Still time for Fall

On September 22, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic5 Comments

The days and nights they tumble on,

one day’s toes on tomorrow’s heels.

She grunts and forces her way upon

those who see time as cogs and wheels.

***

The endless hours push and shove

and jostle in hooded robe and shoes,

that heedless plod till more’s not enough

to hinder pathways trapped in ooze.

***

To catch the minutes wand’ring past,

their wings so sprightly fluttering by

’tis hopeless hope this die we cast

to tame this time, though hard we try.

***

Then stillness in this world should we

be after, solitude, tranquility.

God won’t rush, transforming, He,

our hearts from panic to civility.

***

So, let these moments taken now

to pause, reflect, encounter all

be God’s release of furrowed brow,

and stop…to smell the Fall.

Thanks to Lois Keffer for the awesome photo from her own Photoshop collection.

Still, in One Peace

On September 19, 2012September 19, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Prayers & Liturgy, Waxing Poetic2 Comments

Still, in One Peace

Fitting is it not that matters mounting,

with mystifying weight, find smaller place

and quieter voice beside waters of one’s heart, stilled?

***

Edges blunt as catalysts osmose, and color replaces frightened

monochromatic moods, all oozing

together in the panacea of grace.

***

I catch my breath long enough to taste air,

long forgotten and let the taste of quiet

fill my longing lungs with life, raw and real.

***

Here, there are no answers,

only better questions; hints of high above

where life grows smaller but clear, unified.

***

Lastly, I stretch legs, weary from

longer strides than meant for.

Here I am, still, in one peace.

Look now, the hidden road

On September 18, 2012September 15, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Words...always words5 Comments

Look now, the hidden road denies these footsteps

their certainty, unsure though they wend,

through what little solid soil succumbs

to plodding, silent shoe-footfall.

Forward slowly, halting back apace,

how often my wayward way, the Way, ‘tis not.

These choking vines abort momentum,

spilling out on soft and silent stones

their devious designs along this rutted path.

A fog, a mist, a nightling now,

I deign to trust what lying eyes will tell,

list’ning instead for the rustling wind

some branch to bow and bend and brush my face

and share with me geography.

Unsteady though the way must be

my hands atremble reach for other hands

for, only then, does lostness find its way.

Finding my way with words…again

On September 15, 2012September 15, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Words...always words8 Comments

As I say ad nauseam, words hold great fascination for me. Like a good wine or succulent steak, they should roll in the mouth teasing us out of lethargy and into fantasy. I’ve built entire paragraphs around a single tantalizing word I’ve discovered. I mean, come on, how can a person not get goosebumps upon hearing words like pandiculation, sententious; contumelious or jejune (thank you, Frasier). Since I am a word geek, but an amateur, I must speak without perspicuity (see, isn’t it fun?!) about a number of linguistic ailments troubling me of late.

The first is the unforgiving forward march of colloquialism for its own sake. The fullness and potential of our language is forced to pose as a mere undercurrent while our worst, or at least, carelessly casual renditions of it suffers from a “never cry wolf” scenario. It calls out, taunting us with its beauty and yummy goodness only to tease us upon reaching it with the text-speak it has become. Our etymologies, left underused, are trumped by the language of our street level encounters with one another. The onerous ubiquity of pop-speak, text-splutter all too easily bullies us with a kind of syntactical imperialism, usually from whoever holds the what’s-cool-now cards. Those of us self-appointed word cops run to the rescue of a drowning language only to discover that we had acted preemptively and the malady escapes. Like pushing a parachute underwater, it simply pops up elsewhere. When it happens again and again, we grow weary of the chase and join ‘em since we can’t beat ‘em.

Truth be told, this is how all language evolves. Perhaps this is not such a bad thing or we might still be in the throes of “straightway”, “contrariwise”, “forsooth”, “forthwith” and a host of other culturally high-nosed non-necessities. Lest I begin to sound too much like the aforementioned language-Luddites, I’m the first to admit my own occasional lapses into Facebook-ese if for no other reason than to escape the notice of those who might otherwise call me out on it.

