poetry about joy and the endless cord of life
Cathedrals in the Ground
Don’t tell the daffodils they are early!
They have their own calendar, capricious
to us, but they are serious
in their pursuit of light, glorious life.
Billions of untouchable moments of energy
delve the ground with a velvet glove,
caressing the sleeping daffodils like an anxious lover,
I am here, take me!
stirring the awakening
beneath the crusted garden floor.
The bulbs embrace the precious light
slipping through the soil from a journey
that only the daffodils understand.
I drop to my knees to encourage them, to breathe
warmth over their plump emerald peaks,
cathedrals in the ground, swelling up
through the pungent soil dark as death,
pitted and cragged by the winter rain and snow.
Genuflecting on the garden floor, palms planted in the frosted soil,
I bury my face deep into these cathedrals
seeking cold pure truth,
praying the psalms of Everlasting, rejuvenation, the bliss of green!
I am a parishioner of a green cathedral
blessing the light,
listening to the choir of daffodil buds assembled below
as they recite the liturgy of soil and water, air and wind,
as they sing of the joy of revealing their blossoms, unfolding
to drink from the gospel of light
that beckons them from their winter bed:
Arise! Rejoice! Be splendid!
Copyright 2020/Glenn Armocida
Why Are You Waiting?
All morning long the pileated woodpecker jeers,
cuk-cuk-cuk-cuk-kick! rebuking the cold December light,
his bold red crest scratching the sky
along the tops of naked maples and choke cherries.
His agitation rings in thin winter light:
Listen to me! Listen to me!
Why are you waiting? Why are you waiting?
How do I answer?
And how many souls do know why they are waiting?
And if they do know why,
do they wish they didn’t?
Fear of the unknown, a common shadow;
fear of the known, the shadow of Death
flying just beyond reach—mocking.
Do I end at the end? Does the shadow sting?
The woodpecker demands:
Listen to me! Listen to me!
Why are you waiting? Why are you waiting?
No need to speak. My answer has a life of its own,
flowing, shining, caressing my heart,
this song of waiting
sung to my spirit on the breath of angels
. . . this grace in which we stand, and rejoice
in the hope of the glory of God . . .
The woodpecker moves on, impatient
diving into the dark hollow,
curving away to clutch a dying honey locust
to harvest what he can below the crusty bark—
icy white larvae, a mummified spider cradling her life’s work.
No time to waste.
All are flicked into the woodpecker’s life.
The last day is kept at bay once more.
Sweet Existence . . . give me the moment!
Sweet Existence . . . give me the moment!
Copyright 2020/Glenn Armocida
Cardinal in Mock Orange
What did I do to deserve this sweet serenade
but step onto the back porch, a faded winter afternoon?
What fortune! What blessing!
The plump cardinal settles into the blood red
branches of the barren mock orange,
singing of her delight in creation, of the sweetness of light,
obedient to the mystic call throbbing in her heart
the beautiful cord binding this perfect creature
to everything.
For it must be that she
must sing! must sing! must sing!
Why else could she form notes of such bliss or a melody so sincere?
I wonder, is she composing or improvising,
or both?
And yet . . . my soul says, Wait! I remember that language . . .
and grabs the beautiful cord, clutching
the message, the must sing!
Her delight flies to my heart, uniting us
a communion of living music.
This joyous puff of gray blushed red captures me,
singing an aria envied by angels.
I am helpless, entwined, watching her preen and fluff and sing.
She tells me the history of the wind, the taste of the first morning light,
the lineage of the bubbling spring in the woods,
the language of the soil and rocks.
She explains that her freedom and flight
are on loan from the Light of creation.
She urges me to become love,
that is all
I must do.
Copyright 2020/Glenn Armocida
Night Frolic
Two rabbits emerge from the ebony moon shadows,
jumping the frosted grass in the bright February moon,
heeding the call to dance their love dance.
They stop.
The mist of their small breaths in this frozen light
curls around their heads like a song.
The rabbits skip and stop, skip and stop, finally
agreeing on position, the dance flowing in their blood,
ancient of the days.
They wait,
crouched a short distance apart from each other, one facing
east, the other facing south.
Puffing and squeaking, then small, muffled grunts.
South races toward East as if to ram its partner, in motion
like it had never been still.
East springs straight up, effortless, as if pulled on a string.
South passes underneath
East drops back to the ground, where it began.
The dance is repeated in the frosted light:
position, grunt,
charge spring float,
settle, never
colliding, never tiring of this ancient seduction.
They race back to their hutch under the lilac bush,
take their place in the endless chain of creation.
Copyright 2020/Glenn Armocida
