRYJ6xklwDhURqhtAmNFmrLKTsPf14spYyuPbFBSwJC8Es6jkpqwDL4s65h4yV3iDrXyriXH5BM_W5zTE111LTatSps4jFdbuh_xoWM6xVLzUgsgJ1g6kVUELbKcKZZRPTukH8bh591gC8eK4Zb0rUYAyhRl0d6e0GXn1aLnVfZDbXB1XsHMUdll8/s2992/20230715_150703.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2992" data-original-width="2992" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdgyRYJ6xklwDhURqhtAmNFmrLKTsPf14spYyuPbFBSwJC8Es6jkpqwDL4s65h4yV3iDrXyriXH5BM_W5zTE111LTatSps4jFdbuh_xoWM6xVLzUgsgJ1g6kVUELbKcKZZRPTukH8bh591gC8eK4Zb0rUYAyhRl0d6e0GXn1aLnVfZDbXB1XsHMUdll8/s320/20230715_150703.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I dreamed I had three pets. Two cats and a dog. They were all accidental / rescues - animals who had either come to me or been given to me (in the case of the dog temporarily), and then just stayed. I had the same condo, but I was able to lean out the window and talk to the people in the next house. A man asked me if my water bill had been high. His wife came into my house out of curiosity.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="tahoma, sans-serif">I'm reading Parable of the Sower</span> and it's a revelation. Written in 1993, it's so prescient. I realized from looking at the flyleaf that Octavia Butler was someone I should have discovered long ago, and would have loved. I mourned the fact that she died young in 2006. But now there are all the other books she wrote that I can explore. She had such a sharp mind and wonderful imagination.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Back to the dream, though, dreaming of pets leaves me with a comforting spiritual residue. The purity of animal's souls is so reassuring.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't know if anybody even reads my blog anymore. I haven't tended it in a long time. It's like a neglected garden that has turned to weeds and stick-like skeletons of previous plants.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">But there's something different about blogging than journaling. It bypasses the mundane. It gives the other parts of my brain a voice.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It snowed this morning. Wind-blown flakes that left little handkerchief patterns on the gray wooden slats of the porch. But now it seems to be finished, and the grass is still that combination of tough, green grass and the dead brown leaves that have fallen off my neighbor's tall trees.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I love those trees almost as much as the plants on my kitchen shelves. I think it might be time for the geraniums to bloom again. The red one first. Then the white.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">There's no point to this, obviously. I just wanted to mark the place where the two cats and dog appeared. One of the cats was a brown and gray tiger. She was curled purring at my feet. The other cat was black and white with a patch of white over one eye. He was young and active, always chasing some invisible creature around the rooms. And the dog was a small brown and white mutt with soft fur and a sweet, imploring face. He was sitting with his head on his front paws, looking up at me under those expressive doggy eyebrows.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">They didn't have names in the dream. And aren't all names just incidental?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>The dog in the photo is Iggy, my son's dog.</i></span></p><p></p><div class="gmail_default" style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-38426226947946401192021-11-30T16:23:00.000-08:002021-11-30T16:23:00.552-08:00Outside<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3mb-Br8aezt1FBn69_7Fx5z45noQeYNrA4FwZUBkfEoExXcxnSC_vMtN6m1B9NqyP03aahQvIqclOE43qpaCEA4zAEpKmrvKkbbQWVyHnSys4suYS39Us3YPkypcCDDLUP7S2Ty9juc/s1040/20180201_154402.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="1040" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3mb-Br8aezt1FBn69_7Fx5z45noQeYNrA4FwZUBkfEoExXcxnSC_vMtN6m1B9NqyP03aahQvIqclOE43qpaCEA4zAEpKmrvKkbbQWVyHnSys4suYS39Us3YPkypcCDDLUP7S2Ty9juc/s320/20180201_154402.jpg" width="320" /><br /></a></div><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">The cold crisp air<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Gray sturdy trees<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Straight pathway<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Beckons faithfully<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Any declaration<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Bold or timid<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Is a flag waved<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To the winds of karma<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Life and breath<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Are more than automatic<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Each moment we sip<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The wondrous oxygen<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We know our debt<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">While energy bubbles<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In our veins<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We take a step<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Along this faithful path<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Among these valiant trees<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One reality giving way<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To the next unknown.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<i><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">11/30/2021. I’ve been more and more aware that we are
living in a new reality. We cannot pretend to know what’s coming. It’s all new.