Secondly, something I’ve said a jillion times – that abuse of overstatement otherwise known as hyperbole. Saying a word or phrase a jillion times does not, in itself, lend any greater credence to the word or phrase in question. Insistent hyperbole has left our language flat, uninteresting, boring and impotent, unable to even arouse us from our phonic slumber. I confess that my own struggle with the issue can easily be compared to the epic battles faced by Moses at the foot of Mt. Sinai or Lawrence of Arabia (this is exaggeration, not hyperbole…honest). The loss of subtlety, clarity and nuance delivers a word-life that is monochromatic, thin, even morose as a consequence.

Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, (my posts are generally far too long) is our love for the more-is-better preference. Our love for more-chat-is-better, not in length, depth and style, but in frequent, drably trite verbal diarrhea (think Twitter) has left us yearning for silence, the spaces between the words where we regain our footsteps. It’s often the punctuation and not the words it contextualizes that can steady our gait, allowing us to reenter conversation and community with class, poise and aplomb. The constant barrage of words, ideas and images (kinda like this post) all but guarantee that we are robbed of silence, the very silence that could enliven our spirits and enrich our conversation, leading to community.

So, there you have it. These are my ongoing struggles both for and agin’ the forward march of language evolution. As you can plainly see, I’ve been the victim more than once of a sound playground pummeling. After all, who wants their words of simple communication continuously berated as sub-standard? Especially by some smug, self-appointed word doctor? Be that as it may, I stand by my diagnoses and humbly await the next unwelcome conflagration unwittingly brought upon myself whereby the shape and color of my face are akin to the same in our less than ideal lexical enrollment.

In case we do not speak again, farewell, and think thee not ill of me…

guest blog – thinking about dad: 666

On September 13, 2012September 12, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Words...always wordsLeave a comment

This is the second post by guest blogger, Dan Erickson (www.danerickson.net).

thinking about dad: 666

(Originally posted on June 6, 2012)

It’s been two years to the day since my dad died. On June 6 at about 6pm of 2010 my dad made the transition from this life to the next. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony. He died on the sixth month, on the sixth day, at six o’clock: 666. That’s exactly what dad would have done, too. He would have laughed.

My father, Onnie Victor Erickson, affectionately known as Bud, was one of the kindest people I ever knew. He was non-judgmental and forgiving. When things were stolen from him he’d say, “It’s alright. I can always get another one. They need it more than me.” He said this knowing he couldn’t replace the item because he had very little money. When people would judge my dad based on his unique set of spiritual beliefs he’d simply say, “That’s okay. It’s part of their experience. That’s where they are in their life. I understand, because I’ve been there, too.”

Dad was also a seeker. It was his relentless desire to know more about God that got our family into a cult in the early 1970s. He thought he’d found the right path, the right group. Although he’d later leave that group, I’m not sure he’d claim it had been a mistake to get involved in it in the first place. His attitude was that everything we do and experience is destined. He’d say that we went through the cult experience because we were meant to at that time. He’d claim that coming through that experience helped us to learn something about God and would take us to the next level of our spiritual walk.

Dad later joined another fringe group and stayed with it until a few years before he died. Coming from the ministry himself, one thing may dad’s choice of spiritual leaders always included was a Christian-based belief system. He always believed that God and Christ were at the center of each group he attended, just not exactly as tradition might claim.

In the last few years of his life, dad forsook larger groups for studying a large variety of spiritual-based literature in smaller groups, small circles of likeminded people. In the end, I believe my dad had tapped into some ultimate truths concerning Christianity. He believed that the seed of Christ is in every soul that has ever lived, is living, or ever will live on earth. He called it “The Christ within you,” and he always did his best to live up to that phrase. He was honest, peaceful, loving, and fair. He was always there when a brother or sister, or a son or daughter needed a helping hand. We spent hours sharing our thoughts and feelings about God, Christ, and the state of the world. Dad was an optimist. He believed everything would work out for the good of God and all humanity in the end.

