The light house signals boats
and when light houses cannot be seen
The fog horn calls out
Ships bells sing their presence.
Walt Whitman sang a song of himself.
Phone calls, emails, voice mails, text messages,
Bells and gongs to signal beginnings and endings
car horns, alarm clocks, whistles, sirens, buzzers
all with something to say.
Streams trickle, rivers rush, oceans roar
winds howl. Grouse drum in the bushes.
Even God is always speaking to us,
So much noise
Callings abound –
but there is only one voice my sleeping ears crave
That is the voice calling to tell me where to stand
when the kaleidoscope turns.
How to fall into place, to be aright in the chaotic template,
in the symmetrical rotation of the prism
where my own spot is
in the spin of the universe.
© photo and poem by Carole Fults
Today I Came Looking
Today I came to this woods looking for a poem
and this is what I found….
In the distance, in the trees
a luminescent wave of foggy sunlight is piercing everything,
delivering the energy of Life,
the love of God.
A bird floats back and forth and becomes transparent –
a foggy lamination playing in white and yellow currents
riding on the exhalation
of the breath of God.
I won’t hurry too quickly from this place.
I won’t say ‘I’ll be back tomorrow’,
For this light,this particular tantalizing light
is the face of Holiness.
©photo and poem by Carole A Fults
This morning the sky is water tower blue and
My heart is humming as I think about all the people I love
Those who are happy
Those who are suffering
Those who are happy but struggling
As I recall the faces
I wonder if there is something – anything –
I could give that would make their lives easier, happier, freer.
One time from an upstairs window I watched a robin
bring food to his nested young
who were chanting their hunger pangs
He placed an answer in their open, squeaking mouths.
One by one he fed them and still they hollered
their bellies craving more
I envied him – he had something to give to those he loved.
Often my giving feels inadequate to the love I hold
and sometimes giving something is easier than just saying
I love you, the love word being so awkward among us.
Sometimes anonymous love is easier.
I want you to know so there is no mistake …
if I give you something –
a hug, a piece of art, an offer of assistance, a kind word,
a smile, a plant, some money …
don’t think it’s given to retrieve something else …
nor is it given like winds that blow with mighty gusts
to spin you around or blow you away.
It is given by my human heart, a soft hand and a nervous hope
that the gift will please you and make you smile.
And here is the secret – if I give you something it probably means I love you,
But I won’t spoil it by actually telling you so.
© Poem and Photo by Carole A. Fults
Did you hear the wind last night
howling up the creek
whistling in the snowy, twig shaped shadows
of January’s full moon?
Did you see the moon
last blustering night
brazenly brightening the deep sky
dark of clouds?
One time, when the gale quieted
and all sound was frozen silent
I slipped outside in time to see
a Screech Owl fly stage front shrieking
“Wild, wild everything is wild!
Everything is wild!”
The wind rose again as I huddled under a tree
It pushed me through a tunnel
into the reckless freedom of space and adventure,
shattering the stale sameness
that orbits everyday life.
It sang a new way into being and then,
returned me to my bed, freshened,
where the barking spirit of Coyote
stalked my sleep
and dreams dripped into an awakened life.
©Carole Fults photo and poem
Proof of Wind
Bits of evergreen litter the winter floor
white dunes of frozen drifted waves of snow greet her
like sand in an icy desert
Her bones dance clumsily down the path
as frigid air sneaks under her jacket
She was hoping to see a bobcat
but no other animals are up and about
except her and her companion
Even the birds are quiet as if the air has frozen their songs
pond waves do not slap, nor lap the shore
yet, she says, there is a presence here.
Not deer, nor bobcat
not bird nor bat nor bear
not even squirrel, fox, or beaver
Her breath is snatched out by air that flies around
from on high
a whooshing moaning sighing crying squeaking sound
Proof of wind
Evidence of spirit.