The bending branch

The tree that never changes form

Will break in winter’s fiercest storm;

The rigid oak in wind and rain

May live, but with the scars that maim

It’s branches, made of wood too brittle, 

Breaking where they bend too little.

The tree that bends in winter rain

Shall see the light of sun again;

The willow, through the frosting gail,

Proves that softness can prevail –

She drifts as life would have her blown

So that she weeps in name alone.

The willow welcomes the winter breeze

That prunes away her fickle leaves,

In wind her branches know to dance

With gentler arms for firmer stance;

Her seeming weakness makes her strong,

The thunder is her favourite song.

Let not the storms get caught inside,

For storms are not by doubt denied,

And storms you do not let pass on

Remain with you when winds are gone,

While bending branches find their strength,

And storms surrendered last no length.

The little things

Let me find love for all the little things,

That wait for recognition all around;

Let me not limit what the brilliance brings

While little joys are waiting to be found.

When all the good in life appears to cease,

When gentle minds are drenched in deep despair,

Then let us find the ever present peace

Where of the little things we are aware.

The breathe inside, the dust upon a shelf;

The coolness of a stone upon the palm,

When watched from deep within your real Self,

Reveal a joy within the deepest calm.

Let me behold these lovely things though small,

To know they’re not so little after all.

Where the spring

violets softly grow

Where the spring violets softly grow

Around the moss stone head,

A lullaby is stirring slow

Beside his body’s bed.

A forest finch with pillowed breast

To twilight turns her tune –

She hops the purpled place of rest,

And plumps her downy plume.

The gentle melody rocks to sleep

The pinkend cloudy sky;

The breeze can hardly dare to peep,

Or waken the lullaby.

Perhaps she sang just to the grave,

Perhaps it was just for me;

Who knew but that she sang to save

What darkened eyes can’t see.

As in some thoughtless trance she knew – 

And so to truth did sing – 

Of something through the air which blew

Of more than suffering.

Voice without words

For many years I sought the voice inside,

To touch the truth that lies between my thoughts,

A part of me where bliss and joy abide,

Where wisdom speaks, and where true guidance talks.

But I could find no comfort in the voice,

For summer light lives not inside a cloud;

I could not find a reason to rejoice,

To hear only my listening aloud.

I turned to silence that I had concealed,

As if my soul was waiting to be found;

Without delay the quiet then revealed

That I’m the silence listening to sound.

I found a voice that speaks without a word,

In silence so divine it can be heard.

With grace

I would love

As the flower 

Turns its head

To the sun,

And the bird to

The night-time sings.

Forgetful

I spent a long time painting you 

with the white of dove feathers,

But I should have known my shades were soft,

And yours were something else altogether.

I made a crescent of a woman on the canvas

Then I tried music, but heard no tune;

Now I look back at my painting,

And all I can see is the moon.

What the leaves said

I think Autumn is telling me

Something I won’t forget:

That I might also die tomorrow

But can die without regret.

Enjoy the last of the sun, it says,

Laugh when you’re caught in the rain

Always keep your heart open

To the love, the joy and the pain.

Live with a generous heart

Offer ears to the lonely man

Healing to the one who is broken,

An arm to the one who can’t stand.

When you decide to speak

Let love guide everything you say;

Do not wait another minute

Because tomorrow could be today.

The falling leaves are dancing

To music without a sound

Telling me to dance

Before I hit the ground.

The cabin

I walk, but walk on half asleep

Just kept awake by frozen feet,

The mountain pass is cold and steep

And slippery with muddy sleet.

I see a cabin, sweet and warm,

A tempting break amid the storm;

The orange windows lit by fires

That make me clench against a yawn.

If I stop, this mountain side

Will be my gravestone when I die,

And on that stone will be inscribed

The testament: at least he tried.

I walk on in my doubting way

I doubt through night and then the day,

But now my soul rises to say:

Doubt and do it anyway.

Make music

When you love you are the song

Through which life has chosen to sing;

Do not think your love is unique, or try to possess,

For the bird does not own its song,

No more than do the trees 

That make music with the wind.

The rose

I am very happy to be like water

and the rose

that does not know pain

but thinks of storms gladly

to enjoy the sun

and remember to blossom.

I cannot know

When I want something

I remember how glad I am

Not to have received

All that I thought I wanted

In the past.

Departure

My heart has left

Because I told it what it 

Should and should not feel.

The place on the side of the mountain

On the run I lean at the knees to cut

The ridges of the piste with my glide

Then the turn reaches its end and my 

Knees squeeze up and shoot out the other side.

There is a point I pass by every year

A point worthy to pause and see

The valley, and my thoughts, about the past

And about what kind of man I want to be.

I cannot remember when I started the tradition.

I cannot remember last year’s dream. 

Perhaps I am growing older or

Just much happier than I may seem.

I did not like skiing much when it started,

I used to seek out this special spot to cope

And make everything okay in my head;

And fill my heart with that mountain hope.

I guess I was right; I did not stop

This year, just kept going, kept being

With myself, but not alone, and I must say,

That now I really like skiing.

The sun is apricot on the peaks now.

I softly glide and fly along the piste;

Lightness and love and feeling free,

Perhaps happy; definitely at peace.

The world moves on

You tell me and we talk and complain.

Meanwhile a crab scuttles in shallow water,

Diamonds form within the earth 

Birds fly above our heads

Leaves grow and flowers smell,

And meanwhile there are two people in love

Acting like they are not.

And clouds make shapes that remind me of you.

If we could see the clouds outside and I said

That they remind me of you 

we would not be fighting.