Ellen Porter
11/10/07
By My Window

By my window
I lean across my little desk
to watch the moon
half full
move through autumn-bare
sycamore branches.

I turn to go
my heart pulled by
morning obligations
and, startled,
I see in the mirror
the moon again,
wandering.


Ellen Porter
9/17/07
Feline

Settling in my hammock
I hear a squeaking
like oxygen escaping a valve.

I inhale deeply,
check my tank:
no whistle, no irritating squeal.

Then out from under
my comfortable recline
comes a cat
face black and snow
tail brown as disturbed dirt
in a garden newly planted.

She squeaks and cajoles
and jumps onto the bed
looking for food—I have none
looking for water—mine is in a bottle
looking for willing, scratching fingers.

I bump her gently to the ground.
She is no twin for my soul.


Ellen Porter
10/15/07
Insistence

Early morning
long before sunrise
I am awakened by
the longing call of love.

No friend here
in flesh;
the quiet insistence
has no other source
than the calling
and calling
of the Beloved.


Ellen Porter
11/15/07
Ochalek

Brigid, ten months,
attends vigil after vigil for peace.
Her father holds her high in the air:
her squealing laughter.
Together, they urge: Stop the War.
Under billowing blouse, her mother nurses
and the baby smiles the smile of the innocent.

And what will come of her when she is five?
Will her innocence blossom into wisdom
fresh from her parents’ souls,
or will she nurture her own glee,
the peace that passes understanding?

She waves her protesting fists in the air,
tastes them, nearly a year old.
How fortunate we are to spawn
the next generation:
Brigid and Jessie and Matt,
holding hands against the world’s inundation


Ellen Porter
11/29/07
Silence and Separation

This morning I rise early
like on so many other days.

But today my soul is ready
to turn away.

Silence and separation are
what I crave,
not soulfulness or wisdom,
not union with the Friend.

Just leave me alone to feel
the autumn wind on my coat,
the cold
battering my stubbornness.


Ellen Porter
10/12/07
The Stash of Love

If there is a secret
stash of love in my soul
no one, not even I
knows where it is hidden.

Rumi knows and understands
the mystery.
He knows he cannot find the stash,
he knows it is there for the finding:
the genesis of love
for parent and child and old uncle
all the kin from time’s beginning.
And then all the friends and
finally the enemies.
That last is where the secret lies
too hidden to be found except
in the pomegranate and the water lily,
sunrise and the roaring lion.


Ellen Porter
11/26/07
Wandering This House

Wandering this house
more mansion than hovel
I walk with predicted death.

I hear it calling
room to room
and I follow
eager
leaving fear behind.

At the moment,
the splendid moment
that I encounter its essence

death will bow to me
and I will fall
unshaken
into the embrace
of the infinite
Beloved.