Simple Pleasures Rest on Complex Piers

Simple pleasures rest on complex piers
Engineered to stand against the wind,
A latticework of love that lasts the years,
Steel lace on which we ply our passions blind.
On certain days, however, we recall
Necessary links to worlds below,
Seasons of remembrance that with small
Gifts of grace rekindle what we know.
Revel, then, within, and celebrate
Each tangled thread that binds you to your life,
Embracing the regrets that are your fate,
Traveling again the roads to light.
In such sweet seasons love, however wrought,
Neither what you feared nor what you sought,
Grants audience to sentiment unstained,
So pure but treasured tinctures are retained.
Sing of All the Pleasures of the Season
Sing of all the pleasures of the season!
Each moment sing as time awaits your song!
All your senses savor, with good reason,
Such delights as will not last for long.
Open up your heart to love and laughter!
Nor need you mourn who've fallen by the way.
Sing, and put aside what you are after,
Giving to sweet revelry its day!
Reason not with winter but remember:
Each moment is a canticle to being.
Even in the dark month of December,
This tiny cosmos is well worth the seeing.
Into now pour all your joy and sorrow,
Nor ought you stint on anything you feel,
Giving all your caution to tomorrow,
Sing, singing that the Earth might heal.
Sing of the Holidays That End the Year
Sing of the holidays that end the year!
Each cause for celebration and reflection.
As darkness rules the earth, sing of good cheer,
Sustained by will and nourished by affection.
Of Christmas, Hanukkah, and New Year's Eve,
Now sing that you might magnify the light!
Sing, for in your joy you will believe,
Granted grace throughout the bitter night.
Rekindle for these reckonings the fire
Each carries as a favor to the heart,
Eloquent of rapture and desire,
Twin grounds of both sincerity and art.
In quest of fellowship and common feeling,
Needing company, nor care concealing,
Giving and receiving equal measure,
Sing, then, of passion, faith, and simple pleasure!
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Show Me All the Bounty of Your Giving

Show me all the bounty of your giving:
Each cornucopia spills out in vain
As some of the sweet happiness of living
Sinks deep into a dry and dusty plain.
Of labor and of love there is no ending,
Nor can we ever pocket our reward.
Some tender that we're tempted into spending
Goes for gifts that others can't afford.
Remember that the Earth's a single sea,
Equable in what one takes and gives.
Each act redeems its value naturally,
Taking grace from everything that lives.
In giving there is rich and varied treasure,
Nor more nor less than taking's vivid pleasure,
Granting ample joy to those who care,
Subject to what pain they choose to share.
Silence Is a Quality of Snow
Silence is a quality of snow.
Eager to hear it, I trudge through virgin fields,
Awake at the heart of nothingness, and so
Seized press on, as the world's white oneness yields.
Oh, what happiness! Though the deadly cold
Numbs the extremities, traveling inward.
'Ere it reaches the heart, I turn, the old
Songs singing in my head as I head homeward.
Give thanks, then, for the unforgiving silence,
Revelation in white swaddling clothes,
Eden's seed asleep as we find radiance
Even in the bleak December snows.
To be is to contain the holy light,
In nothingness the being ever born,
Never more the locus of delight,
Grace the equal gift of day and night,
Shining like a candle until dawn.
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Because One Hundred and Thirteen Generations

Because one hundred and thirteen generations
Of Jews lit candles for eight days and prayed
(No doubt a miracle--flames in empty jars),
Nor could they, spangled abroad like lonely stars,
Inter their music, or cull their recitations,
Each cantillated word is death delayed.
Some memories are miracles: the jars
Empty yet dancing with light, the generations
Touched also by fire, burning like distant stars,
History twinkling with their recitations
Lest words be forgotten and the future die. They prayed
On their way naked to the ovens; they prayed
Resting by Babylon's stagnant waters; they delayed
Reeling into memory's end, the empty jars
Aflame with words, afire with recitations,
In words their mountains, their rivers, deserts, stars;
Nations flowing towards silence, the generations
Ebbing into darkness, with candles they delayed ...
Granted they seem strange. Their recitations
Are as alien as Aztec chants. The empty jars
Burning in the temple, the scattered stars
Returning eagerly each night. Whose prayers delayed
Interment in darkness? Which sunless soul prayed
Earnestly enough to light the stars?
Long has this love been borne by their generations.
Blessed Are Those both in and out of Time
Blessed are those both in and out of time.
Only in the moment is forever.
Nothing is an artifact of motion,
Nor can one live without that pseudo-notion
In which death is the end of all endeavor,
Each being being mortal and sublime.
Sing, then, of things both mortal and sublime,
Eternity within each tick of time,
The moment that gives grace to each endeavor,
Here within a now that lasts forever,
Even as we cannot grasp the notion,
Living as we do in constant motion.
In art one feels the shock that stops the motion,
Zealous to embody the sublime
And be oneself beyond all thought or notion,
Blessed by being in and out of time.
Each thing of beauty mirrors the forever
That lies within the moment, an endeavor
Harsh and holy, all one can endeavor.
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