How we navigate it is all we really control. Even going outside is brave. What I find interesting is how similar this poem is to the one I wrote in August. </span></i><p></p>Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-22880101575192001972021-08-21T13:28:00.000-07:002021-08-21T13:28:28.702-07:00Uncertainty<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxrdnIAmpRHO8RovwW12Cv9bmsbPe97YA_Oh7GfSk-tF4bzXiCasmPlFevExJU4L9-gm9bqnDzlELBtLWxRdxddnuS8QW_XqZLOfcvFqB78gMFZexu7vP1ZcOkQkARI8WEEdNAaHYcVWo/s2048/20210810_164003.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxrdnIAmpRHO8RovwW12Cv9bmsbPe97YA_Oh7GfSk-tF4bzXiCasmPlFevExJU4L9-gm9bqnDzlELBtLWxRdxddnuS8QW_XqZLOfcvFqB78gMFZexu7vP1ZcOkQkARI8WEEdNAaHYcVWo/s320/20210810_164003.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p>Everything now is just navigating
uncertainty</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 81.2pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 81.2pt;">Each day is a treasure of newness</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 81.2pt;"><span style="text-align: center;">I have given up the illusion of
control</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 81.2pt;">I have become a child of curiosity<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 81.2pt;">Driven only by the need to
experience each day<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 81.2pt;">I will remember this time<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 81.2pt;">I will cherish these days<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 81.2pt;">Governed by a larger hand<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 81.2pt;">Free from manipulation<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 81.2pt;">Expectation<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 81.2pt;">Exhortation<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 81.2pt;">I will remember how to flow.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 81.2pt;"><br /></p><br /><p></p>Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-11946256164653819802021-02-18T19:15:00.002-08:002021-02-18T19:15:51.262-08:00EbullienceWhen left in the bowl and allowed to sit, I tend to rise. I just want to keep my heart light, and I spend a little time every day doing just that. <div><br /></div><div>There's an old African spiritual that sums it up for me: </div><div><br /></div><div>You might slip, you might slide, you might </div><div>Stumble and fall by the road side </div><div>But don't you ever let nobody drag your spirit down </div><div>Remember you're walking up to heaven </div><div>Don't let nobody turn you around. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I especially like Eric Bibb's style of singing it. Here's a version from Youtube.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ds1faZB4QSc">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ds1faZB4QSc</a></div><div><br /></div>Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-8845289650009150482021-01-24T10:39:00.001-08:002021-01-24T10:41:29.268-08:00Dream Shadow<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1PBi7s7CK18smv5_CP5EAshsbwjGbcoYg5kKqgcdUgJMIFI6MlsOvo1rlLMlUXvwK0wfdwXcRHzL3Ms6eoc0LfNYtTaLRe6mbgLNu4LKerVE8rxITObcaHUASoqzxzRPbMGxp9w-IukI/s558/desert.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="228" data-original-width="558" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1PBi7s7CK18smv5_CP5EAshsbwjGbcoYg5kKqgcdUgJMIFI6MlsOvo1rlLMlUXvwK0wfdwXcRHzL3Ms6eoc0LfNYtTaLRe6mbgLNu4LKerVE8rxITObcaHUASoqzxzRPbMGxp9w-IukI/s320/desert.jpg"/></a></div>
<p>I had such an amazing dream. I was exploring a desert landscape which had these strange, black rubber tree trunks growing out of the soil. (I can't find a photo to illustrate that; you'll have to use your imagination.)</p>
<p>The trees had no branches or flowers or leaves - just a bendable trunk about three feet high. And they were very alive and powerful. In the dream, it was tempting to grasp one of these trunks and bend it and release its power. Because it was raw power, it was easy to use it destructively. I grasped a trunk and felt that horrible urge traveling through my being. It was exciting and made my heart beat fast.</p>
<p>I let go of the trunk and came back to a platform on which a group of people were standing, off the desert floor. The floor seemed to be made of the same kind of black rubber, but it was tamed and used beneficially.</p>
<p>As I stood there with the people, I remarked that now that the evil one had been removed from the landscape, we no longer had anyone to project our own shadow onto, and we must beware of giving into our own evil or the destructive side of our nature.</p>
<p>So, when I woke up, I thought, yes. For several years now, we’ve had this convenient scapegoat (Trump), and now that he’s gone, we must take a look at ourselves and accept our true nature. No one is completely bad or good. Not him. Not us. And whatever we may have projected onto him, we need to own in ourselves.</p>
<p>So that's my meditation for today.</p>Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-67450058725717609792021-01-12T16:12:00.002-08:002021-01-12T17:46:04.463-08:00Insurrection Reflection<p>I don’t plan to post this on Facebook. I’m not sure if anybody will read it, as I have very few followers these days, and I’m not even sure if the software works to alert people of a new post. But I need to write this. </p>
