what the soul says
the voice prays
the prayer breathes
the breath thunders
the thunder reflects
the reflection shimmers
the shimmer speaks of being
what the soul says
November 29, 2020 by
Camper’s Ode to Friendship
November 13, 2018 by
Squee ©2018 Bo Mackison
There’s a squee sign on my kitchen counter
and a mountain of dirty clothes still packed in my suitcase.
There’s a mailbag whose contents I’m reluctant to explore.
If I wait will the holy presence of camp linger even longer?
There’s a fire flickering in my fireplace
but no monster-costumed campers are leaning in
warming their hands and chortling
at the ineffectiveness of paper products as kindling.
Still, I see you, I hear you, I know you all are with me still.
Story Tree, Oh Glory Be © 2018 Bo Mackison
There’s a red maple stretching into the sky just beyond my window
but its branches are a stark silhouette against the gray November sky.
Not one leaf remains; no blaze of glory yellow foliage,
no story tree sign, no campers rolling in the leaves and laughing.
Still, I see you, I hear you, I know you all are with me still.
Rocking Chairs, Cabin 38; Site of Shenanigans ©2018 Bo Mackison
There are no forever friends rocking on my back porch
sharing stories of struggles and victories; telling jokes to shrieks of glee.
The only sounds are the shuffle of the wind through tall grasses
and the squawk of Canada geese flying overhead.
Still, I see you, I hear you, I know you all are with me still.
Camp Mail Bags Filled with Love ©2018 Bo Mackison
I try my hardest to fill four days of camp with memories enough
to last a year, a lifetime even. I memorize your smiles; I recall our conversations.
I hang your art on my studio walls and pin your notes on my bulletin board.
I treasure my horde of 20 thingies as if they’re gifts from the gods — they’re that precious.
All ways to see you, to hear you, to know you all are with me still.
Make a Wish ©2018 Bo Mackison
This year I make a promise to myself– to keep in touch
and not through mental telepathy which leaves a lot to be desired.
No, this introvert will text and pick up the phone. I’ll send postcards and write letters.
I’ll keep the spark of connection shining, oh, so bright. So bright.
Tribute to Lynn Buckler Walsh (1956-2018) ©2018 Bo Mackison
This year I’ll leave nothing to chance; I’ll not take for granted that we’ll
be together again. My Life-is-a-Verb [life-saver] Camp friends,
I treasure your presence. And no matter how we connect in the future–
across a table, over a phone line, or simply by gazing into a starry sky…
I see you, I hear you, and I know you all are with me still.
~~~~~
We celebrated the life of fellow camper Lynn Buckler Walsh at this year’s Life is a Verb Camp. Tears were shed and our hearts both ached with grief and filled with love in community.
Amazing friendships develop at Patti Digh’s Life is a Verb Camp. Connections with community last a lifetime and more. If you have ever considered LIAV Camp, now is the time to act. Registration is open and discounted registration is available through November 15, 2018.
Blind on the River, a Poem
April 1, 2018 by
Blind on the River
We stand huddled inside the river blind
and focus on the guide’s detailed instructions:
Whisper, no pointing from the windows–no fingers, no long lenses,
no flashes, no glare from cell phone screens.
We exercise prudence, aware that any misunderstood
behavior could startle the flock, disturb their rest.
The sandhill cranes might mistake our movements
for those of a hunter’s gun, its long barrel, its trigger’s flash–
a learned signal to take flight, to flee danger.
We gather in this community – in the blind and of the blind –
to witness the majesty of the sandhill cranes’
sunset gathering, their return from nearby cornfields and grasslands
to the river which affords them rest and respite.
They settle first on the far banks of the Platte,
a mass of quivering gray feathers, jostling together, dancing,
settling in, then they fly into the water–
braided river, shallow and expansive–
night refuge for hundreds of thousands of large winged creatures.
From their winter homes in Mexico, Texas, Arizona
en route to nesting grounds in northern Canada, Alaska, Siberia,
they pause to refuel for the final stretch.
We whisper, take photographs with our cameras,
but more importantly, we tuck the sight of this migratory
phenomenon deep within our memories,
imprint the sound of their prehistoric squawks
into our minds.
Standing in the hush of coming darkness, devout,
whispering prayers, we are solemn in our request
“Do not startle, cranes, be safe and stay. Let us see.”
Thus blessed with their presence, it is we,
not the cranes, who soar in the delight of it all.
__________
Written after spending an evening in a Platte River blind at the Sandhill Crane Trust in Wood River, Nebraska.
Poetry and Mandala – On Emerging
December 2, 2017 by
In the middle of the night
when your companion is the tick
of the second-hand
– and your heart beat
In the early morning hours
awaiting first light
so still in the house
– too quiet
In wait for the coming of storm,
be it thunder, hail, snow squall
– or a brewing wild within
Midst scheduled days or days unfettered,
in calm or angst
with joy or grief,
– take up your pen and paper
And in keen or chant, praise or lament,
in raised voice or sultry whisper,
(remember this)
– all is sacred and profane
Cast spell and benediction,
turn your words into phrases
and phrases into lines
– invite unruliness and ecstasy too
Take up your pen,
invoke madness or muse
Take up your pen and write
– then, poetry emerges.
There will be poetry and mandalas, contemplative photography and more. The Contemplative Creatives Journey begins again on December 15th. Join me?
Thanksgiving Blessing and Mandala
November 22, 2017 by
Bless the Absence @ Bo Mackison
A Thanksgiving Blessing
Bless the beginning and the end
and all moments in between.
Bless those in-between moments, long pauses,
interminable wait or – paradoxically –
too much action. A blur, a flash, a crash.
Bless this very moment.
Bless me, sitting at my desk
as filtered November light slips
through my window
and casts its blessing
upon these written words.
Bless this moment of routine and ritual
In the midst of the ordinary and mundane
In between the common and the trivial.
In the midst of unspeakable despair
there lingers persistent hope,
a relentless awareness of what is.
Bless that.
Bless the quiet night
the firelight,
the dark shiver and the cold.
Bless the dream unfolding in sleep
and the dreamer;
Bless the seeds resting in frozen earth
foretellers of life.
Bless a pale sun that casts blue shadows on crested snow;
Bless the lakes and rivers in their icy embrace.
Bless us, in our silence and our singing,
in our laughter and our weeping.
Bless the common ordinary moments
which would be missed – with longing –
if they were to disappear.
Bless the absence in the presence
and the presence in the absence.
Bless this moment.
Bless us all.
