#slowmover — Public Fediverse posts

in landscapes unfamiliar

In landscapes unfamiliar,
when the destination shines in the distance,
the path does not always reveal itself.

There may be no signpost,
no worn road beneath the feet,
only hills rolling into shadow,
fields bending under strange winds,
and the far glimmer of something hoped for
calling from beyond the unknown.

But if one keeps walking,
if one remains on the journey,
step after uncertain step,
with dust on the shoes
and questions in the heart,

the way appears.

Not all at once,
not as a map unfolded in the hand,
but as a clearing between trees,
a break in the stone,
a small light on the water.

And at last
the fisherman reaches the lake,
stands quietly at the edge
of all he had been seeking,

and makes his first cast.

July 11, 2015 (expanded June 2026)

in landscapes unfamiliar

In landscapes unfamiliar,
when the destination shines in the distance,
the path does not always reveal itself.

There may be no signpost,
no worn road beneath the feet,
only hills rolling into shadow,
fields bending under strange winds,
and the far glimmer of something hoped for
calling from beyond the unknown.

But if one keeps walking,
if one remains on the journey,
step after uncertain step,
with dust on the shoes
and questions in the heart,

the way appears.

Not all at once,
not as a map unfolded in the hand,
but as a clearing between trees,
a break in the stone,
a small light on the water.

And at last
the fisherman reaches the lake,
stands quietly at the edge
of all he had been seeking,

and makes his first cast.

July 11, 2015 (expanded June 2026)

in landscapes unfamiliar

In landscapes unfamiliar,
when the destination shines in the distance,
the path does not always reveal itself.

There may be no signpost,
no worn road beneath the feet,
only hills rolling into shadow,
fields bending under strange winds,
and the far glimmer of something hoped for
calling from beyond the unknown.

But if one keeps walking,
if one remains on the journey,
step after uncertain step,
with dust on the shoes
and questions in the heart,

the way appears.

Not all at once,
not as a map unfolded in the hand,
but as a clearing between trees,
a break in the stone,
a small light on the water.

And at last
the fisherman reaches the lake,
stands quietly at the edge
of all he had been seeking,

and makes his first cast.

July 11, 2015 (expanded June 2026)

in landscapes unfamiliar

In landscapes unfamiliar,
when the destination shines in the distance,
the path does not always reveal itself.

There may be no signpost,
no worn road beneath the feet,
only hills rolling into shadow,
fields bending under strange winds,
and the far glimmer of something hoped for
calling from beyond the unknown.

But if one keeps walking,
if one remains on the journey,
step after uncertain step,
with dust on the shoes
and questions in the heart,

the way appears.

Not all at once,
not as a map unfolded in the hand,
but as a clearing between trees,
a break in the stone,
a small light on the water.

And at last
the fisherman reaches the lake,
stands quietly at the edge
of all he had been seeking,

and makes his first cast.

July 11, 2015 (expanded June 2026)

Two Windows

A Tanka Sequence

I

In the still morning
you open the window wide
beside the table.
A cool breeze stirs the orchid,
cooling my cup of coffee.

II

Across from your light,
I open the other pane.
The air grows stronger.
Leaves whisper into the room
like all the things left unsaid.

III

Below the hillside,
a woodpecker drums the trees,
red crest among leaves.
A car passes on the road,
then fades into the morning.

IV

The wind kisses me.
I think of you and of us:
two windows open,
facing different landscapes,
yet filled with a single breeze.

Wet Prayer (A Tanka Poem)

Author’s Note: I have written haiku for many years. Heiwa Haiku has often been a spiritual practice for me. Recently I discovered tanka, another form of Japanese poetry, which, put simply, is haiku plus two additional lines. Haiku is generally written as three lines of 5-7-5 syllables respectively. Tanka uses the same format at the beginning and then adds two additional lines of 7 syllables each. The following is my first attempt at tanka. I am looking forward to further exploration and sharing of tanka poetry.

The morning is gray,
a soft rain is falling down.
I walk with head bowed, 
watching the mist of my breath,
listening to the wet prayer.

Wet Prayer (A Tanka Poem)

Author’s Note: I have written haiku for many years. Heiwa Haiku has often been a spiritual practice for me. Recently I discovered tanka, another form of Japanese poetry, which, put simply, is haiku plus two additional lines. Haiku is generally written as three lines of 5-7-5 syllables respectively. Tanka uses the same format at the beginning and then adds two additional line of 7 syllables each. The following is my first attempt at tanka. I am looking forward to further exploration and sharing my tanka poetry.

The morning is gray,
a soft rain is falling down.
I walk with head bowed, 
watching the mist of my breath,
listening to the wet prayer.

WildWords – When Noon Went Dark

On this day,
May 19, 1780,
the sky forgot its brightness.

Noon came wearing midnight.
Candles were lit at tables,
in churches,
in homes where people looked upward
and wondered if the world
was ending.

Perhaps it was only smoke,
fog,
cloud,
fire carried on the wind.

But those beneath it
did not know.

And perhaps that is the lesson:
we often live inside the darkness
before we understand its cause.

We name it judgment,
doom,
abandonment,
the end.

But sometimes
the light has not died.
It is only hidden.

And somewhere beyond the smoke,
beyond the fog,
beyond the heavy cover
of what we cannot yet explain,

the sun remains.

WildWords – Today Does Not Arrive Loudly

Today does not arrive loudly.
It comes like a gentle hand on the shoulder,
like light through a curtain,
like the quiet reminder
that I am still here.

There is work to do,
but also breath to receive.
There are wounds still mending,
hopes still waiting,
questions still walking beside me
like old friends.

Not every day has to become
a monument.
Some days are simply stones
placed along the path—
small, ordinary,
but enough to say:

I passed this way.
I noticed the light.
I carried what I could.
I let God carry the rest.

I am yet to test #ChatGPT.

Makes me feel like a 🦕 #slowmover

I am yet to test #ChatGPT.

Makes me feel like a 🦕 #slowmover