<p>I have been in denial. It’s a common reaction, I suppose, to a widespread calamity that can’t immediately be assimilated. While many were glued to their television sets watching the unfolding violence of the assault on the US Capitol last Wednesday, I don’t have TV. I was listening to the radio and they interrupted the program to report on events in D.C. So, it wasn’t as frightening or dramatic for me, but still … when a friend called to tell me what was going on, I still couldn’t quite get my mind around it. </p>
<p>And another friend called me that night and expanded on the possibilities of what could happen if there is a combined inability for police and military to stop more violence from happening. And still, I maintained that we were going to get through this. I believed it was like a poison that needed to get out of our system before we would start to heal. </p>
<p>Days later, watching what has happened, and listening to some of the reactions around the country, and the world, I had lost some of my faith, but I still tried to put this into perspective. We will get past it, I thought. Our country is split. Our country is broken. But not everyone who followed the president’s call to action wanted to commit violence. Not all of his followers have bad intentions.</p>
<p>Seventy-four million people voted for him. Not enough to elect him, but enough to be a force to be reckoned with. But they can’t all be armed militia. Some of them are friends and family whose hearts I know well. </p>
<p>So, I wanted to believe that only a handful of extremists – white supremacists, Nazis, and rioters – had perpetrated these treasonous acts. And the media was finally starting to take responsibility for their culpability in giving the president instant access to a virtual loudspeaker to foment his followers to believe his alternate reality and arm themselves to fight. </p>
<p>And it took five deaths to make them take him seriously. Both rioters and police have fallen – a symbol of our divided state – both suffering equally. This was not a game where somebody could win and somebody else could lose, and then shake hands and go home. That was clear from the president’s refusal to accept that he lost the election fair and square. And deaths were the result. </p>
<p>Twitter blocked him permanently. Facebook blocked him until he goes out of office next week. Snapchat and Instagram blocked him. Some of the most dangerous websites are being blocked. And slowly they are also removing incendiary posts from their users and disabling their accounts. </p>
<p>But this morning, one statistic made me stop. Twitter has disabled 70,000 accounts. That is a huge number. It doesn’t even include people not on Twitter. It doesn’t include people without internet. </p>
<p>Even if some of those are mindless bots, that’s a lot of anger and dissatisfaction – DANGEROUS anger that can erupt in violence and – in extreme form – civil war. </p>
<p>So, our country is broken. As I knew. But healing it isn’t just going to take a long time, as I thought. It might not happen. We might stay broken. And this is the first time I have believed that even possible. </p>
<p>I convey my apologies to my friends who tried to convince me of the intensity of our emergency. You are right. We are in a perilous situation. One thing I do believe. We all love our country, except for those who just wanted a selfie in a costume, holding a gun or a confederate flag. </p>
<p>Any of my friends can tell you that I’m relentlessly optimistic. I always say, don’t be afraid or worry too much about the future. Whatever happens, you’ll be able to deal with it – you’ll find a way because you have no other choice. But what if there’s no good strategy? What if we’re doomed to fail? Of course, fear and worry still don’t help. I will still try to calm my mind and help anyone else looking for techniques to do so. But I’m no longer in denial. </p>
<p>At this point, we are just taking one day at a time. I do love my country, the birthplace of Chief Joseph, Woody Guthrie, Shirley Chisholm, William Faulkner, Emily Dickinson, Ursula LeGuin and Mississippi John Hurt. And millions of others too numerous to list. Let us not forget that diversity is sewn into the very fabric of our nation, and somehow even this torturous split has the innate thread of unity. </p>
Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-59032262197851370602020-04-26T12:47:00.000-07:002020-04-26T13:37:13.834-07:00The Company of Solitude<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6pZSkYqaCRFQGgi0LThhh20b1XcuSozULgsc8_o4nQwFPwN3rnsK7cDzDsDCaJ_leOi-3FAdoEcl3qvH9NAaWkpVtP2X8NKXjKJYh2xpe1rWEOm7nKfLitD0eLLL5UAvF4Zy47BbN-Ec/s1600/Ama+Adhe+%25282008%2529+-+24+x+30+oil+on+canvas.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6pZSkYqaCRFQGgi0LThhh20b1XcuSozULgsc8_o4nQwFPwN3rnsK7cDzDsDCaJ_leOi-3FAdoEcl3qvH9NAaWkpVtP2X8NKXjKJYh2xpe1rWEOm7nKfLitD0eLLL5UAvF4Zy47BbN-Ec/s320/Ama+Adhe+%25282008%2529+-+24+x+30+oil+on+canvas.jpg" width="255" height="320" data-original-width="588" data-original-height="738" /></a><br />
I saw a robin today<br />
She was going about her business<br />
Barely glanced at me<br />
<br />
In my mask<br />
Brought home from a smoky Bodh Gaya winter<br />
Where too many people<br />
