Christina's House

Painting by Scott Milo


Christina’s House


All begins and ends in waves.
A blessing in the parting water.
as if we a flood in the eye
of an unseen storm were made
to rise as we fall.

It all begins and ends with waves.
Ask yourself what matters most-
the answer you hear is your own.
If you want to be happy
know what it is to be sad.

Salt water rises along Coal Bank Slough.
at Sunset Bay, wind gathers steadily
and rain falls. Between earth and sky
an abrupt, gray fog slips in, revealing
more than it conceals.

Somewhere, near South Slough,
the splash of a heron rising,
its cry anointing us, telling us we are
not alone. The sounding mind disappears,
at one with the white mist.

Over all, perennial scents and sacred
mysteries, ancient chants from unseen
worlds that wrap around our own.
Sensing those ghosts within, we enter
this old white house.

I light a fire in the fireplace.
Within this cool, green room,
built by those who knew Nature
as the real master, shadows flicker
making uncertain the world of matter.

Everywhere, in everything,
visible signs of the invisible.
Spirits rise
from Fossil Point to Joe Ney Sough.
Like us, they feel
their own way through changing
worlds of reciprocal reflections
revealing the silence behind sound.
From somewhere, a feeling comes
of profound revelations imperfectly
perceived, just out of reach
like beating wings against the door
of this house.

Lost in the liquid shape of rising flames,
this old Victorian house exudes
a lingering essence, carrying the weight
of lost souls called away, before finished
with living here.

What is in the air, but the presence
of loneliness perhaps, from those having
run as much away as toward their goals,
reaching out, touching us in ways
we cannot know
for no soul rests easy that reflects
upon itself, falling short
of what it strives toward.

Caught in remembered passions,
loves and pains, limited,
what can we understand as we
confront the barriers within,
if, in understanding we come to know
what moves us, prevents our seeing
into the reflection our striving casts.

Palpable as honey, what we touch
we change. Tell me, who made
the rules we follow? Who wrote
the song in the centers circle?
What lessons to be drawn
from the rising of the prescient
water? Who strikes the rim
of the chalice making our blood
hum?

Some claim one true answer.
Others, it's up to each to find.
All I know, a singular vibration
through us sings... on the move
through more then lifetimes.


Scott Malby

Posted over on Hawkwind Creations