Everyday Ecstasy and other poems
By Laura Stamps
Everyday Esctasy
My youngest
cat plays solitaire
with the oriental rug at the top
of the stairs, bouncing on it, collapsing,
twisting his paws in the fringe,
rolling it into a padded submarine
slowly sailing down to the door,
where the other cats wait, eager
to pounce on his monstrous creation,
squealing like blue jays, scuffling
for a moment, then racing into the kitchen
to slide across the floor and crash
against the cabinets-three piles
of black fur exhausted and ecstatic.
The sepia swirl of a snakeskin curls
like a long finger in the corner
of the garage, the crinkled calling-card
of a visitor we happily missed.
Likewise, what a relief it is
to stop resisting people-the cranky
ones, those too angry to please,
the sweet and needy ones,
people who wear unconscious lives
like raincoats; all of them I release.
Their painful choices no longer
purl my cells in tight little fists.
Instead, I am learning to bask
in the quiet salve of acceptance,
where burdens are removed
and yokes destroyed, where everyone
I encounter flows through me.
Here life is weightless, balanced,
like the tangerine seam of a skipper's
wing or dancing on tip-toe
in the snow, ecstatic and free.
Gloria In Excelsis
Twilight, and
a partial eclipse
shuffles the deck of this summer sky,
a celestial show denied to stargazers
living on the far edge of the East Coast.
The last sign to fade from his haunted past
is a half-moon scar circling his left eye,
a reminder of a time when he was abandoned,
a clawless kitten, skipping through golden
hoops of autumn leaves, feasting on crickets,
hiding from the wrath of the black and white cat
that terrorized the neighborhood.
We're lucky-the scars on our souls
can be washed away with the holy water
of heavenly love, the miracle of healing
reduced to a simple equation:
love plus love equals love.
Anyone can succeed with this recipe-
just preheat the cosmic oven of your heart,
roll up your sleeves, and dust your cheeks
with the angelic flour of compassion.
By moonlight deer slip silently from the forest
into the yard, pockmarking the grass
with the dark wings of their hooves.
I have heard that the presence of the divine
smokes a room with the fragrance of vanilla,
warm cookies, or rose petals.
In such an instance, when the veil recedes
and we grasp a glorious glimpse
of the other side, all we can do is mimic
the sunflower, pressing our limp bodies
against the blue tile of the sky,
lifting the shining pearl of our faces
to the light.
Psalms, Hymns and Spiritual Songs
The sunrise
this morning is a fire
on the tip of the tongue, a wild hallelujah
dressed in petals of light, blessing
the sky with its scarlet grace.
Second week of June, and crape myrtles
jump-start a neighborhood in bloom,
every branch clutching ruffled coils
of lavender, white, or fuchsia,
spinning delirious hymns of color.
Even on a day as merciful as this,
there are people who will be cranky.
Who knows why?
Better to bless them and hurry on
to the tall cities of the trees,
where the daily liturgy hums
to the tinkling tune of bark, berry, and leaf.
Every afternoon a brown-headed cowbird
dines on the grass seed I sprinkle in the yard,
as if she knows there's plenty
for her, and plenty for me-
more than enough to inspire tiny
congregations of slender shoots
slowly marching their green psalms
across the empty spots in the lawn.
Dandelions quilt an abandoned field
with swatches of sun-sizzle,
while magnolias hold the fragrance
of summer in pale palms.
Crankiness is a habit I refuse to develop
as long as there is the feather
of a chance that my life
might become a sweet song.
A Lesson In Light
What could be
more joyous
than the sun searing the pale arms of the mini-blinds
at eight o'clock on a Sunday morning?
Pouring through the big window at the top of the foyer,
still too high to shutter or curtain,
and splashing across the stairs,
igniting three cats lounging as if at a beach,
greedily lapping sun-sugar from their fur.
No wonder so many doves have been strumming
watery canticles since first light.
As ribbons of sunshine weave a white sheet
around the morning, I practice the grace of living
from one revelation of light to the next.
Grace
Tonight,
I close the blinds against
my neighbor's floodlight,
but forget the full moon
sailing its bright boat
above the forest,
igniting pine, oak, and maple
swollen with pollen,
and dogwoods,
white as wedding dresses.
Stars crown the Southern Cross
like psalms in a sea of glass.
I have no past,
no history, no regrets.
My mother is the white lily,
the warm embrace
of the immaculate heart.
I can hear the rustle of her garment,
like rushing water,
above the whir of the wasp's wings,
as I work in the garden.
I can hear her singing
above the hum of lilac,
crape myrtle, and purple plum.
