In a Cage

In a cage
In a cage
You put me in a cage

not empty-handed: a dirty diaper
a foil blanket
still
You put me in a cage

Do you think I won't remember?
Do you think that I'll forget?
Do you think that I won't grieve the day
You took Mama and Papa away?

In a cage
In a cage
You put me in a cage

You play your big important games
and move me as a pawn
You see me as useful leverage
but limited and expendable

But pawns grow up
to be Bishops, Knights and Rooks
One of us a King
and one of us a Queen

Do you think we'll play
a different game than the one
that you are teaching us?

Do you think that you'll escape
the wrath which you have sown?

In a cage
In a cage
You put me in a cage

Do you think that the hearts you've hardened
when you ignore our voice
are the only hearts that beat
within the walls you made?

When yours is pounding fast with fear
inside your own ribcage,

When it is time to pay the piper
And mine is hard as stone

Remember, when you ask for mercy,
From you I never learned that word.

1/16/20 S. B. Eulberg

Pages and Practice

I find it so exciting when meeting someone who has the inner fire for understanding, a willingness to wrestle and search, converse and allow oneself to be entertained, amazed, enlightened and awed.

I experienced this excitement in the meeting of a cello-player at Camp Kiya in Tehachapi, California this past July.

Korinza Shlanta is studying to be a professor of English and is particularly taken with literary theory and the constructs of how we think and convey our thoughts.

In my experience, this has been a rare combination to find or uncover in a first meeting as we did at breakfast one morning when she joined the conversation of a group of old guys (ca. ages 50-80) and engaged fully with depth and a humoring twinkle in her eye.

We had first connected at a couple of different jam sessions that began in camp the night before, beneath the bright stars visible from this remote place in southern California.

She is now back at her studies in northern California with an eye peeled for the beauty in a rose, or a classroom set up, an ear hungering for the words and images which will wrestle and dance to become the lines of her poetry and prose.

And she has just created her literary blog, which I am having fun exploring today! (http://www.pagesandpractice.com/)

I encourage you to check it out and follow her, too.

Identity Change

Already in bed
settling in, feet unthrobbing
melting to mattress when
"the cry"
Son, 9-mo old, is awake
and unhappy
and it is my turn!

Such a creative day:
finish newsletter
and compilations of
Summer Youth Program Curricula
as well as visit Robbie
and make telephone calls
and keep Volunteers busy.
Ready for another onslaught
tomorrow.
But,
then,
holding my little
boy as he giggles and grins
and slowly drifts to sleep
changed my identity
to DAD
All of a sudden
Music Publishing,
Pastoring,
Teaching,
Organizing,
   all fade
as identity as Father
hoves into view.

© Steven B. Eulberg 3/24/93, from All the Good Ones:  shavings from the gem tumbler

Visionaries (The language of roses)

Here is another poem that captures my attention

Visionaries

(In Memory of Mary Rudge)

Seekers of the exotic,
riders of water and wind,
shapers of jewels and images,
builders of bridges/breakthroughs,
explorers of Mars, the psyche,
artists, students,
celebrants, elders,
embryos this moment conceived—

whatever we will be in an hour,
tomorrow, a hundred years
or at the last turn of the earth
under moonlight's incantations,
whatever comes
   may we lean toward
      the language of roses.

-Claire J. Baker

from San Francisco Peace and Hope (A literary journal devoted to poetry and art)

Here is another poem I've found for you.

I was the musician for a marvelous event near Earth Day at the Gallery at HerChurch in San Francisco.

This was a poetry reading by the poets of San Francisco Peace and Hope.  

It was published in their Literary journal devoted to poetry and art.  (4th Issue)

Out of Temper Out of Tune

Out of Temper, Out of Tune
Piano's out of temper, piano's out of tune.
She clangs instead of sings, I don't want to play with her.
Mister Tuner, his black leather bag,
long strips of red felt, dampers and fork,
will bring us together again.