Were cooking on the streets<br />
And we all had a cough<br />
<br />
She was completely disinterested<br />
In my banal history<br />
But I was grateful for her company -<br />
Quite honestly<br />
There's no such thing as solitude<br />
<br />
Unless you're in a cell<br />
Without even a spider<br />
To do ESP with<br />
And even then<br />
<br />
Too much time on my hands<br />
Makes me think of such things<br />
And imagine Ama Adhe<br />
Prostrating in her cold cement cage<br />
<br />
We all need heroes, don't we?<br />
<br />
Each day reminds me how <br />
There's an expanse of difference<br />
Between our inner and outer worlds<br />
<br />
Rickie Lee sang about that,<br />
"When I reach across the galaxy,<br />
I will miss your company."<br />
<br />
Company is all relative, you say<br />
Even the robin knows.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<i>The oil painting is of Ama Adhe on the roof of the old Reception Center in Mcleod Ganj. She is a famous Tibetan freedom fighter who spent 27 years in prison before coming to India where HH the Dalai Lama appointed her to aid the children who escaped from Chinese-occupied Tibet. I will never forget her kindness, calm and solidity.</i> <br />
<br />
Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-83464591765960684382020-03-21T17:22:00.001-07:002020-03-21T17:25:07.565-07:00Backyard Dreams<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj96LEjcOKRj4YxtIC_LMjw-bSLz0P9HOhWHBDo1XOpByrk0j48vFKIJ0abyHIKWAzaf_aXDTb-MKfSWzvHyPdvW2UyLw5Kw8dLoyQU31EFQsUzBHblYcgGYdecYQs9nXe3RAi1_CD6a5M/s1600/20200314_182737+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj96LEjcOKRj4YxtIC_LMjw-bSLz0P9HOhWHBDo1XOpByrk0j48vFKIJ0abyHIKWAzaf_aXDTb-MKfSWzvHyPdvW2UyLw5Kw8dLoyQU31EFQsUzBHblYcgGYdecYQs9nXe3RAi1_CD6a5M/s320/20200314_182737+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" height="180" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="900" /></a><br />
<br />
The evening sky hovers<br />
Between melodies<br />
Sounds only meant for grass <br />
Or breathing trees<br />
The air a dense vibration<br />
Each mote – happy clouds of diadems<br />
Invisibly aligned<br />
Communicating in their own excited language<br />
Thankfully graced in time<br />
Without extension or evidence<br />
Yes …<br />
Unbelievable love just swells<br />
A moment spirals up like smoke<br />
A memory or premonition<br />
The smell of a cotton shirt<br />
Fresh denim jeans<br />
The coffee grounds of morning<br />
Such images stirred together<br />
And swimming in forever.<br />
Are you there, Oberon?<br />
Could we dance again?<br />
Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-47483943706704919022019-11-22T14:39:00.000-08:002019-11-22T14:39:02.749-08:00Poetry Class<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8S2ADetYTL0YAmNKesX8xb8Y6HwOOCaM3W5_Sio0Etc47j-pX93wgnvTx7W-ss-DOfQSFlFonBUnKsLbkDiTaLIDDmqJmPrqR7ZwAqXWn5sD04ejtCYFBv7PvZR57WM5ZRdeU3W9Q3fE/s1600/20191122_090535.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8S2ADetYTL0YAmNKesX8xb8Y6HwOOCaM3W5_Sio0Etc47j-pX93wgnvTx7W-ss-DOfQSFlFonBUnKsLbkDiTaLIDDmqJmPrqR7ZwAqXWn5sD04ejtCYFBv7PvZR57WM5ZRdeU3W9Q3fE/s320/20191122_090535.jpg" width="320" height="180" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="900" /></a><br />
I dreamed I suddenly remembered I had to be at a poetry class and I was late. <br />
<br />
I threw on some clothes – an inappropriate mix. Red, black and white poodle skirt (remember those?) – a ruffled white blouse (I would never wear). Gold leather boots. Black beret. I stuffed a random notebook into my green shoulder bag and ran for the subway. (I always notice colors.)<br />
<br />
When I got to the college, I went through a turnstile and then up to the second floor looking for the classroom. I saw a doorway that looked familiar from the day before when I had showed up - a day early but on time. A number 208 was above the door, which I thought was right.<br />
<br />
(I wished for the hundredth time that I was an absent-minded professor, because that's the way my mind works.) <br />
<br />
The professor had already started the explanation of the assignment. I squeezed into a seat and saw that everyone was getting out their notebooks, and I did, too. <br />
<br />
The assignment was to write a poem in a particular style that I’d never heard of before. It was called a name I can’t now remember (penerella, veniera, pavia?). And I whispered to the guy next to me, “What was that?” and he mumbled the name just as vaguely. <br />
<br />
The professor heard me and came over and nodded to me. "What?"<br />
<br />
I said, “I’m not familiar this poetic style. Did you say it was ‘paean’ or something?”<br />
<br />
And he said, “Paean. Can you spell that?”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” I said, “but what’s the poetic style called?”<br />
<br />
He sort of mumbled the answer (again!) and then continued with his presentation to the class. He read an example of this type of poem, and it was a brisk description of an encounter with a woman on the street, with a vivid image of a green lamppost that hadn’t yet been lit and a gray sky. And then the narrator revealed that he was forcing himself on the woman. <br />
<br />
