The Lost Archives

A forgotten archive appeared recently on my computer. It was simply titled "Poems" and by chance I found it on one of my backup hard drives. It reminds me of the power words have to heal.

When the folder opened, I discovered my writing from around fourteen years ago. My oldest daughter Naomi died in 1999. She opened and transformed my heart during her struggle with cancer. When she passed away I had become a different person.

A couple years later I regularly wrote poetry to convey my intense feelings.

Here is a sampling of verse that I found in the lost archives:


Nostalgia in a Japanese Garden

In the garden
by the pagoda
a breeze rustles bamboo stalks,
stirs wind chimes.
White blossoms fall
into a dark pond.

When you were here, you
walked slowly on
the stone path,
pointed to glistening goldfish.

The moss has grown
greener since then.


 Nectar

Always a step ahead,
You arrived before me

At the gate. I  hear
hummingbird wings!

There must be nectar nearby.
The scent of jasmine—

Is this a perfumed memory,
Or a vivid hallucination?

A falling leaf reminds me
I am alone in the garden.

As the dazzling light fades, 
The air grows cold.

Barred by my beating heart
From an immutable threshold,

I linger, like some poor dog
Awaiting its master.

Breath 
               
Gathered in your heart
were all the flowers of creation.

With every breath
the angels came
and tended the garden
until its beauty was so great
the world fell away in shame.

Suddenly a fire of longing
came upon you—its
consuming flame leaping forth . . .

You vanished,
leaving only ashes
mingled with
                 the
                   earth.

Broken into One

Along the stream
where we drowned
iris bloom.
(Lovers approach
arm in arm, the sound
of their laughter
mingling with the murmur
of flowing water.)

When we loved, the moon watched
while the scent of pines
dazzled our senses.
Our fierce longing ignited
a flame that sealed our fate.
Throwing ourselves into the water,
we succumbed to the current.
As our bodies dashed
together upon the rocks,
we reached the place
where the ancient songs arise.

(Now embracing,
the lovers listen—
our melody mingles
with the beating
of their hearts.)



BE

Be a falcon
on the wrist of God
excellent in the art
of conquest.

Be a whale
swimming in the primeval ocean
sifting mysteries from
fathomless deep.

Be the wind
soaring above mountains
gathering perfume from the fields,
caressing lovers embracing.

Be a rainbow
that blesses the darkening day
like a necklace of pearls
worn by the bride of the sun.

Be a tree
reaching to heaven
while rooted in one place
a thousand years.

Be a thought
that precedes birth
dancing on the shore of dawn.

Be an emblem
of God’s remembrance
shining light in
deep dark eternity.



 © Steven Boone 2002 -2017 All Rights Reserved

Red Leaves

Deep within the vault of my memories, full now with six decades of life, is an episode of rapturous wonder, thrill, and happy connectedness. Veiled and buried with so many other memories, once in a while it comes to mind, as it did the other day.

Late summer is now shifting into the autumn season, and the colors have been summoning me to paint outdoors. Temperatures begin cool and become balmy. One day I drove about an hour out of the city to one of my favorite places; the Rio Grande Gorge. Following the twisty, softly flowing river through volcanic rock canyons, I found a scenic area by a bend. I climbed out to scout for a scene to paint, and took my camera. Amidst tall reeds at the river edge, the only sounds were the gurgling of water and paddling of ducks congregated on a log by the other side. Among the green shrubs and brilliant yellow blooms, I spotted some crimson leaves—a sure sign of the autumn. It was the red foliage that jarred loose the buried memory, so pleasant and nostalgic.

When I was but six or seven years old, beginning school in La Grange, Illinois, (a suburb of Chicago) the class went on a field trip at the beginning of Autumn. We drove out into the country to a nature preserve. The weather was perfect—blue skies and the lingering warmth of summer coming from the earth. Colors of nature were already changing. Several teachers watched over the group of children from various classes. A sense of happiness and love pervaded the day. Something thrilled me and touched my soul with wonder—to be out of the confines of a classroom, yet with adults who took pleasure along side of me and the other children. The sky seemed so blue, like I had never seen before, perhaps because the colors of the trees and fields were burnished so brilliantly orange, red and yellow. To walk in the grass almost up to my waist and hear it swish, while smelling the aromas of plants and fertile, moist earth . . .

I came upon an oak leaf that had fallen onto the path at my feet. It's red color surprised me and I became aware how color could arouse my senses. I still remember that leaf.

Later the class went among tall reeds and cattails by a pond. It was there that I saw a snake slither by, gliding in the water, wriggling rapidly while holding its head up. I thrilled at the sight and also the slight danger of something foreign, mysterious, and alive arriving out of the deep dark water.

The visit was over after a few hours and we went back to school. I do not remember the school as clearly as the sights and sounds of that day in nature.

At the Rio Grande, as I relished the nostalgia of that memory, I stopped to gaze at the red leaves, while listening to the river flow and feeling the sun warm on my skin. Hiking back to unpack gear and make a painting, I trampled among sage bushes. They released an indelible pungent aroma that had a medicinal effect on my senses and mind. 

The painting flowed through me the same way as the memory.

Rio Grande Gorgeous, oil on linen, 14 x 18 inches

Impatient Friend

The sight of my sturdy green suitcase, waiting to be filled, resting by my front door, suddenly filled me with gladness. It had been in storage too long and now was like an impatient friend, beckoning to adventure. Just the sight of it reminded me of Paris and Rome, Nairobi, Bangkok, Berlin, Chicago and Auckland, and many places in between. A thrill passed through me. 

 

This trip is not so exotic, but more of a pilgrimage. After my oldest daughter Naomi died in 1999, for many years I would return to San Francisco in the spring to remember her and the life we lived there during the four months prior to her death. Those days were powerful, as we were constant partners, blazing through the days, burning the candle at both ends. Life seemed magnified by death—and so it is when I revisit places we visited during our last months together before she hastened on ahead of me into the next world.

The hotel I stay at in San Francisco, The Seal Rock Inn, is where Naomi and I lived. It is across the street from Sutro Park, where you can stand and see the Golden Gate Bridge. The first year, when I returned alone, a small shrine had been set up in my room as a gift by Cecilia, the manager of the front desk. The staff remembered Naomi. The Seal Rock is a family owned hotel with homespun values, and as I returned year after year, I counted on seeing Kate, an old woman who cleaned rooms. She was slow, but valued and we always had conversations. She read my book, A Heart Traced In Sand, about Naomi and our journey together. The last time I visited, Kate was 70 years old and still rode the bus to work and back home. That was four or five years ago, and now, I wonder, will she be there?