Presence by Melissa Shaw-Smith

The year has rocked this world to its roots.
What if for one day each being put down
their burdens, their words of hate, their inhumanity
and breathed in the presence?
Stopped fighting for history, for fears, hopes, dreams
and stood facing the morning sun
letting the warmth of the moment
and the next, the next, accumulate like dust at their feet
Listened instead of spoke, acknowledged truth,
embraced silence.

What if for one day each being acknowledged the fear
and let it go? Suspended beliefs
opened their arms, drew strength
through earth, grass, rock, sand
Found the sparrow singing from a lone bush
the small heart-shaped cloud
Felt the currents of air wash over them, mingle
with the breath, and let the seams unravel
borders blend, walls dissolve
and be as
one.

Presence

This poem was written in December of 2016, a different year that rocked this world to its roots, and yet it seems appropriate again at the end of 2020. The poet offers the ‘what-ifs’ that I’m sure we all have contemplated especially as we reflect on what is going on now in this world. What if each being put down / their burdens, their words of hate, their inhumanity / and breathed in the presence? If we stood facing the morning sun, listened, acknowledged truth, / embraced silence – to listen more than to speak, to actually hear the silence.

And what if each being acknowledged the fear / and let it go? Do I even know how to do that? If we suspended beliefs that keep us locked into our narrow viewpoint. If we drew strength from the earth, the singing sparrow, the small heart-shaped cloud. What if we felt the air around us mingling with our breath so that the seams and borders and walls disappeared until we became one.

Though it might seem an unrealistic, idyllic imagining, I believe she is saying it is all premised on being in the moment, being present to the presence of all that is around us, our unity, letting the warmth of the moment / and the next, the next, accumulate like dust. As John Lennon said, Imagine.

A Portable Paradise by Roger Robinson

And if I speak of Paradise,
then I’m speaking of my grandmother
who told me to carry it always
on my person, concealed, so
no one else would know but me.
That way they can’t steal it, she’d say.
And if life puts you under pressure,
trace its ridges in your pocket,
smell its piney scent on your handkerchief,
hum its anthem under your breath.
And if your stresses are sustained and daily,
get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel,
hostel or hovel – find a lamp
and empty your paradise onto a desk:
your white sands, green hills and fresh fish.
Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope
of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.

A Portable Paradise

Paradise originally meant ‘an enclosed garden’, so I’ve heard, perhaps Eden or even heaven. But in this poem, Robinson is speaking of the now, this moment, wherever you are. I’ve also heard of it as a ‘place of contentment’ which suits me just fine – I know what my paradise moments are; I’m sure you do too.

I didn’t have a grandmother who advised me to carry it always on my person so I’d be the only one to know it existed, but I think we all learned something about this. How there is a place, whether in space, time, memory that we know is our own paradise. And you know if life puts you under pressure, what we commonly call stress these days, its outline is there to feel in your pocket, smell its piney scent… hum its anthem under your breath.

And if your stresses are sustained and daily, and whose are not, then he advises us to find an empty room and empty that paradise from your pocket onto a desk: your white sands, green hills and fresh fish. Love that he includes water through fish; I need my maritime touchstones. Then he says Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope / of morning, knowing it will take you into sleep – a peace that you carry with you, always within reach.

What is your paradise? Do you keep it close? Does it bring you contentment? Know that no one can take it from you – it’s portable; it belongs to you. May you know the paradise of this moment.

Imaginary Conversation by Linda Pastan

You tell me to live each day
as if it were my last. This is in the kitchen
where before coffee I complain
of the day ahead—that obstacle race
of minutes and hours,
grocery stores and doctors.

But why the last? I ask. Why not
live each day as if it were the first—
all raw astonishment, Eve rubbing
her eyes awake that first morning,
the sun coming up
like an ingénue in the east?

You grind the coffee
with the small roar of a mind
trying to clear itself. I set
the table, glance out the window
where dew has baptized every
living surface.