And the professor recited, “We had sex! We had sex! And then it was fine. It was right, and we went our separate ways.” It was clear that the poet made excuses for what he had done to the woman, and that the style of poetry exposed a moral issue.<br />
<br />
It reminded me of an incident in my youth when I had just smoked a joint with a friend in St. Louis. (He was a Taurus, but not <i>the</i> Taurus.) And I had one of those “Aha” moments that sometimes happens on grass. I said, “I just realized a truth.” And my friend said, “A moral truth?” And I wondered, at the time, if all my truths were moral truths, and I was dismayed by the idea. <br />
<br />
But now the professor has asked us to start writing, and I had a keen desire to write, and I knew what poem to write for the assignment. I opened my notebook but I couldn’t seem to find an empty page. I flipped through the book and realized it was the kind of notebook that non-writers give to writers. It had decorations on every page, and most of the decorations were woven ropes of twine that made narrow margins down two sides of every page. There was no open space.<br />
<br />
After trying to write inside those narrow margins, I gave up and started writing on the blank cardboard back of the notebook. <br />
<br />
“I’m on the subway, harassed by a beggar – and feeling so torn about it – and sympathetic. But as always, broke (and we’re all so preoccupied with being broke these days), and then counting out the right change for the bus before leaving the subway so I wouldn’t have to open my purse on the street and nobody would rob me. And this was so wrong somehow, but I hadn't a way to fix it.<br />
<br />
And then I saw the sky. <br />
<br />
Oh, the sky.”<br />
<br />
That’s when I woke up, and I lay in bed trying to keep writing the poem, and looking for another blank page to write on, and wondering if possibly I could remember the poem later. And of course, I only got a bit of it.<br />
<br />
I don’t know what prompted this dream. A desire to write a poem, for a start. And as my poems are usually the result of days and weeks of psychological imprints, I’m not immune to the effects of what we call our shared reality. <br />
<br />
So, I have, among other things – <br />
<br />
aside from the sunlight making patterns on the floor – and the feel of the crisp air upon my cheeks on my morning hike – and aside from the first taste of hot coffee with cinnamon … <br />
<br />
I have the accumulated perception crowding in my mind - like sardines flopping on the deck - like autumn leaves continually gathering on the ground, no matter how many times you sweep – like wineglasses in the sink from the night before –<br />
<br />
The mental detritus from listening to the impeachment hearings and the continual wrangling and interpretation afterward, the commentary that seems to want to possess the truth (the moral truth) – <br />
<br />
And I’m left with the impression of those people testifying – agile goldfish swimming in and out of the camera's eye, navigating through political seaweed - their light forms so stark against the dark water, like visitors from another world. (Not our world, surely.) <br />
<br />
And what poem could possibly do justice to that? <br />
Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-53757548684103386812019-10-15T10:52:00.001-07:002019-10-15T10:53:35.107-07:00Singing Together<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcnT8da0BbyCutmwQhG84gkjtWzuNjNHYGD-SR2zaZ8GK7snTYfpmmmU4j7yQ05K6ejy1nC_OE7xq6bl2Hui-sM1c6ZQECdQ5S4ys3D9ySbHfUI_uwwuNrfJ1n_yP1-0KtH9M9Fgr1afg/s1600/20191012_153044-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcnT8da0BbyCutmwQhG84gkjtWzuNjNHYGD-SR2zaZ8GK7snTYfpmmmU4j7yQ05K6ejy1nC_OE7xq6bl2Hui-sM1c6ZQECdQ5S4ys3D9ySbHfUI_uwwuNrfJ1n_yP1-0KtH9M9Fgr1afg/s320/20191012_153044-1.jpg" width="320" height="208" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1042" /></a><br />
<br />
Light on leaves<br />
Golden – gold on golden<br />
On the café patio<br />
The sun falls on my sweater<br />
My near-white hair<br />
The plaid shirt of the guy<br />
In front of me<br />
With his latte<br />
<br />
The sky is a blessing<br />
The blue we inherit<br />
After three cloudy days<br />
<br />
I want a crow <br />
To land in front of me<br />
Right now<br />
This moment<br />
Harbinger of doom or magic<br />
Fingerprint on the world<br />
Our world<br />
The one we cohabit<br />
<br />
Not the bricks<br />
Or wooden tables<br />
Not the sidewalks<br />
Or the stores<br />
<br />
I want this crow to cry out<br />
Here! Now! Awake! Fly!<br />
So I can roll my tongue back<br />
And say<br />
Caw! Caw! Caw!<br />
And for once<br />
We’ll be in pure harmony<br />
Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-72936085524892999592019-07-01T15:18:00.000-07:002019-07-01T15:18:36.918-07:00Microscopic Dialogue<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjojy3npmW2CnEdR0h-pX8wqAQtke1I9eJm0XV_5atC-4oY62E7Wc0izy7Vd4xbgARW4f7iP_faW-HdlPaBSt5f2EldFcarDh2N3_4GUnc9-oQJhKfLEDmCMDjpe-f5yYtDrA_NhBGjrRo/s1600/special.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjojy3npmW2CnEdR0h-pX8wqAQtke1I9eJm0XV_5atC-4oY62E7Wc0izy7Vd4xbgARW4f7iP_faW-HdlPaBSt5f2EldFcarDh2N3_4GUnc9-oQJhKfLEDmCMDjpe-f5yYtDrA_NhBGjrRo/s320/special.jpg" width="320" height="180" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="900" /></a><br />
<br />
On a molecular level,<br />
The cellular memory holds true<br />
All effort expended<br />
