Ellen Porter
2/9/08
An Abandoned Hut

Years ago you were
bright and healthy and mean.
Then your aorta tore open
and you combed death
back into its rightful field.

Today you offer me a book
on energy, auras and healing.
I can see it excites your spirit,
though I wonder why you have not been healed.

Your voice stammers and your gait,
but you are still bright
and not so mean.

I read and feel my energy rise
like the full moon beside


Ellen Porter
3/12/08
Each Grain of Rice

Each grain of rice
in my bowl
soaked in butter and salt.
How I love my breakfast!

But, oh—how is it
for the farmer—
scattered, watered, collected
all a season’s worth?
How it is loved by him!
His season’s worth
how it is loved
and loved.


Ellen Porter
2/27/08
I Waken

I waken,
fingers cold at eleven thousand feet,
inhaling air that still holds
yesterday’s warm scents
of shooting star, columbine, and
exfoliating alpine granite.

One more stretch
and I emerge, shivering
toward mountain coffee
and hotcakes
sprinkled lavishly
with blueberries.

They told me to
beware of bears
but dawn brings no fear
and hand over hand
I release the ropes
and lower breakfast to the ground.

Before lighting the camp stove
I bow in the four directions.
The Beloved quivers with joy.


Ellen Porter
4/08/08
My Psalm Book Lies Open

I do not do Rumi proud.
Memory comes and goes
like scratchy ink from a
ball point pen.
I scratch the paper
like two toads—
their frog legs in sand
pushing, pulsing
through last night’s rain;
What can I tell you now
about memories and golden oranges
about juice running through my fingers
and down my chin.
Nothing is happier than this.

My psalm book lies open to
Wednesday morning, Wednesday.
Wednesday week three. And when I waken,
I do not know if it is morning or night.
I wait for clues, then have to ask.
It is Tuesday morning.
I will have a shower after prayer
and then out to breakfast with
Sheila, Susan, and Marlene.
Later we will be caught.
Caught against pancakes and syrup.
Against syrup and blood sugar.
One more thing I have to ask.


Ellen Porter
1/27/08
Seven For Supper

Seven were home
but no supper to serve;
we were forgetful rather than lazy.
We rang a bell and
gathered for prayer
Evening Praise filled with smiles,
with sighs of gladness, relief.

Someone hurried off for sandwiches
and we sat deep into the night
laughing, eating, enjoying
the company of a full house.

It takes so little to taste a bit of heaven:
deep prayer, good food
and abiding forgiveness.

We passed the night in splendor
only to wake again in the morning
looking for the marvels of so much more.


Ellen Porter
2/26/08
The Doing of Things

There are three ways
to get things done
now that I am sick.
I didn’t go outside all day yesterday,
but needed to make my bed,
fill my eating bowl and
fetch my water.

There are some things
that some days
I can do myself
and I feel useful and strong.
I must do what I can to
still feel alive.

There are some things
that some days
I need to ask help
in the doing.
I ask and it is given.
I feel grateful but lazy.
Can I forgive myself the asking?

There are some things
that some days
you do for me without words.
Both know I am unable.
I weep inside at my disability
and at the greatness of your love.


Ellen Porter
2/28/08
two days in a snowy hut

it could be said
it was wasted:
no meditation,

but reading novels
taking naps and
playing gin rummy.

the begging bowls are china
and the serving dish
filled with Gala apples naval oranges, and cantaloupe.

we set the table with napkins and forks
and then, with snow in our eyes, sweet juice in our mouths
we give thanks for being
mendicant monks.