I started writing my first book A Train Called Forgiveness about ten months after dad died. Many of his ideals and values about God, Christ and religion are weaved into that story. It’s something I hope would have made him proud. Dad would have turned 75 on June 14, 2010. He was eight days shy, but now lives on infinitely. So, dad died on 666. But he’d say, “It doesn’t mean a thing. People are superstitious. God’s not superstitious. God is a beautiful representation of love.” God is a lot like “dad.”

Hope Arising

On September 10, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Waxing Poetic4 Comments

One man’s horizon is another’s destination.

To see far is not to see clear,

but clarity comes when morning hints

a cold shoulder mystique against the fallen night.

And once more, dawn rises over dusk

one day’s ‘yester’ trades places with another’s ‘to’-

never to return for

all is new once more.

An Evening’s Refrain

On September 6, 2012September 23, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic2 Comments

“There they are”, she says,

“how noteworthy, how noble under bastions of light

these gentlemen in tea-coats and cummerbunds.

They tilt their caps to passing ladies

with “adieu” and “hail, and well met, sweet girl.””

“Quickly”, she says,

“step lightly toward the dawn

and, before the shivering, cold dew of morning,

pin the drops that fall to the ground

with footsteps, trim, and gayly tripping.”

When one decides for time and chance,

fortune’s wind of destiny depletes itself

amid the wild, barren tapestry of evening –

and stops to sigh and, with delight, gently whispers

“goodnight.”

Guitar Player

On September 5, 2012September 5, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Waxing PoeticLeave a comment

Like many other twelve year old boys with thoughts of rock star status, I too dreamed of such things as I taught myself to play my sister’s guitar. Unfortunately, I was too much a lover of acoustic music to make much of a run at the smoke and sweat-filled tour bus mystique. I was too bookish, intense and eclectic to fit nicely into most single strata rock bands. And, perhaps most importantly, I was far too afraid of girls for the groupie thing to ever be an issue. But I love the instrument. I love the sounds it makes. I love when those sounds and the instrument meet together at the insistence of my own probing hands. This is a short poetic tribute to a favorite instrument of mine…and apparently many others.

* * * * *

Like hand and Hand stretched across a Renaissance ceiling,

hand meets hand in effortless motion,

too lithe to care what darkness inspires this happy tune.

Finger kisses finger just far enough apart to spike the yearning.

From whence come these doleful sounds,

these cries of joyful anguish?

They twist and writhe, competing for space

and steal the air with deft amusement.

From careful pause, adroit motion, and artful thrust

come strains unstrained; music feigning perfection, deigning imperfection.

Yet still it comes, music for ears made perfect –

singed,

soothed,

satisfied.

the intricacies of supple hearts – a guest post

On September 3, 2012August 17, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Waxing Poetic, Words...always wordsLeave a comment

Friend, fellow musician and writer, Dan Erickson, has kindly used a couple of my own pieces on his blog: www.danerickson.net I would like to return the favor with a couple of his own. I invite you to learn more about Dan at his site. The best way to get to know someone however is through their creativity. Hence, I give you this first offering by guest blogger, Dan Erickson.

the intricacies of supple hearts

(originally posted on July 7, 2012)

Once broken, it’s hard to remain soft,

like shattered glass most tend to cut

ourselves or others again and again.

It takes ten, maybe twenty-thousand days

for the fortunate few to mend:

less fragile, less frigid than before.

After years of abuse: some learn

to become unbreakable without hardening;

to love without fear of rejection or pain.

Our paths to pliability were weaved

intricately; our supple nature shaped

by something greater than ourselves.

Knowing this:

If two should meet and intertwine,

melting together while continuously

bending to and fro, the intricacies

of supple hearts, like water and wind,

create a bond that cannot be broken,

neither now nor in the age to come.

Ranch Life

On August 27, 2012August 27, 2012 By robertalanrifeIn Life of Rob, Waxing Poetic1 Comment

I was concerned at first that this one sounded a little too much like a contemporary country song lyric. But, on second thought, those rough ‘n tumble folks whose lives are lived in the often harsh and unforgiving collision of disciplined ranch life with a relentlessly greedy marketplace do live lives not unlike a rhyming song.