To find a time and place<br />
In which to dwell,<br />
Informed by<br />
That essential consciousness,<br />
These arbitrary labels<br />
Like hens and butterflies and humans<br />
Blend together<br />
Into a symphony and stream<br />
A many-colored <br />
Familiar<br />
Precious<br />
Fragrance<br />
Filled with memory,<br />
Undifferentiated<br />
By such epochal<br />
Designations<br />
Mind walking<br />
Through those tunnels<br />
Brushing cobwebs aside<br />
From the “ancient” to<br />
“classical” to<br />
“ancestral”<br />
And listening to the <br />
Quiet resonance<br />
Of being.<br />
One is found.<br />
<br />
<i>*** This photo is from my recent visit to Oregon and the poem was inspired by the peace and quiet of my friend's beautiful farm.</i><br />
<br />
Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-41363004654141281482019-03-22T12:52:00.000-07:002019-03-22T12:52:02.120-07:00The Gray White Sky<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNE7Gs3OwKSn-JWsr_Cf7yoU1A6ta32Q7dLZGdRLAzPYQwPFhCJurb0kZnxefmsVNHw3py1O-yuicfqdAVdjNKeoRtZOylepuC0idT78hGhMhR2xsOmBmNOeO_QproX22uaNLkm6_4vCk/s1600/fog.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNE7Gs3OwKSn-JWsr_Cf7yoU1A6ta32Q7dLZGdRLAzPYQwPFhCJurb0kZnxefmsVNHw3py1O-yuicfqdAVdjNKeoRtZOylepuC0idT78hGhMhR2xsOmBmNOeO_QproX22uaNLkm6_4vCk/s320/fog.jpg" width="320" height="180" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="900" /></a><br />
<br />
This is the sky I always know <br />
when it comes in a dream<br />
means<br />
“listen up …<br />
something profound<br />
is taking place”<br />
Usually I’m in a lofty<br />
apartment in Boston<br />
waiting for my lover to arrive<br />
or move<br />
or speak<br />
Not always, though<br />
Sometimes we’re in <br />
a basement – a converted<br />
factory with<br />
easels and paintings<br />
everywhere<br />
And not my lover<br />
but my muse<br />
Or not my muse<br />
but my teacher<br />
Anyway, a lesson<br />
is at hand<br />
That colorless sky<br />
is my mind’s blank page<br />
the place where<br />
rational thought<br />
meets improbable<br />
imagination<br />
(It is a dream, after all.)<br />
Or is it?<br />
<br />
<br />
Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-65521943676872774572019-02-18T10:38:00.000-08:002019-02-18T12:49:15.930-08:00Sad Sky<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_7hyphenhyphenAbSjsf-t4Sh8ETojQbo_L9aU-bngNOGZ6vOF3ielLjTyME3KKSp3uOammKeNqsvaFcV5mgARn4Ko7xphV3mUZi5edJ8LXgLa8b4RkECBzv3JEU_YJtcPCdDQCpc0XdWWqlxDDjhU/s1600/20190218_121851_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_7hyphenhyphenAbSjsf-t4Sh8ETojQbo_L9aU-bngNOGZ6vOF3ielLjTyME3KKSp3uOammKeNqsvaFcV5mgARn4Ko7xphV3mUZi5edJ8LXgLa8b4RkECBzv3JEU_YJtcPCdDQCpc0XdWWqlxDDjhU/s320/20190218_121851_HDR.jpg" width="320" height="180" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="900" /></a><br />
<br />
I live in the northeast. This morning I went out to add an empty egg carton to the recycling bin before the truck comes by, and I noticed that there was a sheen of ice all over the wine bottle and other items in the bin from the night before. And now it is snowing, adding another layer to the frozen ground. The parking lot is a nightmare.<br />
<br />
And I chose this, I remind myself. I always get a bit downhearted this time of year. I have a sensitivity to the lack of sunlight. I tend to sleep too much and eat too much and just generally feel very lazy. And I think this is what makes me appreciate the spring and the first daffodils coming up and the "cheer cheer!" cry of the robins.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, here's a poem for the Sad Sky.<br />
<br />
<i></i>There's a pattern to it<br />
This mysterious ribbon of inescapability<br />
I can't define it really<br />
Or won't<br />
It's clinging to my joy<br />
Like a weight on the foot of a <br />
Drowning man<br />
One minute a weight,<br />
The next a disappearing shadow<br />
I can't fasten my mind carefully<br />
To the ground<br />
Or won't<br />
And how can a poem help<br />
What can it do to bring<br />
Someone back to life<br />
Heal an organ<br />
Feed a child<br />
Mere words<br />
And yet it's all we have<br />
In the end<br />
These magnificent palaces of love<br />
Exquisitely fashioned<br />
By the shimmering<br />
Translucent mind<br />
Behind the shadow<br />
Behind the ribbon<br />
I grasp the pen<br />
With my warm fingers<br />
Breathing in the oxygen of it<br />
Reality vibrates quietly<br />
The only constant<br />
And I'm grateful.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-14006566625682236772018-10-11T16:29:00.002-07:002018-10-11T16:29:13.758-07:00Where are the women who have had to learn to be human?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHv14tO6wiBku-hhPpv3K6EEgZRnTBcixFYTr2vXe6jiYX505UrDHxFibmVJ37qtCgcnwKBy2bY-vMvPeiGOimZSi2Nq0q6nvsLJv_eHMFbrqvXqTo6WrSdLY4uibfHw4kz6m4aB9dHA/s1600/20180414_122504.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHv14tO6wiBku-hhPpv3K6EEgZRnTBcixFYTr2vXe6jiYX505UrDHxFibmVJ37qtCgcnwKBy2bY-vMvPeiGOimZSi2Nq0q6nvsLJv_eHMFbrqvXqTo6WrSdLY4uibfHw4kz6m4aB9dHA/s320/20180414_122504.jpg" width="180" height="320" data-original-width="900" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
<br />
One could say the body is a metaphor, but that’s not quite true<br />
It speaks and sings and dreams on its own<br />
