at the end of the known

in the last years
so much leaving….

on the incoming clouds
a time of silence….

there are no words
for some kinds of change….

moments facing into
the whistling wind….

equipoint
between coming and going….

after the floods
words ebb

behind them
a negotiated peace….

life at the edge of living
seated at the end of the known….

poised between
earth and air

there is no teacher
there are no guides

no hope or blame
only listening….

no outer voice
but the quiet one….

everyone’s secret;
few seek

how i’ve loved
the noise of love….

how i’ve run
the well worn road --

only when i spoke my dreams
to the great listener

and watched them drift
into the evening sky

did i see
the truth was never love --

behind the love
is silence….

___________
©2012
beth anne boardman

song of the white dove

the white dove came again….

i love how she sits far back
in the black, tangled branches
of that wild oak tree –

she glows through the falling darkness,
a phantom of herself….

she used to frighten me,
appearing unannounced
at nightfall….

you’re not from around here, are you?
i thought at her,
that first night….

i’ve tried to make up all kinds of stories
about why she visits when she does….

a harbinger of death?
of change?

but every day changes and dies --
as do we….

her song differs
from those of the mourning doves
that have surrounded me
since birth –

(my father taught me their song)

softer than theirs,
it floats featherlike, unmournful….

it curls

wispy
tender
wraithlike
(holy….)

we have watched each other
for years now….

through black ash
and endless smoky grey –

we are dual-captured
by blue-white
myriad starfields --

(our secret)

and still,
her song stops me midstep
midbreath
midquestion --

like an incognito
gasp of surprise….

then i recall an elder’s words
and realize:

she sings
not as a warning of death,
but as an

encouragement
to keep dying....
_____________
©2012
beth anne boardman


(recalling the wisdom of chungliang al huang,
who appears in finding joe, a film by patrick takaya solomon.)

the storykeepers

i am the mouthpiece of my ancestors,
the advocate of the yet unborn….

once i thought
i was packed away in dusty boxes
with yellowed labels….

•

after a life
of intense activity –

a certain stillness
haunts….

•

a young funny/crazy woman
and her children used to live here….

she told them stories
late into the nights --

and i used to listen….

•

old family tales gather
in the emptiness
of between times…..

among sad memories,
some pearls glow….

magnolia trees
hunting leases
gun oil
boiled coffee and flapjacks
sunny flat rocks
distant pines
tea dances
recitals
drums
feathers
cornbread
rocky canyons
arrowheads on sunday mornings
candied pecans
and a bowie knife in the door….

•

stories of the grandfathers
and the grandmothers:

hope grows
in dark places survived….

•

our unfolding never stops –

everything offers us its life!

wisdom lives
in fire and stone and night….

•

this is no time for the living dead!

someone needs to
keep the stories,
and tell them to children
over candlelight….

someone needs to speak the memories,
weave the magic of history
at the side of the crackling fire….

•

you are the mouthpiece of your ancestors,
you are the advocate for those yet unborn….

________________
©2012
beth anne boardman

the unknown bell

on my way through
the wilderness,

i heard a bell in the distance….

i could not tell
whether it was the single
ringing chime from a church –

or a temple-bell
through the trees –

silence followed….

birds fluted
and busied themselves
hopping from branch to branch
carrying urgent twigs….

insects chattered
among rustling grasses….

leaves brushed by one another
in their softly swaying dance….

continuing, questioning --
feeling touched, nonetheless,
by the great unknown….

again the bell sounded
at the edge of my hearing….

bringing my step
up short….

causing me to pause
like a doe in a clearing

all senses on high alert….

a swirl of wind,
a falling leaf….
a brilliant sky….

how is it
that i feel
the ringing of that bell
here inside my heart?

______________
©2012
beth anne boardman

this time, i listen

when raven calls

my heart thrills
as if to a lover’s –

his throaty voice
floats across the silence,

seems a private note
between us….

•

memory transports me
to the lip of
an echoing red stone canyon
in the sheer predawn….

or the edge of a hopi mesa
preceremony….

then
raven’s voice seemed to
summon the dancers --
cue the singers
with their rattles and bells….

what glorious magic
has unfolded for me over the years,
when i took raven’s cue
to pause and listen….

•

last year
raven called me
to an assignation
with solitude….

i ran from him --

oh i was in such a hurry to live….

this time
i listen….

this time, raven,
your call reminds me

how intimately i know
the curves of your black feathers
the firmness of your claws….

•

i remember the
power of solitude –

i step into it
as naturally as i step into
my garments, of a morning…..

its velvet swirl
encircles me

oh, i know these steps
this compelling, dangerous dance….

•

ah, but i remember
raven’s sacred tricks!

i feel him laughing when i sink
into the illusion of aloneness….

when actually,
the graces of the universe
dance around me….

atoms riot within me….

oh i,
who feel so proficient
in this solitary walk,

am the center of a circle
of generous beings
clamoring for my notice

night and day….

from the cells living within me
to the spiders in my garden,

to the breadth of the spirit world
that holds me…..

•

raven calls:

throw off your cloak of aloneness!

know your pockets are filled
with the unimaginable riches
of the universe….

your very touch teems
with beings…..

your every ragged breath embraced….

•

oh love

this time
i respond

with upwelling joy….


_______________
©2012
beth anne boardman