My father is the red silk of sunrise,
the day springing to life,
the Light of life:
this is my future.
See how the roses open
their sweet faces to the sun.
You cannot love this world too much;
it's just a fingerprint
from of heaven.
Sitting In A Plastic Chair
On A Hot Day In August
Third
week of the month,
a tropical storm twirling in the Gulf,
and beads of humidity dangle from the day
like crystal rosaries.
Our Lady of Lourdes, pray for us.
Sitting in this chair I can see the leaf-shine
between the long arms of the forest,
and isn't it glorious how the pines
release baskets of needles in the heat,
bathing the forest floor in a carpet
the color of clay, and how the midday sun
seeps down from the treetops,
sewing patches of light
like bread crumbs I might follow
if I were to lose my way?
We must all move from one degree
of glory to the next;
this is our slow and steady work.
The afternoon is bone-quiet:
no lawnmower churning hot air and high grass;
no airplane tearing the clouds;
no bubbling yelps from fussy babies;
not even a dove huddled on the edge of the roof,
practicing its watery call.
Still, as I sit here in the sun,
watching dandelions shake their dusty heads,
the work of glory must be done,
as I move one thought out of the way,
allowing another more glorious one
to take its place.
What a
revelation
to experience wholeness,
round as the dingled
globe of a dewdrop,
continuous, unbroken,
a divine truth
as luminous as the lemon
seed-dazzle of the sun
or the dizzy spool
of a late summer aster:
the ability to bloom
in that perfect place
where spirit rules.
Sleeping
among the waves
of an unseasonably warm afternoon
is like swimming in a sea of sweet buttermilk,
from which I cannot seem to awaken
since I have no desire to escape
this simple pleasure.
March, second week of the month,
and the dark, mossy knots of bird nests
dot leafless trees in these limb-tangled pinewoods.
A charismatic committee of six blushing robins,
two blue jays, and three crows
combs the wild grass in the side-yard,
still dormant and unfruitful in late winter.
It will be another month
before the grass yawns and buds,
and the ants begin their fevered dance.
When challenges assault my life
like a sizzling swarm of summer gnats,
I recall the blessings of my past -
the goodness, grace, and deliverance.
Building a memorial in the mind of divine loving-kindness
multiplies its gifts in the present,
as if it were fog descending on a Saturday morning
like a sacred snow-swirl of cabbage butterflies.
My youngest cat stops to sleep in my arms,
and he sighs and shivers a little,
the quivering wings of his soul slowly folding.
I close my eyes once again,
and return to the glittering altar of memory,
as I design the cathedral of my day
one remembrance at a time.
First
week of April,
balmy thunderstorms comb the state,
and two purple finches
weave a nest on the second floor porch
just outside the French doors.
As I watch, a delicate sculpture
the size and shape of a cereal bowl
grows from bits of straw, grass, and weed.
Every day we choose to live in one of two worlds,
so I cleave to things eternal, the supernatural,
the sacred ways of divine love.
More than the slick gloss of eighty-degree days,
more than these mustard pollen pods
dangling from the oak,
more than anything the drone of a lawnmower
signals the onslaught of spring.
Dogwood blossoms ruffle April skies
like thousands of taffeta gowns
whirling for joy: gloria in excelsis.
The tiny lizard, green as an olive,
that bounced around the front porch
last summer and hissed at me
when I laughed at his gymnastics,
is now a family of lizards twinkling beneath
the marbled stars of English ivy,
a castle of leaves quilting the steps.
A brown-headed cowbird clings to the maple
outside my window, his feathers black
as a leafy summer night, black as eternity-
that dark boat of emptiness and rest
freeing me from the cares of this world,
separation, sanctification:
the one that leads to the light.
Third
week of April, a sizzling forecast
withers the day, and I continue to live in the light-
it billows around me like a sun-sail,
a great white sheet, the glistening wings of heaven.
Why is the diary of your life etched with despair,
a seesaw of sorrow, each month a new crisis looming
like the menacing blooms of invasive clover?
Stop running for a moment
and sit with the crow, meadowlark, and vireo.
Look for the sacrament of light enveloping the world,
daring you to choose a different life,
one stippled with psalms of happiness.
Mid-afternoon, ninety-two degrees,
and the blue jay sails his sandpaper song.
Sunlight butters the pinewoods,
melting a warm yellow glaze over hackberry,
maple, and linden, while a house finch
peeps and tweaks the twigs in her nest.
Leave your baggage behind, dear friend,
and dance with me in the light.
The view is like paradise, bright and clear.
Wish you were here.
Copyright 2003 by Laura Stamps
Listing Of Poems
Psalms, Hymns and Spiritual Songs