Thanks Giving

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Canadian Thanksgiving, Elaine Stirling, poetry

Thanks is for giving
acknowledgment of space
and for receiving, not a one,
the better or the worse.

Joy has never been
a race, my friend,
nor poverty of spirit
some elevated state.
The one who finds
his summit obligates
no other to the climb.
Each to her center point
is called, once heeded,
called anew and higher.
Rising every day, it is
for me to choose
what’s risible.

There is no end to life
worth arguing, the spiny
pads of past provide
scant resting place
they are a lousy point
with none worth
driving home.

Your great defeat,
was it my victory
or otherwise?
Who knows? And more,
if thankful be, who cares?

Tin cups accrue no interest;
beggars rushing in with reason
battle for the space to rattle
what discomfits—
having rattled, feel no better.

To those ungrateful sounds
I slowly deafen, hearing less
what others say I must.

What’s cast upon these shores
for my receipt and yours, through
giving thanks, receiving it,
is endless gold, the roar
of spirited tranquility.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2015

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The Quantum No Distance, Never Leaping, Never Falling Training Guide

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Elaine Stirling, poetry

Stand too near the edge
of something you have
never done, was told,
then thought you
never could
until you fully come
to know through faith
and science, back and forth,
including both, that distance
between tip of toe
and precipice
can be divided, halved
unto infinity, and with each
halving
scoot
ahead
precisely that amount
no more
and rest
until the noisy sound bytes
in your head stop clamouring,

“Too far, too close, too hard, too high,
too small, too big, too too too too…”

And when you’ve rested
not too much, allow yourself
a glimpse to know a little
more through faith that
safe you were
and safe you are—
that leading edge of anything
is only worth the measuring
of where you’ve been
to where you are
of where you are
to where you want
to be

until you see
the field vast and boundless
of your constant and unflinching proof
(a science personal) that all is well,
continues to be well, that no one
but yourself decides which way
to go and how or when
and then relax…

the path you thought
was precipice that’s battled
from the edges of infinity
on your behalf to reach you
at your feet unfurls

now
take a full step

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2015
photographer unknown

Where Silence Roars: A Villanelle

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Elaine Stirling, French medieval fixed verse, poetry, villanelle

there is a tunnel in the cavern in the rolling of a wave
where silence roars and idle curiosity abates
where nothing goes unsaid, no time or room to save

what’s past expels, it’s swallowed by the grave
while all the joy that’s yet to come pre-celebrates
there is a tunnel in the cavern in the rolling of a wave

the light of foot, the nimble fleet of heart are brave
they send what used to be to foaming sea in crates
where nothing goes unsaid, no time or room to save

within this hallowed, hollow space I crave
and fast receive, no need to pray or contemplate
there is a tunnel in the cavern in the rolling of a wave

where I outrun the clogged, the memories of all I gave
to those who taught me fear, set free the cage of ingrates
where nothing goes unsaid, no time or room to save

no hangers-on can drown, discourage or deprave
what I know now, am sure, it constantly recalibrates
there is a tunnel in the cavern in the rolling of a wave
where nothing goes unsaid, no time or room to save

~~~

© Elaine Stirling ,2015