Pacifica Seawall, October

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Photo: Pacifica Seawall, 4 Oct 2014, Brian Federle

We dropped by your house today
and sat in the new chairs
under the gnarled tree
and spoke of you.

We walked to the wall
that separates ocean
from land, and observed waves
rising, mighty, lunging at rocks
beneath our feet.

We spoke your name
there, to the moaning sea.

(Oct 3, 2017)

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Moss Landing

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Framed in darkness
Like birds in deep silence
The sky and sea breathe
In steel blue longing
Remembering the dying sun
And the cries of gulls diving.

On insubstantial sand
We watch an impossible ship
Moving and not moving
Like a silent cloud at the edge of the world.

I can see no men aboard
Although I know they are there.
I know they are in steel rooms,
Warmed by twisting turbines,
Softly cursing,
Listening to the night.

The sand moves under us
As we walk to the sea.
Our steps change forever the earth.
The sea changes forever,
We change the sky with our breath
And wind-blown sand covers our feet.

Yet we move,
And for a while we walk
Away from the sea.

The sea will change.
The sky will change.
They will wait.
There’s no hurry.

                                                 In memoriam: Arthur Federle, 1978, Brian Federle, 2017

(1979. 2017)

daybreak

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Photo: Brian Federle, Palm Springs Dawn, December 2016

daybreak, still limbs lace
to gray sky, wait for the next
storm to shake open

morning, still sleeping
shuttered windows conceal the
cold face of daybreak.

(2012, 2017)

The Relationship Between Love and Grief (Remarks by Jan Richardson, August 10, 2017)

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“Passage” by Brian Federle

From “Grief is a gateway to grace, which can remake the world, LCWR president tells 2017 assembly” by Soli Salgado. Global Sisters Report: A Project of National Catholic Reporter.

The relationship between love and grief: (Remarks by Jan Richardson, August 10, 2017).
To be undone and remade by grief’s hand is a messy, scary and cathartic process, said the keynote speaker for Aug. 10, Jan Richardson, an artist, author and ordained United Methodist minister**.
Richardson discussed her emotional journey following the unexpected death of her husband, Gary; he died in 2013 just three and a half years after they had married. In him, she both found and quickly lost her creative partner and “co-conspirator.”
She invited the sisters to consider what it means to “be the presence of love” (the theme of the assembly) even when it seems that the “love that’s been present seems to have left us.” She said death is a process that can come in many forms: a physical death, the death of a dream, loss of a familiar lifestyle, or “the ending or changing of a community that has held our hearts.”

That death is universal and yet can take such different forms for each of us, she said, has been “one of the strange and beautiful things about navigating grief in the wake of my husband’s death.”
“When absence erupts in our lives, how do we call upon the presence of love that goes deeper than our loss?” she asked the LCWR attendees. “How do we open ourselves anew to the presence of love that endures far beyond death?”

“It has been crucial to me to attend well to the grief, to give it time and space, to let it say what it needs to say. … Call it my personal protest or act of resistance in a culture that so often wants to urge us along in our grief, wants us to move on beyond our mourning, wants us to be OK, because not being OK can make other people uncomfortable.”

If we try to hurry along the grief, Richardson said, we risk missing the presence of love.
“May my love be more fierce than my grief,” she repeated, a special prayer for her in this particular moment of grieving.

A seemingly subtle but distressing adjustment Richardson didn’t anticipate was her new relationship with pronouns and tenses: What was once “we” and “ours” had become “I” and “mine.”
“Where can we live in the plural present, with those whose hearts we hold and who hold us in theirs?” Richardson asked. “When our hearts break, where can we still say ‘we’ in the way that enables us to know that we are not alone? Where can we still say ‘now’ in a way that allows us to live into the love that does not end with death?”

Light, directly infused…

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Photo Brian Federle, “Sunset at Carlsbad,” Jan. 2016

“Faith reaches the intellect not through the senses
but in a light directly infused by God.” Thomas Merton

Rising from the sea
death’s veil
overwhelms me.

Brief day fails,
fills the sky
with starry sail,

wandering planets,
moonbeams
cold and bright –

holy spirit
fills faithful night.

(2012: Revised 2017)

Soft July

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since you’ve been gone the days
are silent

except for the rush of wind
in our apple tree.

See how the fruit hangs
heavy, pulling low
the branches;
ready.

so I’ll wait in the shade
of soft July
and think
of you.

The Narrow Road

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The narrow road
flows down the valley,
past hedge row, vineyard, orchard,

red farmhouses and
white mansions;

their black fences are lines
defining isolation

from the grey shacks decaying
where rough life once rejoiced!

I enter our little cemetery
where you wait
for my simple gifts…..

home-grown flowers,
a prayer,
a tear.

I’ll visit again
tomorrow.