In Memoriam: Doug Smith
Monday, December 20th, 1999
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Gently wafting Knoll House breeze
Stirs the firs and arbutus trees
That frame the watery passage I see
Between the mainland and Savary
From the deck six hundred feet up
Where a fritillary flits by my coffee cup.
Speedboats enter from each side
Gash parallel lines before they hide
Behind green curtains lost from view
Their white paths fading back to blue.
Horizon clouds disperse to show
The glacial glare off Forbidden Plateau.
A loud leaf scrapes the greying shakes
Above soft sounds that birdsong makes.
The sun radiates my soles with heat
And puffs of wind aircool my feet.
Whiffs of fragrance richly vary
Shalal, peat, and huckleberry.
Writing makes my observation
Slow motion, line’s permutation.
Dancing fingers lead the pen
Across the empty pages, then
Leave a snail-paced slimey trail
Wormy castings endless tale.
Broken off by–of all things–
Yellow belly-throat, black wings
Crimson crown–an Oriole
Visiting this blessed Knoll.
August 1998
The golden rings you’ve just exchanged and wear
As binding links of interlocking vow
Made with free choice impalpable as air
Enclose the undetermined future now.
The two of you together cleave as one
To fill the gap between the worlds in space
Between the pleasure and what should be done
Between the gruesome times and times of grace.
You leave behind the families of your birth
To recreate the world as best you can
With children, home and projects of true worth
The newly chartered firm of Chris and Ann.
May it prosper through what fortune brings
As have these redwood sempervirens rings.
Journal of the American Academy of Religion October 1997
Moses and Machiavellism
I cant remember quite when
I decided to dress and go out
Not feeling ready or strong
Just bored enough for the risk.
It must have been the moment
Some furious battle tilted
Between invaders and guards
Endurance turning to hope.
I made it around the block
Slow as old folks in the park
Who step to keep from falling
And stop to catch their breath
To sense movement and rest
A breeze stroking the lips
To squint at fluttering leaves
And the radiant blue of air
Like a kid on shaky legs
Licked, sponging up life.
Recovery is a miracle,
But father will you arise?
October 31 1996
Renaissance Forum Vol. 1 #2 Fall 1996
Progeny_ _em_Properos Books__em_ Genesis and _em_The Tempest__e
Her birthday has been the occasion of mixed feelings for Lise. Its celebration of the privilege of one more year of being alive has been mixed with associations of great loss–the loss of her mother on this day as a young girl and of her husband, nearly a year ago, when he stood with us here leading a toast.
The period since her last birthday has been difficult and dramatic for Lise–a kind of death and rebirth in itself. It started with her loving and strong support of Henry in his last days and her courageous carriage at the memorial celebration. That changed to a time of numb and disoriented acquiescence to her loss which climaxed in her dangerous automobile accident last January. This was followed through the spring and summer by a slow and steady movement toward rebuilding a life as a single person supported by her friends and family.
Today marks a milestone in that recovery–the fact that we are here despite those terrible losses in a mood of festivity. We’re celebrating Lise’s continuing good health, physical, mental and emotional. We’re celebrating the fact that she’s made it through what she expected would be a great ordeal– the three week absence of her son and daughter-in-law. We’re celebrating that it turned out not to be such an ordeal after all because it brought her closer to all of you, her dear friends, and to her grandchildren, Claire and Joe. We’re celebrating most of all to recognize that she owns her life and that with her continuing health and positive outlook, it’s a very precious possession–both hers and ours. Le Chaim!



