Simple Gifts

Simple Gifts

This collection of poetry is a sharing of simple gifts. Almost twenty years ago, when the first of my poems popped up on a journal page-that odd shift from prose to poetry-I thought it an aberration. But in the years since, poems jotted on journal pages, grocery slips, post-its, and Amtrak napkins, have come to serve as a presence, a guide, a way for me to pay attention to life. And the poems have become increasingly a part of my work in the world. So I share these personal poems, these reflections, with you in hopes that you might find support, comfort, insight and connection in their words, recognizing the way our human joys and struggles link us across time and distance. (And perhaps you might find the poet's voice within yourself, as well) Some readers may recognize a poem here and there from collections published informally over the years and circulated among friends and colleagues. And you may see a familiar poem from an anthology or an earlier books of mine. This collection of "simple gifts" is meant to reflects the natural ups and downs of life, the joys and sorrows, the power of people, place and nature. It is also a testimony to the dedicated efforts of my husband David, without whose appreciation, stewardship, project management and determination, this collection would have remained simply a pile of loose poems on the office shelf. Judy Brown West River, Maryland 2011 SIMPLE GIFTS By Judy Brown Trafford Publishing Copyright © 2011 Judy Brown All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4669-0392-0 Contents Welcome and appreciation...................................3Table of contents..........................................4 Chapter One Little Bits from Jottings Perfection Perfection Fails us, Breaks down, Eventually, Disintegrates. It's being human That can save us. No seed grows No seed grows Except by Breaking through Its own Protective coat. It is the small space It is the small space In our lives, The daily corner To which we need repair, That can create a Whole new world. For us, Vast, Unconstrained, And opening. Because you have no money Because you have no money Don't believe That you must squander What you have In such abundance: Time together, Joy, Attention, Challenge, Your good work. Everybody Counts Everybody counts. When the spider Weaves the web No connecting point Is missed. If you are missing From our midst We are the lesser For that loss, And incomplete. To sit simply To sit Simply For one sweet hour And notice All that is Unfolding In the Light of day— That is A fine, fine Thing. Each day dawns Each day dawns With its own Discoveries and surprises, With its gifts. If we are home To all of that We can't be lost. A reservoir within Each of us needs A reservoir within, Because life doesn't happen On an average. It has its hurricanes And droughts, And lovely days. So also joy. So also deep despair. I wonder I wonder What this day Will bring In its unfolding. Now it begins, For me, Like the Unwrapping Of an Unexpected Gift. The Beauty of the Broken The beauty Of the broken And irregular Is clear With seashells— Why not so With one another? Difficult If it is difficult Try something Different. A tiny shift Might find The easy Natural path, The one That's meant To be. Persistence And insistence May be Good things — But not always. Spring Spring Creeps northward On her Annual pilgrimage Home, Slowly Opening blooms And teaching Birds to sing. Promise I heard A bird Sing Before dawn— The gentle Promise Of a spring That's soon To come. Miracle That the white flower Has managed To find light and life, Making its way Between the heavy Patio stones, Seems such A miracle To me, And even more, It blooms there, Planted in such Seeming solid stone. It blooms. Courage Certain of the vines Reach out, Sending their tendrils Out and out, Toward the air, The sky, Away from Anything to Cling to. Such vegetative Courage. Mystery A poem Should End Early, With the Mystery Still intact, A question Yet Unanswered. Downpour The rain Abates a bit, Like a mourner Taking a Momentary breath, And then The downpour Begins again, Like a Great wail Of water. Seasons There are seasons Where you Take in What you must— And only later When the season Comes For clearing, And every Friday Seven bins of trash Are sitting at the curb, (Hauled out as with a gardener's joy that finally the thatch is cleared away), Only on such a morning Can we admit The weight Of always having taken in All that we must. Surprise Inevitable, Yet unpredictable— So much of life Is thus: A hurricane, The summer's Heat lightening, Mortality And joy. All take us By surprise— Itself s