And does its call and response on cue<br />
But the being is more than reflection<br />
<br />
New pathways in the mind<br />
That space behind the eyes awakened<br />
(Feeling safe, perhaps the trigger)<br />
Colors mobbed for purchase<br />
Dramas playing out<br />
That skimmed moment before sleep<br />
<br />
To what do I owe this epiphany<br />
This deliverance from pain<br />
<br />
My guide sits quietly<br />
While I stroke the flanks<br />
Of a quiescent panther<br />
And note how its consciousness is out of body<br />
There in the same glen of my meditation<br />
Where a black goose has also come<br />
These sacred animals just visiting<br />
I had to record them for no reason<br />
<br />
Whenever the sound, sight, technology<br />
And super-ideas convene<br />
The focus becomes clearer<br />
Love the ocean?<br />
It sings soars, roars, rolls and delivers<br />
Birds fly<br />
Their wings determined<br />
And deft with the sculpting of space<br />
<br />
I’m left with the notion<br />
That there is no embarkation<br />
Demarcation or separation<br />
Except for the touch of one being<br />
Upon another<br />
Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-64543182357033890542018-07-30T10:33:00.000-07:002018-07-30T10:46:11.439-07:00Perspective<br />
Time is so elastic, with a quality of kindness<br />
One can nestle into<br />
Wrapping oneself in the <br />
Infinite expanse of space<br />
<br />
She's very tall ... I glimpsed her once<br />
Presiding over the universe<br />
On a golden ribbon, sacred artery<br />
That flowed beneath her feet<br />
<br />
And in that river, bright leaves appeared<br />
containing, microscopically<br />
Uncountable beads of karmic treasure<br />
In all beings' book of lifetimes<br />
<br />
It seems ridiculous to think of<br />
Parceling Time into segments<br />
She laughs at the idea<br />
Of being cut, corralled or measured<br />
<br />
She stands so broad and colorful<br />
In her long coat, until she smirks,<br />
Turns sideways and<br />
Disappears entirely<br />
<br />
Leaving only patches of light<br />
Like melting snowflakes in the darkStirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-67341822139734656542018-06-13T14:05:00.001-07:002018-06-13T14:05:42.471-07:00Koinonia<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOjWaNY2zeNoIOqgXnhdbyMLmgVBj2MtgEjoAOhIuL0oXbJLfehTqYUdzEn374zEPm0YouUT0xWCnYOzVhlLCKOVd2jSIjMHHtMCmkndfTGYD1t44tVqt3Xs9i_35wrd19msrHC6cy9vA/s1600/shoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOjWaNY2zeNoIOqgXnhdbyMLmgVBj2MtgEjoAOhIuL0oXbJLfehTqYUdzEn374zEPm0YouUT0xWCnYOzVhlLCKOVd2jSIjMHHtMCmkndfTGYD1t44tVqt3Xs9i_35wrd19msrHC6cy9vA/s320/shoes.jpg" width="320" height="180" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="900" /></a><br />
<br />
How we all change day to day, year to year.<br />
If I met the person I was sixty years ago, would I like her?<br />
Forty? Twenty? Yesterday?<br />
<br />
Talking with my seatmate on the plane<br />
I tapped into the universal language – <br />
Commonality is a lingua franca<br />
Last night on the dance floor, each of us shone<br />
Like individual moonbeams<br />
<br />
I liked the women in sequined dresses, all silver and gold<br />
And the tipsy girl in tulle<br />
My aging muscles remembered the steps<br />
Knees complaining afterward<br />
Like proud, exhausted athletes<br />
Who didn’t shoot the winning basket, but helped<br />
<br />
Our moonbeams flashed<br />
With the same kind fire<br />
Into the welcoming night<br />
<br />
And fifty years ago<br />
My hips could telegraph and tease<br />
My arms could play a talking drum<br />
Of anxious youth<br />
Striving for a clear opening to victory<br />
On the racecourse of world peace<br />
<br />
Would that girl recognize this queen of leisure<br />
Tuning her senses to each sentient being without a qualm?<br />
Anxiety is a burden not to be borne<br />
Oneness is our Blood Type O<br />
And will I take this knowing into tomorrow?<br />
<br />
Perhaps my consciousness is a layered dress – <br />
Sequins, tulle and silk<br />
Over clean, soft cotton<br />
All the layers pressed together imprint the soul<br />
Like a leaf from under the microscope<br />
<br />
<i>Note: Koinonia means a spiritual communion. This was the winning word correctly spelled by the winner of the National Spelling Bee, 14-year old Karthik Nemmani. This poem is a reflection on layers of self, after attending a wedding and reception of my dear nephew. Traveling cross-country to be with family brings up a lot of feelings. Who am I? Which I?</i>Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-68469674050487474502018-04-20T17:23:00.001-07:002018-04-20T17:23:36.427-07:00The Approach of Twilight<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBdMQcrwlHm0ke18o46OwyKzvNAQz5f_A8C4Pyv40XhzqraU-lAakKk18spXdl6By_Cf9oV0VZQC3hi2aE6q4QPAI986TSWRPxG086myxiLe6UbjG9KP3rAYbo37J9cBHpETfyjK-FbHw/s1600/twilight.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBdMQcrwlHm0ke18o46OwyKzvNAQz5f_A8C4Pyv40XhzqraU-lAakKk18spXdl6By_Cf9oV0VZQC3hi2aE6q4QPAI986TSWRPxG086myxiLe6UbjG9KP3rAYbo37J9cBHpETfyjK-FbHw/s320/twilight.jpg" width="320" height="143" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="715" /></a><br />
<br />
The slate blue clouds layer across the sky above the last remnants of gold clinging to the tops of the trees. It’s that melancholy time of day that I love so much.<br />
