No Regrets #4, Winter 2011

! No Regrets Journal ! !

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Winter 2011 Issue 4

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No Regrets

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No Regrets is a journal of poetry, prosing and images articulating the twists and turns in the human condition, the search for love, meaning and community.

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Editor

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Clayton Medeiros is a poet and collage artist interested in love, the human condition and the search for meaning. claymedeiros@noregrets.com

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C.J. Lince is a poet living in Portland, Oregon

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Neil McKay (Johnny Trash) is technical consultant to the web site

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Submissions

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Submissions are by invitation of the Editor or contributors.

Copyright February 2011

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Contents Photographs and Collages Clayton Medeiros Universe !

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Clayton Medeiros

The Day

Clayton Medeiros

the Stradivarius wind chimes! !

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C. J. Lince

Dappled Walks!

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Clayton Medeiros

Dawn Sonnet!

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Clayton Medeiros

Imagine!

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Clayton Medeiros

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Island Waits! !

Strange Radio!

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Religion and the Environment Essay!

Mind Indigo! !

Clayton Medeiros C. J. Lince

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Clayton Medeiros

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Clayton Medeiros

New York City Moon

Clayton Medeiros

Temple Bar Prayer

C. J. Lince

Rosy Rain for Williams! !

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Clayton Medeiros

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Snow! !

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Clayton Medeiros

Snow Shower

Clayton Medeiros

Piano Wire Rib Cage!

C. J. Lince

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Universe I hear it, The universe, Humming Clayton Medeiros

The Day The day was immense Blue Everywhere Clayton Medeiros

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the Stradivarius of windchimes

Curtis puts his ear to the chambers of the biggest windchimes we’ve ever seen, sextuple-barreled wonder humming dangerous and low.

We have idiot grins like lovers, seduced by the charming and plain.

Curtis’ face shines like headlights on a hotwired car, baffling jumpstarted joy.

We are struck dumb and new by simple things that ring through to the bone.

C.J. Lince

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Dappled Walks

Dappled walks hide Fluttering leaves Late morning sun Belies chilled Sandaled feet

Coffee brews Entices next steps Prepares minds As day awaits Caffeination

Appreciates Nature’s efforts With attention Salutations Genuflections

Voices rise Choral praises Hold up the sky Diurnal time’s Blue vault

Clayton Medeiros

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Dawn Sonnet

What truth lies hidden in the eyes of dawn From moon lit nights such secrets come to be When dreaming no longer contains what’s been For day light’s clarity remains unseen In the wide horizon of this moment Across the timeless weft of gravity We seek for love’s embrace to cross the days As life walks us through the weeks and months Awake we count the passage of the hours Momentary joy in the arms of others Quiets endless questions of eternity Around signs of wisdom throughout the years We wait expectantly for common cause Beginnings’ word forever gives us pause

Clayton Medeiros

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Imagine Imagine the leaves of spring, Next year’s poetry, This gray, damp morning.

Deep green and haze, Bits of charred snow Leaven the drizzle.

Bones ache, chopped wood Crackles in the fireplace, Glows like enamored hearts Of young lovers who, Have no scars from leaving, Forever incomplete, empty, Bereft of infused wonder.

The other surges into life Like flame to pine, rosy ash.

Passion’s shared pillows, Relentless ardor spent.

Whispered good nights, No frost on the wind Catches the blossom, Too soon from its bud.

The light of incomplete day, A season not yet begun.

Sweet new love scales time, No right moment waits, Pierces the heart, Turns life upside down.

Cares to the four corners, A world carved by winds, Blessed by creation, Medieval roses glimpsed On a satin pillow.

Clayton Medeiros

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Islands Wait

Islands wait for Someone to come Sit quietly as Sun bright waves Sound against Rocks and sand Company For the story Not yet told If you wait Long enough Listen closely Slow words Come from Wind’s whispers Water’s murmurs Curved wings Dappled skies

Clayton Medeiros

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Strange Radio Folded like an old, unsent letter collecting dust below dog-eared books and blank envelopes, This is the love that used to live in my chest.

