Weaving
and descend to me again
as a song in the great plains
I beat the sacred drum
round like the hoop of life
the beating is from my heart
it rises in the sky
and descends to me again
as a circle dance in mountains
my feet are stamping, arms upraised
the lifting is in praise
it rises in the sky
and descends to me again
as a rhyming in desert winds
I tell the sacred legend
verses reach into inner spaces
they rise into the sky
and descend to me again
as a vision in the islands
I paint it on rain forest bark
the forms truth-bearing, the colors too
they rise into the sky
and descend to me again
as a shelter in the cities
we press our coins
round like the hoop of life
into the hands of hungry children
the coins are pure
they rise into the sky
© Ludwig Tuman 1995
Phone Tag
while wrapped in prayer
making my case
for God to hear and answer me
the telephone rang
and much annoyed
I rose, turned off the ringer and
resumed my urgent plea
later that day I played the message
the caller left on my machine:
“Hello, dear heart, this is the Center
for Creature Service in the Kingdom.
We’ve heard your prayer and have an answer
from Him Who hears and answers all,
but are required to give it to you
when we have your full attention.
Sorry to miss you. Call again.
We promise that we’ll never be
out or on the other line.
Try again some other time.”
© Ludwig Tuman 2004
| Apple Tree
Don’t bring me apples from the market,
Picture perfect, uniformly rosy,
Shiny and unblemished.
They are a lie,
Hiding under chemical blanket,
From life’s worms and bruises.
Give me apples from humble gardens,
Hanging on brave and craggly trees,
Exposed to winter’s harsher winds,
Summer’s birds and marauding moths.
These are true to life,
With flavor tart and sometimes sweet,
Skin with warts and entrance holes,
Some bold and large but lacking flavor,
Some stay small but are to savor,
Every shade from green to red,
Striped, or spotted, often bruised,
Caught in a vice between two branches,
Yet all, together, reach for ripeness.
How astonishing when the Gardener comes,
With loving bite assays His fruit,
And to each and every apple coos,
“Your work is done, it’s time for harvest.”
In a golden basket He places them,
Worm holes, bruises, warts and all.
© Ludwig Tuman 1999 | Snail’s Journey
“I find myself to be as a leaf which lieth at the mercy of the winds of Thy decree,
and is carried away whithersoever Thou dost permit or command it.” ~ Bahá'u'lláh
******************************
“I am the master of my fate / I am the captain of my soul” ~ William E. Henley
In the gentle rain
and the night light
cast by far off lamps
a dark dot clings to the wall of our home,
a snail setting sail on a journey
of foam and rudderless ambitions
Shining on the wall
in sticky splendor,
in the sheen of reflected light,
is the track of his adventures,
conquests, his flight to distant
goals, a record of achievements
bending back on itself again
and again
in meandering loops and curly-q’s
“Where,” I ask,
“are you headed, dear friend?”
as he bends body, soul,
antenna and sail,
the master of his fate,
boldly changing course again
on the rippling waters of the wall.
“To do my Lord’s bidding,”
comes his answer, “I know
He has a plan for me.”
Surveying the record of
this sailor’s journey,
I wonder, does he see
that in the end he has arrived
exactly where he began?
“Is it that your life,” I ask,
“has finally come full circle,
or that your travels
have come to naught?”
What need for answers
if, in the end
the ways of the sea
have been taught?
Aye, matey
there’s the rub:
to be both a leaf blowing
in the winds of His will
and an able captain of your tub
© Ludwig Tuman 2005 |