Saturday Haiku: Storm

Today's haiku is from my archives, re-posted to acknowledge that there are people mourning their losses

swirling winds at night –
with daylight comes quiet calm
as losses are mourned

                                                                   

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Image: Oklahoma tornado (courtesy of Wikipedia)

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All Saints Day: A Roll Call of the Dearly Departed

One of the things I like about All Saints’ Day is that it is a time to call by name those friends and loved ones who have died over the past year. In the liturgy for the All Saints’ Day, the names of those who have died are added to the prayers of the people. Sometimes I see it as a roll call of “that great cloud of witnesses.”

This past year I have lost family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues whose departure leaves a void, an empty space. I could name them all, but instead, ask you to make your own list of those dear to you who are no longer present in this world.

One of my departed friends was Jerry Moye. I was asked to select a poem to read at his funeral. Fortunately, I had a poem that Jerry had written himself which served and an appropriate remembrance at his funeral. The reading below which I presented at his funeral is taken from his church newsletter. He calls it a poem for Easter, but I can see it just as well as a poem for All Saint's Day.

PASTOR’S POEM — FOR EASTER

By Jerry Moye

In the spring of 2004, I took a sabbatical leave & retreat to Wales. During that time I spent a week at the Llangasty Retreat House in central Wales, a quiet place overlooking a lake.  I had been reading some biographies, people with faith and those without. I was stimulated by one person who felt the Christian faith was illusion. I was pushed into a wonderful time of meditation. What is nonsense to one person is great truth to another. The Christ Reality is more than wishful thinking, nonsense that is holy sense if the Holy Spirit is allowed to work.

HOLY NONSENSE

Some say, “It’s all nonsense—

A man rising from the dead,

Walking with strangers down a country road,

Eating fish at seaside with old friends,

Flying off through clouds which hide his face.

Some say, “It’s dangerous nonsense—

Better to face the harshness of death,

Better to expose fanciful myth.

Some say, “It’s understandable nonsense—

Old men and women long for friends passed on,

Chanting choirs hymn their notes of praise,

Questing souls refuse systems closed.

Some say, “It’s beautiful nonsense—

To think there is a love that cannot die,

To think this love is the eternal engine,

Moving within stardust to make a world,

Love interlocking atoms and thoughts,

Love working from life through death to life.

If this be nonsense,

I choose to be a fool,

I shall dance with my Living Lord

And my nonsense song shall be—Alleluia.

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Empty Spaces

This is a new poem, which actually means I'm not finished with it yet. As I rule, I don't consider a poem finished until it has rested for at least a month without being changed, so I'll anticipate some changes later, It was inspired by an activity during a writing workshop with the Alabama Writers' Conclave just a week ago.



Empty Spaces
By Charles Kinnaird

The years had taken their toll.
There was no choice.
Nothing to be done
Except to take it out.
The massive cottonwood tree
Had long filled that space.
Gnarled branches had cast a wide canopy of green
Over half the yard.
Twisting scarred roots elevating
Above stony ground
Had spent decades traversing our backyard.
Open moist knot holes
Sometimes held dainty mushrooms
Fed by rainwater and debris.
It had been the site of many toddlers’ games
Improvised beneath the old tree’s branches.
A family picnic had gathered there
As elderly grandparents, young nieces and cousins
All came to bless our infant daughter.

Yet the years had taken their toll.
The aged tree
Splitting under her own weight
Was removed.
She came down with great ceremony and precision
As nimble men with buzzing saws and safety harnesses
Carefully removed limbs in sections.
Top most and outermost branches first
Followed by middle limbs
Until only the center remained.
Finally the aging trunk
Was pared sown by massive saws,
The stump ground down
Until nothing remained.

An empty space
Was opened up.
The ground was left exposed
To searing sun
And drenching rain.
It reminded me of that
Empty space in my heart,
That space once filled
By generations.
The old ones have departed this life,
Nieces and cousins now scattered,
The young toddlers are now grown and moving on.
That empty space - now open
To sun, wind, and rain.
Nothing left but to grieve
And remember;
Grieving the emptiness,
Remembering the times.

In the corner of the yard
Stands a young oak sapling.
Straight and clean
She reaches upward.
Having sprouted voluntarily
We let her grow.
We let her be.
She will one day fill another space.
One day her arms
Will offer comforting shade.
Perhaps a future picnic will be spread
For a new generation of toddlers at play.
An older, wiser, more grateful one
Will savor those moments
Beneath newly gnarled branches,
Standing among newly spreading roots.
Memories of empty spaces remain
As hopes for new spaces
Take root and grow.



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