He starts in the middle, tempers the octave
expands the fourths, contracts the fifths,
like a crossword puzzle of cheating tones
so the highs and the lows will blend with the middles
when he's done.

He seems to bang the keys, not musical at all,
and in his other hand, a funny lovely wrench,
rosewood handle, cranks the pins a tiny bit
tight, a little too tight, a tiny bit looser.
I don't know what it is he hears.

Eighty eight keys, two hundred twenty two strings,
all needing to vibrate at their own perfect speed
so the bad temper will sweeten again to beauty.
In the end it does, and it makes me wonder,
isn't there such a craftsman
for our human relations?

Someone who knows exactly how far
to tweak each of us
to render the whole chord of us
from cacophony to harmony?
Someone who hears in each string of us
Our potential for resonance?

-Jan Dederick

A Better Weapon
by Andre

A poem is a better weapon
Than a knife
Because a poem will lead you
To a better future
To succeed
A poem will set your mind free
A knife will lead you
To violence
To jail
And maybe
To death

Published in They Call Me 299-359:  Writings by the Incarcerated Youth of Free Minds Book Club & Writing Workshop  http://freemindsbookclub.org/our-work/literary-journal


http://freemindsbookclub.org/

Strange Irony in "Merry Christmas"

by Steve Eulberg

Sifting through past Advent reflections, I found this quote which I had highlighted in the newsletter for the amazing inner-city worshipping community for which I served as pastor.

The quote is from Howard Thurman, whose writings supported my vision and flagging spirit, as the winds of hope that fill the sails that are unfurled for the journey.

This one comes from his Meditations of the Heart. A thoughtful blogpost about Dr. Thurman can also be found here.

Now, back to the quote which made me pause in my sifting:

"There is a strange irony in the usual salutation, "Merry Christmas," when most of the people on this planet are thrown back upon themselves for food which they do not possess, for resources that have long since been exhausted, and for vitality which has already runs its course."

Despite this condition, the inescapable fact remains that Christmas symbolizes hope even at a moment when hope seems utterly fantastic. 

The raw materials of the Christmas mood are a newborn, baby, a family, friendly animals, and labor. An endless process of births is the perpetual answer of life to the fact of death.

It says that life keeps coming on, keeps seeking to fulfill itself, keeps affirming the margin of hope in the presence of desolation, pestilence and despair.

It is not an accident that the birth rate seems always to increase during times of war, when the formal processes of [man] are engaged in the destruction of others. 

Welling up out of the depths of vast vitality, there is Something at work that is more authentic than the formal, discursive design of the human mind.

As long as this is true ultimately, despair about the human race is groundless."

The Muse

Some of us bleed on the road
some of us bend under the load
  of a real, day-job career

Some of us have to wait
  until the children are asleep

Some of us sing only
  in the privacy of the bath

But ALL of us dance with the Muse.

The Muse
She appears when you have no time
coaxing you from other pursuits
waking you from stone-cold sleep

The Muse
never will leave us alone

We all want to dance with her
all desire attention
longing for one more kiss
is our secret wish.

©7/1/2012  by Steve Eulberg

Sunday in the Park

Sunday in the park
with Zach
Washington Park:
A hula hoop group
skillfully spinning
and stretching
one square, many round
teaching a child;
Beneath the twin spires
of Sts Peter and Paul church

A large happy group
clothed in white
standing around a table
with open bottles of celebration

The Asian woman
who says only
"Thank-you" as she
reaches for your
empty (or full) pop can

The Mime troupe
packing up its stage
and sound gear

The open-ring-frisbee tossers
whose trajectory overlaps
the football throwers

The Broadway Muni,
The Duck and open-top
tourists busses all
traversing the same path

The couples scattered here and there
He--head lying on her legs
She--focused on her phone

The black bikini-clad sausage woman

The dog who quietly finds
something to roll in

This couple who lay, side-by-side
heads turner toward each other
beneath the shade of his hat
balanced on both their cheeks