Imaginary Conversation

How often have you heard that admonition to live each day as if it were your last? More than once I’m guessing; certainly I have. It’s a kind of pay attention/wake up to your life piece of advice. Especially considering the day ahead of you – that obstacle race / of minutes and hours, / grocery stores and doctors. We all have our own obstacle race through the busy days that keep us focused ahead of ourselves.

But why the last? the poet asks – such an important question. Why not / live each day as if it were the first – / all raw astonishment ? The first day! I so love that question – the first day of your conscious life, an innocence never again to be felt. And how would you live it? Grinding the coffee, setting the table, glancing our the window / where dew has baptized every / living surface. Even the word baptized intimates an initiation into life. And every surface is living if we can look past our preconceptions.

So why not let yourself be astonished – live this day as if it were your first. You may be surprised, even a little, by how the world reveals itself to you.

Prescription for the Disillusioned by Rebecca del Rio

Come new to this day.
Remove the rigid overcoat of experience,
the notion of knowing,
the beliefs that cloud your vision.

Leave behind the stories of your life.
Spit out the sour taste of unmet expectation.
Let the stale scent of what-ifs waft back into the swamp
of your useless fears.

Arrive curious, without the armor of certainty,
the plans and planned results of the life you’ve imagined.
Live the life that chooses you,
new every breath, every blink of your astonished eyes.

Prescription for the Disillusioned

It is always a good time to be reminded of these simple truths but perhaps never more than right now. Come new to this day. What an invitation! Taking off that rigid overcoat of experience, our certainties and beliefs that cloud your vision. Del Rio invites us to let go of old stories, the sour taste of unmet expectation. the what-ifs we all carry, our useless fears.

Instead she directs us to Arrive curious, dropping the armor of certainty, those ways we protect ourselves from what we don’t know and perhaps fear. Leave behind the plans and planned results of the life you’ve imagined – these are the matters of expectations and disappointments, the ways we become disillusioned.

Most of all, Live the life that chooses you – make it yours, new in every breath, be astonished at all it has to offer. What if each day holds all the possibilities we cannot foresee? Come new to this day!

There is much to create disillusionment at this point in history and yet, a poet can remind us how to meet these times, allowing life to choose us and each of us to choose how to greet each day as new, with every blink of your astonished eyes. May we each be astonished in wonderment and gratitude as we live our lives each new day.

Joy by Julia Cadwallader-Staub

Who could need more proof than honey—

How the bees with such skill and purpose
enter flower after flower
sing their way home
to create and cap the new honey
just to get through the flowerless winter.

And how the bear with intention and cunning
raids the hive
shovels pawful after pawful into his happy mouth
bats away indignant bees
stumbles off in a stupor of satiation and stickiness.

And how we humans can’t resist its viscosity
its taste of clover and wind
its metaphorical power:
don’t we yearn for a land of milk and honey?
don’t we call our loved ones “honey?”

all because bees just do, over and over again, what they were made to do.

Oh, who could need more proof than honey
to know that our world
was meant to be

and

was meant to be
sweet?

Joy

On this dreary beginning of December day, I went looking for something to lighten the day, a drop of sweetness. I’ve enjoyed Cadwallader-Staub’s poetry before and posted Blackbirds just this past June.

She opens and closes with her inviting question Who could need more proof than honey? Then begins with the bees who sing their way home to make new honey just to get through the flowerless winter. I love the phrase ‘flowerless winter’ because it is true in this part of the world and is in such sharp contrast to the image of bees in and out of summer flowers.

Then we see the cunning bear raiding the hive until it stumbles off in a stupor of satiation and stickiness. Oh happy alliteration! Reminds me of Pooh bear in my childhood and his constant craving for the sweetness of honey which I also shared.

Next she describes how humans cannot resist its taste of clover and wind. Clover yes, of course, but wind I had not considered. She reminds us of honey’s metaphorical power: an idyllic land of milk and honey; the term of endearment we have probably all used to express our love.

And all of this just because bees do what they were made to do. She offers their honey as proof that our world / was meant to be. And more than that, it was meant to be / sweet. Makes me appreciate our disappearing bees even more than before. So go taste a spoonful of honey before it’s too late – our pandemic world needs all the sweetness it can get.