All its corners are turned in and it's worn so thin it could melt as fast as snow on the tongue.

This love will not make it to the post office.

It won't even get out the front door.

Assembling the knowledge I have gathered from rooftops and radio museums, the recipe for restoring such badly kept love is as follows: Wrap your love gently in tinfoil.

Smooth it so that it shines like a slice of silver no thicker than two stacked dimes.

Polish it with your favorite shirt.

Carefully wrap your love around a radio antenna, and tune it to the very beginning of the dial.

Your love has to learn how to dance again.

At first it will pick up only static and the sound of piano keys playing on broken strings, morse code melodies tapped out with hard sighs, breathing the whisper of a whisper of a note.

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Be patient. One day your love will hum like a glass harmonica.

It will howl the blues at you in the middle of the night.

It will wake you in the morning with hot tea and pancakes and sing you the sweetest song you ever forgot you knew.

C. J. Lince

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Religion and the the Environment We are biological beings, sons and daughters of the earth, sons and daughters of creation, caught up in quizzical divinity. Although limited, our minds encompass the universe; we chip away at its secrets; try to figure out how it works. We struggle with the why of it all including our own presence and seek help in myth, religion and mysticism.

Myths influence how we look at and interact with creation and nature. They are metaphors that embody spiritual journeys and concerns in our daily lives with lovers, families, friends and colleagues. Our shared biology serves as a birthplace for mythic content and our common humanity.

Myths explain things that are outside of human understanding. They are sensed and felt beyond any verbal or written descriptions. Mythic content strains our finite nature’s limits and is not contained by language. It is understood, but the understanding surpasses anything that language or rationality can capture. Like efforts to describe God, myths can be described to a point, but they are ultimately ineffable, inexplicable and beyond human categories. We react to them with our entire being, emotional, physical, spiritual and rational.

Myths resonate in the space that the Zen monk refers to when he asks, “Who are you between two thoughts?” Moments in the natural world, sunsets, sunrises or hurricane winds take us to feelings of awe like music that goes directly to our spirit, pierces rationality’s armor, opens us up to something that cannot be articulated, something that simply is.

Perhaps this space is between our conscious and unconscious selves, where mind and body distinctions disappear, where language is no longer necessary, a place where passion takes lovers. Although we cannot describe its geography, we know it is there.

For Buddhists, there is no separation between creation and the divine. All things manifest Buddha consciousness. There is no deistic first cause like God or Allah. The divine spirit is immanent in the universe not separate from it. Creation is treated respectfully. All sentient beings, including animals, are participants in the world of suffering and have consciousness. Creation cannot be a resource to be exploited. Hindu’s also see the earth and its creatures as divine, including humanity.

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In Genesis, God creates the world and sees that “it was good.” Later, God makes a covenant with Noah, his offspring and all of the creatures of the ark. In describing the rainbow as the sign of the covenant, God specifically states that it is between him and the earth. This interpretation provides a reasonable Jewish and Christian case for the divine nature of the world and our role as stewards.

Within the various Jewish traditions, mystical Hasidim believe everything is divine. Whether something is animate or inanimate, it has a soul with the less animate stones having a simpler soul than a plant or animal. The stones speak so quietly that we do not hear them. The sacred nature of creation is universal across all aspects of it.

Christianity is torn about our relationship to creation. Some Christians see global warming and the environment as critical issues in the stewardship of God’s creation. Others see the environment as a distraction from their focus on abortion and gay marriage. The earth was created for our use and meant to be consumed. The destruction of the physical world, the fallen world, is acceptable and the sooner the better to bring the hoped for end of times.

For Muslims, the desecration of nature is a sin. Creatures and the landscape itself are sacred. Everyone is responsible to serve as stewards of creation. The Quaran says, “Surely the creation of the heavens and the earth is greater than the creation of man; but most people know not.”