The aspen shade that approaches us
As the sun saunters its path
behind the puffy marine clouds
that scurry by

The white reflections off of
certain grass blades that, trodden down,
lie flat
between and beside
the deep green of those that resiliently arise

That couple, trying two different
trees as the hangers for their
cupcake piñata

Connie raises her turquoise hood
to protect her fair head from
lengthy solar exposure
I revel that we can sit so long
without worry for burning
Zach, simply glad to have the sun's presence

We mention
the musical
and the painting
and converse
and bask

Sunday in the Park
with Zach

(c)2013 Steve Eulberg

Brain Pickings Weekly

by Steve Eulberg

I am so grateful to the patrons who support my work, that I am trying to pay their generosity forward.

Maria Popova has created and curated a resource of wisdom that has become one of my favorites named Brain Pickings (www.brainpickings.org)

I have subscribed to its weekly newsletter, which posts arrives every Sunday called Brain Pickings Weekly.  It is described as a "free weekly interestingness digest."  For me, it certainly IS full of interestingness.

Recently, Maria shared 9 Learnings from 9 Years of hosting this labor of love.  She notes that they are an expansion of what was originally 7 Learnings from 7 Years, published in 2013 for her seventh Anniversary of the project.

Over the past 9 days I have been sharing them in my Facebook Feed, one at a time (except I divided #4 into 4A and 4B).  Many commenters have responded with how powerful and timely they find these reflections to be.

I want to encourage all who have found these insights powerful to join me in supporting Maria's work.

So that you can have all the posts in a quick reference list, I will only list the first lines of the 9 here, but I highly encourage you to not only visit and read, chew, savor and digest the original post, but I want to encourage you to join me in subscribing AND donating to support the continuation of this thoughtful, fun and invigorating project.

And now, here is the list:

1.  Allow yourself the uncomfortable luxury of changing your mind.

2.  Do nothing for prestige or status or money or approval alone.

3.  Be generous.

4A.  Build pockets of stillness into your life.

4B.  Most importantly, sleep.

5.  When people tell you who they are, Maya Angelou famously advised, believe them. Just as importantly, however, when people try to tell you who you are, don’t believe them.

6.  Presence is far more intricate and rewarding an art than productivity.

7.  “Expect anything worthwhile to take a long time.”

8.  Seek out what magnifies your spirit.

9.  Don’t be afraid to be an idealist.

And let me know which of these 9 speak the loudest to you today!

Soul's Passage

My soul's passage

on a winding, twisting path

is a way with many bends

harboring surprises

These I both fear and welcome 

these intrusions in my rhythm

that open both my heart

and my ears to the possible new song 

A melody that is born

from a melancholy shadow

haunting and taunting this sun-drenched traveler

A memory that is borne

across hidden generations

as a salt sea journey carries stowaways

A mercy that gives form

to an untested hope

emerging from a chrysalis of discouragement

Breathe the air

draw it in deep

hold it while your lungs burn

and yearn to set it free

Release your hold

Give up your grip 

Let your ship sail

and ride the breeze

Lead the breeze

on briny, balmy seas

Leaving this passage

Loving this passage in its wake.

(c) 2005 Steve Eulberg

Finding My Pen

So many unwritten lines
words
letters
over such an expanse
of time.

The thoughts have flooded,
roiling and pounding like
boiling waves

the images bright and vivid
pale and diffused
clearly confusion

The transition to a keyboard
For journaling my thoughts, poetry and dreams
Never successfully negotiated.

The ink flowing from the scratching penpoint
even if aided by the rolling ball tip
is a lubricant to my awareness...

The thoughts tumble as
socks and towels, T-shirts and jeans
in the heated air of the crucible
until ideas form, and/or
Are tossed away with the clinging lint.

And/or are collected,
sweet-smelling in the basket
For careful, crease-less folding
sorting, stacking
re-stocking the closet shelves

To be retrieved and worn again
And tossed into the hamper.

