They say the blind are sighted
In ways we cannot see
Perhaps the eyes of forest
Are just the same as these
Where vision is held in presence
As contours are held by touch
Where glen and glade in–gather
For miracles are made of such
Paths take a turn toward the inward
What was outside resides within
As all we sense around us
Joins inscapes joyous hymns
Blind and sighted intermingle
And all are sighted by need
From every form of blindness
Each finds its freedom indeed
For there is found to be no partition
Between observer and observed
Belief of seperation in deep woods
Is found to be absurd
Spirit’s vision now reads by Braille
Of bark and bramble and brook
And as we leave the forest
This is the lesson we took
It is in the closing of eyes
In wonder’s stance of awe
That any kind of blindness
Is healed by what we saw
In forested new-found vision
There is no need for seeing
A new world is now upon us
For this is the season of Being
Some called savages
Stephen W Emerick
Some called savages
Were said to be the God-less
But standing here today we know
They worshiped in Cathedrals of wonder
Long before we arrived with fancy hand-carved
Alters of supplication and marbled seats for the profound
And it all pales before this one moment as we know
They worshiped here and worshiped
The origin of the planting of the seed of wonder
And perhaps it is not their purpose to shame our arrogance and stiffness but rather it is simply the
overwhelming magnificence of
The One here whom we now with them worship in adoration
Cover for "The Margins of the Day" by Jim Crotty
New Publication by my colleague Jim Crotty!
The most recent self-publishing project featuring landscape photographs taken from late summer through autumn of 2009, “The Margins of the Day” is a 50-page, 8×10 coffee table-style book that comes in both soft and hardcover versions. All the images within the book are full-color. The introductory text describes my creative approach toward capturing landscapes in those times of day when the “good light” is apparent and the subtle tones and textures of foreground and sky compliment one another for resulting photographs that are serene, peaceful and calm. Many of scenes represented in the book are from the Hocking Hills of Southeastern Ohio, however, landscapes in the Colorado Plateau of Utah, the Great Smoky Mountains of Eastern Tennessee and the coastline of the Carolina Low Country are also included in this book which is a photographic celebration of the haunting beauty of natural light at dawn and dusk.
via Calm Photos » Margins of the Day Photography Book by Jim Crotty.
A singular flickering light—
In the darkness—shining Bright!
All that flows within me
Knows the direction of home…
Recognizing itself as visitor,
Passing ferns, and hollows, and stones.
With emerging faith in its currents,
Even when winter is bitter;
Even when water is ice…
Life’s simplicity doth suffice!
As flow pays homage to host,
By residing only for a while…
The brevity of the visit
Seems eternity’s elegant style.
The Central Andes with the
Like all great mountains
Keeps me awake until mornings light
For what is most sacred
Comes down from the mountain tops
And is written on the tablets of our hearts
Around the fires of the night
And so it is, and
So it was with Moses on
Mount Horeb and here
Tonight sleeping at the foot of Machu Picchu
If you too had been here you would know
Why I have sworn a covenant with
The God of
That I shall never grant hospitality to fear
That I shall entertain caution but briefly
And I shall always and forever
Open my hearth to the heart
Of the God of the Mountain
Outside, the fingers of firelight flicker…
Casting shadow dancers upon the walls within.
And the movement on the walls and in the halls
Fill the house and this dark room
With the light shimmering.
And no place is left untouched
And no place is left untouched
And even if one were found… the untouched places are not spared,
And no place remains unmoved unchanged
And the shadow dancers upon the walls within
And the hands that sway the fingers of firelight outside this dark
Room and no place is left untouched
And the beads of sweat on the brow of the one who strolls the summer shoreline
Are the cresting waves beating in the breast of the poet on stage
Speaking while illuminated by the candle strength of a thousand twinkling stars–
With words formed within the depths of the earth,
Shaking free from restraining clods the dark soul soil…
Leaving dangling in mid-air the roots and shoots of all that I am
And ever shall be, And no place is left untouched
Ascending acorn hats.
And breezes in the lap.
Secluded in an old forgotten church yard–
Behind tarnished and peeling paint,
A gathering of voices from days now gone…
Proceeding from woodsmen, farmers—saints!
Words of time–their hallowed meaning—
(None reluctant, timid or shy)
On the lips of this deceased crowd,
Warning how quickly the years pass by!
Hear all, now, their pointed stories
Of faith, sorrows, and things that mend–
Such golden threads between the meeting
Of their beginning …and their end.
Between those two days in each one’s life
Though some cares mattered—many did not…
So, let their headstones stress this point,
Concerning life’s mysterious lot:
What we can and do become
Is what gives grace when life is done
I know not how the dream received its’ cue–
(Or whether the sky was black or blue)
Nor, too, do I know when
(Either by muses’ pencil or pen)
I tumbled into the blinding white–
Seeking quickly to make things right, as
Words soaked up from the sheets
Weaving into the wrinkled pleats, and
Draping in folds of stories untold,
Bequeathed their suffering to be told.
And in the writing it fell to me
To write a thousand wrongs.
And as the hands tongue was loosed,
Tears wedged in the white linen wove
The Watermark of the soul itself.
Now, awake, I set the pages upon the shelf–
Knowing when and if the need arises,
I may come again and help myself.