<br />
It reminds me of the summer after my freshman year of college, when I was walking on the lawn at Rockdale, my Grandmother’s house, with my beau Langley, a fellow poet. We were discussing the book I’d just finished for English class and the report I had to write that weekend.<br />
<br />
It was Faulkner’s “Sound and the Fury” and Langley felt it was a real story that exposed the underbelly of true Southern life. He had grown up in Culpepper, Virginia, and ought to know. He wrote poetry about cows and drying tobacco, then.<br />
<br />
Somehow that stroll across the lawn is how I always feel about twilight. The fireflies are just about to come out. The air is warm. It's early summer, and you can hear the distant barking of a dog.<br />
<br />
Now it’s only April, but already I feel the approach of summer. I’m ready for those languid days of drinking lemonade and watching the bees looking for clover and alfalfa. I’m ready for whatever inspiration may come.<br />
<br />
Why are we artists so prone to melancholy? That’s a question for another day, but I put it out there. It’s always haunted me.<br />
Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-67340121590432795242018-03-14T12:58:00.001-07:002018-03-14T12:58:42.185-07:00Life<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtC32MY8PWI2PI56le47K8ADm4AQzXU51hrqu49n8sG5C_HZVJ1y10wANJ5wHcvpQG4Vxg15SR8fRFkhbqXmIrMpYZytE015sIWVa0E-1UgMLejGJC052PckkqI5E9cWJkkIi1jxv9118/s1600/mixed+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtC32MY8PWI2PI56le47K8ADm4AQzXU51hrqu49n8sG5C_HZVJ1y10wANJ5wHcvpQG4Vxg15SR8fRFkhbqXmIrMpYZytE015sIWVa0E-1UgMLejGJC052PckkqI5E9cWJkkIi1jxv9118/s320/mixed+group.jpg" width="320" height="180" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="900" /></a><br />
Life, this precarious<br />
walk the line muthafucker<br />
<br />
Life, a knife blade<br />
through the consciousness<br />
The oceanic plasma<br />
enfolding, obliterating self<br />
<br />
Life, that sweet<br />
notion of a hundred senses<br />
drawn into seven<br />
<br />
Life, the essence,<br />
the effervescence,<br />
the endless, the<br />
storm before the calm<br />
<br />
We all have <br />
high standards<br />
We expect a lot<br />
<br />
We've put in the time<br />
We've counted the years<br />
We think, okay, <br />
<i>Now</i> <br />
can I relax?<br />
<br />
Life, the great<br />
Leveler<br />
You never know<br />
But you have faith<br />
<br />
Your heart beats<br />
Your lungs take in air<br />
Your lips carry the smile<br />
from your eyes<br />
<br />
Your human love<br />
was crafted from<br />
the Big love<br />
<br />
It's an assignment,<br />
for sure, and you're <br />
doing your best<br />
<br />
Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-85912443301706163502018-02-12T07:39:00.001-08:002018-02-12T07:39:52.491-08:00Waking Meditation<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuqiaKJJ-BeB45bqudJSwWjinFGmK83M83kvasXpZfUZgCici-1v7zpilQlgUW-aHKlbDQp2phy2VlUpNW5nHPnHnTAlx_TabjhJDlSSe90moNQOfsWrXlbgoDdo2jWgEBcv9tX5MEoJI/s1600/vista.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuqiaKJJ-BeB45bqudJSwWjinFGmK83M83kvasXpZfUZgCici-1v7zpilQlgUW-aHKlbDQp2phy2VlUpNW5nHPnHnTAlx_TabjhJDlSSe90moNQOfsWrXlbgoDdo2jWgEBcv9tX5MEoJI/s400/vista.jpg" width="400" height="225" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="900" /></a><br />
<br />
The eerie morning restless came gently to my bed<br />
And pressed upon my heart three things<br />
Remember love and honor, and the shape of time<br />
Its ebb and flow, its worn remonstrance<br />
To be unencumbered<br />
And with this sinuous flower growing in my <br />
Heart-mind<br />
Dropping peopled scenes like petals<br />
I rose to wander through my rooms in silent greeting<br />
Foggy morning waiting with its cold gray arms<br />
To still my inner turmoil<br />
While the trees danced from side to side<br />
And the occasional car sailed by with eye-lamps open<br />
Life, this fragile paradise<br />
Softly nestled in this mute body<br />
Who am I to question the journey's right or wrong<br />
A vertical mind and thoughtful music<br />
Coaxes random pieces into sense<br />
My kindly angel resting her hand on my shoulder<br />
As I write<br />
Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4614509886604736588.post-81550864535402741792018-01-25T10:57:00.001-08:002018-02-12T12:10:58.017-08:00Just Out of Reach<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9kM4dSdgdbk_ZdFZ0Gm_ycrfJFO1I4AivaQtLWjqc1FuSh5cMbodRcMuKnWuTc1LRrqw3QUehI3aSma__V1nI22RmBHWtrAGi3lTGI0vBFEoSRAIiVxtPoEJ7RmrJeqw0qeb7fcaJYGo/s1600/dream.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9kM4dSdgdbk_ZdFZ0Gm_ycrfJFO1I4AivaQtLWjqc1FuSh5cMbodRcMuKnWuTc1LRrqw3QUehI3aSma__V1nI22RmBHWtrAGi3lTGI0vBFEoSRAIiVxtPoEJ7RmrJeqw0qeb7fcaJYGo/s320/dream.JPG" width="320" height="227" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1134" /></a><br />
<br />
In the cavern of dreams<br />
Reality is a chameleon<br />
Dancing every step<br />
To imagination's <br />
Soft guitar<br />
<br />
Our shadow self whispers,<br />
"Want to see my colors?<br />
I'll open my coat."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Stirling Davenporthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974286252135492445noreply@blogger.com0