In the daily and weekly routine
A rhythm which comforts
by its constant repeating

Yet now and again breaks forth
into awareness
causing my fingers to reach for
and grip the comfort of my pen.

(c)Steven B. Eulberg
10/13/05 journal

The Music In His Soul

The music gently called him in his cradle
While he was just a child
Before he could even talk

He hungered and reached to play along
They made him wait.
Made him wait until he was six years old
then he took to it like bees make honey.

The longer he studied
the less he understood
how to sing the song
in his soul

Eventually he left those lessons
and started searching on his own
Some see that he is searching still

What is the music in his soul?
What is that song that weaves
his parts into a whole
He is searching, always searching
to play the music in his soul.


He'd listen to Gospel choruses
study folk performers
he'd pick the Lester Flatt Bluegrass G run
explore jazz chords and Celtic rhythms

He'd seek out traditional players
and try to learn their songs
delighted whenever he could play along.

Then one old fiddler
put down his bow and asked,

"Sonny, you're always asking me for the tunes
I like to play, and
I am glad to share them with you
But a thought occurs to me
don't know if you knew,
but I wonder,
don't your people
have some music, too?"


What is the music in his soul?
What is that song that weaves
his parts into a whole
He is searching, always searching
to play the music in his soul.

Journal entry 7/30/08  SBE

Silence II

by Elaine Maria Upton

Silence is not a lack of words.
Silence is not a lack of music.
Silence is not a lack of curses.
Silence is not a lack of screams.
Silence is not a lack of colors
or voices or bodies or whistling wind.
Silence is not a lack of anything.

Silence is resting, nestling
in every leaf of every tree,
in every root and branch.
Silence is the flower sprouting
upon the branch.

Silence is the mother singing
to her newborn babe.
Silence is the mother crying
for her stillborn babe.
Silence is the life of all
these babes, whose breath
is a breath of God.

Silence is seeing and singing praises.
Silence is the roar of ocean waves.
Silence is the sandpiper dancing
on the shore.
Silence is the vastness of a whale.
Silence is a blade of grass.

Silence is sound
And silence is silence.
Silence is love, even
the love that hides in hate.

Silence is the pompous queen
and the harlot and the pimp
hugging his purse on a crowded street.

Silence is the healer dreaming
the plant, the drummer drumming
the dream. It is the lover's
exhausted fall into sleep.
It is the call of morning birds.

Silence is God's beat tapping all hearts.

Silence is the star kissing a flower.

Silence is a word, a hope, a candle
lighting the window of home.

Silence is everything --the renewing sleep
of Earth, the purifying dream of Water,
the purifying rage of Fire, the soaring
and spiraling flight of Air. It is all
things dissolved into no-thing--Silence
is with you always.....the Presence.

====
I can't recall where I ran across this poem (or how it ran across me!) but I transcribed it into my journal in September of 2005 and just leafed past it today.

I am so grateful for the observations of Dr. Upton, especially as I reflect silently at the start of every day.

On Music

by Ann Porter

This poem was shared with me by a friend who has studied music with me for several years and I want to share it with you.
(You can hear it read aloud by Garrison Keillor on the Writer's Alamanac here.)

When I was a child I once sat sobbing on the floor Beside my mother’s piano As she played and sang For there was in her singing A shy yet solemn glory My smallness could not hold And when I was asked Why I was crying I had no words for it I only shook my head And went on crying Why is it that music At its most beautiful Opens a wound in us An ache a desolation Deep as a homesickness For some far-off And half-forgotten country I’ve never understood Why this is so But there’s an ancient legend From the other side of the world That gives away the secret Of this mysterious sorrow For centuries on centuries We have been wandering But we were made for Paradise As deer for the forest And when music comes to us With its heavenly beauty It brings us desolation For when we hear it We half remember That lost native country We dimly remember the fields Their fragrant windswept clover The birdsongs in the orchards The wild white violets in the moss By the transparent streams And shining at the heart of it Is the longed-for beauty Of the One who waits for us Who will always wait for us In those radiant meadows Yet also came to live with us And wanders where we wander.