If one assumes that there is something spiritual or divine about the earth, there may be hope for the establishment of a broad human community of common interest in the well being of creation. Secular belief systems may not support the underlying divinity of the universe, but they could still gather around the ecological wonder of its forms and functions and the common sense needed to prevent environmental catastrophe.

The only choice that assures our survival into the future is the identification of a human community grounded in mutual responsibility for the earth’s well being. Perhaps a community of the earth can be established that cuts across religious and secular beliefs. Christians, humanists, atheists, agnostics, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Jews and others can all share in our most common human heritage, the earth itself.

Clayton Medeiros

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temple bar prayer

there was music playing from the speakers outside the Temple Bar softly at 2 in the morning, no one inside but the slender man and woman entangled and leaning one against the other, arms encircled around backs with palms pressed tenderly between shoulder blades, facing away from the window and perfect, the reflection of my red shoes bright and unnoticed as I walked invisible past their tired and holy prayer.

C. J. Lince

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Mind Indigo Neither sunlight nor full moon Trace twisted canyon pathways, Midnight dimensional sweeps, Dark vertigo of the mind In timely, tuneful indigo blue.

Shadows upon shadows Grasp sunset’s red ledges, Grass, stone, many branched tree Merge in blue black water’s Sound of tumbled pebbles.

Detritus of wind and water, Egalitarian to earth and bone, Everything ground to sand, Spread across time and place With no rush to judgment.

No short narrow canyon steps Lead through this landscape, Broad views are required, With seven league boots From days ever so long ago.

Clayton Medeiros

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New York City Moon

No one ever wrote a song “Moonlight in Manhattan” Maybe a Gargoyle tune With Mies’s sheer glass No one ever looks up And stars don’t shine On Fifth Avenue or Park

No matter how full Moons over Manhattan are Shot down by day light night Time’s great white way Morning shadows walk with Bleary after hours sunrise But no glorious new day

What do lovers do In this glossy world’s Merged night and day Quietly evolved Conceits twist away Lights come on and on

Clayton Medeiros

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Perfunctory Sky Perfunctory skies do not bode well For indecisive events of the day Inconclusive conversation’s Words hang in the weather Shadows unsure of their direction Clouds neither cumulous nor stratus A parsimonious temperature No horizon to be seen Across muddled time The sky leans close Hears whisperings In the haze Clayton Medeiros

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Snow

Snowy road Bits and pieces Ever growing Until all is Rutted white Peppered with Crooked cars’ Dash of color

Clayton Medeiros

Snow Shower

Snow speckled Over the Parking lot A gray man Wobbles in Unbuttoned Perseverance Wind blown Destiny

Clayton Medeiros

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Piano Wire Ribcage Listen carefully, and everyone is a song played on piano wire, a bare-bones instrument with its insides exposed stretched tight enough to sing. listen carefully, sometimes I think we are all just tools of murder and music we do not use, waiting to be tightened and twisted into tune, waiting for our unwritten overtures to be read, our surfaces cold and gathering dust from unplayed mad-dash jazz and funeral marches, our wound and wired bodies equally ready to shape the sky canvas into sheet music as to snap and strangle the beat inside our throats. we are our own composers, what will you write, will you sing, will you listen to yourself when you’re sharp and aching like a hard to force smile, will you listen to the winds that whistle through the bars of your brilliant and breaking bone dust body, will you hear the hardening of your hinges every time someone tries to open you up again, will you fade into the backstage still waiting for fingers that know how to feel the sweep of your symphony beneath your black and white simplicity,

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will you fade, will you fall into firewood and fishing wire, will you wait for your skeleton to speak out on what it’s seen, give it time, will you give it time,

will you tap into the marrow of your music or your murder, searching somewhere for a spotlight to shine, when it comes, will you sing will you sing will you sing?

C. J. Lince

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No Regrets Journal www.norgretsjournal.com claymedeiros@noregretsjournal.com 27