Can You Hear It? by Paula Gordon Lepp

There are days when, 

although I try to open myself 

to wonder, wonder just 

won’t be found. Or perhaps,

it is more accurate to say 

on those days I am simply 

blind to what the world 

has to offer 

until I look down, and there, 

beside the sidewalk,

are blades of grass completely 

enrobed in ice, shimmering

in the glow of the setting sun,

and as they sway and move 

into each other, if I listen, 

really listen,

even they are singing 

faint little bell-notes of joy. 

Can You Hear It?

Do you ever have those days when wonder just / won’t be found? I certainly do, as I cast about in the grey sameness of late winter days, when I just can’t seem to find it. Then, as the poet says, it is more accurate to say / on those days I am simply / blind to what the world / has to offer. Could it be that wonder is in my appreciation more than what my eyes see?

Lepp shows us how it can be as simple as blades of grass completely / enrobed in ice, each one illuminated by the sun’s rays. Happened to me once; brought me to my knees. She invites us to listen closely as they sway in the breeze, to hear they are singing / faint little bell-notes of joy, to recognize how close wonder can be and we so blind to it.

Love the question in the title: Can You Hear It? Makes me lean in, listening for those faint little bell-notes of joy. How often do I miss them, those subtle calls to pay attention to what is around us, to appreciate the moments of wonder and joy. Can you hear it?

Awake by Rebecca Baggett

High in the oaks

birds squabble, sorting

this year’s housing.

From the edge of the wood

a crow interjects

its rasp and sputter,

like an old man

coughing, “Amen!”

from the back row

of the church.

Crocuses and daffodils

fling off brown quilts,

fluff out skirts the colors

of lavender blossoms

and fresh butter. The young

trees toss their pale green curls,

preen and flirt with the bold

March winds.

Even I feel it, the tug

of this true new year, as if

the sun drew my blood skyward,

as if I, too, might find myself

festooned with new leaves,

bursting into flower.

Awake

Sunday was spring equinox and though it may be awhile yet before it truly feels spring-like, one can sense the changing of seasons. So it seems both appropriate and necessary to welcome the freshness of earth’s shifting position to the sun. And of course, there is always a perfect poem to speak to this.

Baggett sings our ears awake with the squabble of birds sorting / this year’s housing and a crow’s raspy sputter like an old man / coughing “Amen!” The perennial flowers of spring appear, the colors of lavender blossoms and fresh butter to please our winter-monotoned eyes. She invites us to look for the pale green curls of trees in bud as they preen and flirt with the bold / March winds. Even if in this northern hemisphere we may lag behind a few weeks, we can dream of all this.

She speaks of this as the true new year, a time to renew and refresh ourselves, to ground ourselves in the beauty of the natural world especially when there is much to distract us from it, hurting our eyes and ears and hearts. She feels as if / the sun drew my blood skyward, reaching toward that warmth, as if she might, find myself / festooned with new leaves, / bursting into flower. May your heart expand with spring’s joy.

Losing Heart by James Crews

It’s not like misplacing the car keys

or forgetting your mother’s address.

You know it’s impossible to actually lose

the heart working so hard in the chest,

resting for only the slimmest of instants

between beats. Yet you wake some days

patting empty pockets, digging through

every drawer in the house, searching

under the bed and couch. In the space

of a night, the hope that burned bright—

flowing like a medicine in your veins—

can drain from the body, leaving you

bereft in bed and getting up only

to bathe yourself in the sickly light

of the fridge, the glow of screens.

Yet you can trust that the heart never

goes far, never abandons you for longer

than you can handle. You might be

driving to work one stormy morning,

scowling at every car that passes you

when it happens again—that sudden

leap in the chest as you see the rain-

slick blacktop shining blue in places

where it gives back the sky, and then

you’re anchored again in that faithful

rhythm by which you love the world.

Losing Heart

Losing heart is an expression we are all familiar with, those times of deep discouragement. I dare say this is a time in history when many of us are feeling that things are falling apart, that we are losing what we thought was normal and for the most part, desirable. So we lose heart, and we find it again, as this poem reminds us.

Crews likens this loss to everyday things like our keys or an important address,even though You know it’s impossible to actually lose / the heart working so hard in the chest. It can happen that sometimes your bright hope – flowing like a medicine in your veins, deserts you, leaving you bereft. Like all good poets, Crews reminds us you can trust that the heart never / goes far; you have not been abandoned.

There will come a moment in the midst of feeling dispirited when you will feel that sudden / leap in the chest at the sight of some natural beauty, perhaps the sky reflected in a glassy puddle, a persistent curb-crack flower, the musical trill of a redwing blackbird, or any number of such uninvited but so very welcome sights and sounds. This is what anchors you again in that faithful rhythm by which you love the world. May something today give you that sudden leap of your heart that helps you find it each time you lose it.

Small Kindnesses by Danusha Laméris

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”

Small Kindnesses

I first posted this poem in the long-ago summer of 2019, that time before we came to know viruses and war. Now that we are living with both, this is the poem that came to my mind as I considered what to share with you today – a gentle yet fierce reminder of what is truly important when We have so little of each other, now. So far / from tribe and fire.

After two rich years of weekly poems, I am moved to say that I choose these poems to offer a shaft of light in otherwise dark times. These are not messages of positivity nor denial of ugly realities; these poems don’t change what is. What they can do, I believe, is give us a moment of respite, of possibilities. No one can take away beauty once seen, joy once felt; this is what tethers us to the world, creates a small oasis of peace. These poems capture that for me.

As Laméris says of these small kindnesses: What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these / fleeting temples we make together. What if these brief moments of exchange, of kindness, make a difference? How can they not?

Send Love, It Matters by Carrie Newcomer

Somewhere someone needs help.

Send love.

It matters.

If you can’t get there yourself,

then take a deep breath.

Breathe in the weight of their troubles.

Breathe out and send all those burdens

into the Light

where sorrows can be held

with the most tender and infinite grace.

Breathe in what you can do.

Breathe out what you can’t change.

Spool out a thread of connection,

send courage and calm.

For the nights can be long

and filled with shadows,

and sometimes terrible

unexpected waters will rise.

Somewhere someone needs help.

Send love.

It matters.

Send Love, It Matters

With the heartbreaking news of the invasion of Ukraine continuing to unfold, it has been difficult to think of much else. As always, I turn to poetry to ground myself and find comfort, a reminder that love and beauty continue to exist, despite all odds. You may already know Carrie Newcomer as a singer/songwriter/poet, and I encourage you to explore her rich offerings through the link above.

There is no question that Somewhere someone needs help, always there are those who are suffering. This poet suggests we inhale the weight of all their troubles, exhaling those burdens into the Light, whatever that might mean to you. A place where such sorrows are held with the most tender and infinite grace – does your heart not soften just reading those words?

Do what you can do, let go of what you cannot change – enduring wisdom we need to hear over and over. Send out a thread of connection, a link to our common humanity; send courage and calm. There are long shadowed nights and sometimes terrible unexpected waters will rise, as they have. Her message is to remember love and kindness and compassion even, especially, in the face of war.

What if we were all to send love? Because it really does matter, never more so than now.

One more succinct poem today on the theme of the necessity of love from Deena Metzger with a recording of Kim Rosen speaking it here.

Song

There are those who are trying to set fire to the world,
We are in danger.
There is time only to work slowly,
There is no time not to love.