Herbs

I can hardly describe

my delight in

cutting and culling

pulling leaves

slicing, dicing, mincing

my own, hand-grown herbs:

Oregano, Chives, Basil

the last re-grown every year

the first continuing as perennials

it bubbles up

and nearly tickles me

to giggling

adding to extra virgin olive oil

the garlic powder

cayenne pepper

hand-grinding both the

coarse and fine black pepper

stirring and stirring

in anticipation

setting the lidded container aside

waiting for the flavors to 

mingle and meld

weaving their tasty tapestry

for me to savor

hours from now

Delight of harvest

tides me over

as I get hints

of pre-tastes

of the feast

yet to come.

, 8/16/13  SBE©.

Riding on The Seven Seas

Riding on the seven seas
In the belly of an iron whale
The hungry bellies of the green-clad men
Are never full.

To pass the hours, cribbage and dice
Sharing smokes and telling lies
Bragging and boasting,
Choking back fear, the unseen future toasting
The return back to lovers and mothers stateside

Cruising through sub-feasted waters
Paving a zig-zag survival road through the waves
Trusting the look-outs' eyes
And the sonar's ears
Dakar-bound, an exotic destination
For the entire company
Riding on the highway of the sea.


He gets up every morning,
Puts his kettle on for tea
Dresses smart and goes down
Into the bowels of London Town.

To read the report from over the wires
The shipping and troop-ships' progress
So he can plot their progress on their courses
On the world-wide map that fills the wall
Floor to ceiling, it fills the wall.

Just his job to be certain that the leaders
Can see at first glance how many tons
Of men and materiel have been sunk
And how many Allied crews are still afloat

Riding on the seven seas.

(c)2007 Steven B. Eulberg

Fully Alive

A Poem I found for you today:

I will not die an unlived life.

I will not live in fear

of falling or catching fire.

I choose to inhabit my days,

to allow my living to open me,

to make me less afraid,

more accessible,

to loosen my heart

until it becomes a wing,

a torch, a promise.

I choose to risk my significance;

to live so that which came to me as seed

goes to the next as blossom

and that which came to me as blossom,

goes on as fruit.

fully alive - dawna markova

© Dawna Markova

Another Winter's Day in Colorado

It's another winter's day in Colorado
Beneath a silver sky
Another winter's day in Colorado
One blue-sky moment
turns to gentle snow.

Last week the ice was thick
and solid on the lake
Young and old strapped on their blades
to glide and skate.
Sun grew warm, white sky turned blue
green ice turned to clear
And the sign changed to say it wasn't safe to skate
anymore around here.

Warming earth beneath the gaze
of bright winter sun
The tawny, tan of everything that once was green
only marks the moments between the growing seasons
And the birds that brightly sing,
an early foretaste of Spring.


Shirt-sleeves tempt the hurried
to re-pack the coats,
store the boots and hats and gloves away
Yet like a friendly prank, the breezes shift
and rain begins to mist
And slowly it thickens,
a downy mantle, snowy white.

Written in January 1998,
©Steven B. Eulberg, Administered by Owl Mountain Music, Inc.
recorded on Soaring OMM CD0102
Listen/Download here.

Evensong

by C. S. Lewis

Now that night is creeping
O'er our travail'd senses,
To Thy care unsleeping
We commit our sleep.
Nature for a season
Conquers our defences,
But th' eternal Reason
Watch and ward will keep.

All the soul we render
Back to Thee completely,
Trusting Thou wilt tend her
Through the deathlike hours,
And all night remake her
To Thy likeness sweetly,
Then with dawn awake her
And give back her powers.

Slumber's less uncertain
Brother soon will bind us
—Darker falls the curtain,
Stifling-close 'tis drawn:
But amidst that prison
Still Thy voice can find us,
And, as Thou has risen,
Raise us in Thy dawn.

(from Poems, C. S. Lewis, edited by Walter Hooper)