Death

And death
should be undone.
No more the aching cry,
the empty chasm
where goodness once had been.
No shadow bearing down
upon our bright and festal days.
No lowering mist to darken
every birth and morning.
No fear that makes us
hold too hard to every
simple gift
lest it be gone forever.
And when I cry
for my own
dying self.
I do this
to undo death:
I go not to where the ashes
turn again to dirt, to dust,
but to the thorny bush
where roses grow
and life is lit,
for just a little time,
with love.

--Timothy Haut, March 25, 2016

Meal

Around the table
the voices rise and fall,
a story is told,
a litany of remembrance
is recited,
and an echo of laughter
reminds us of this goodness
that binds us.
As the candles burn on,
glowing in the ruby wine,
and the bread is broken
and the dishes passed
from one to another,
there is always a moment
when the flames flicker
as if an unseen presence
stirs the air.
It is, I know,
the one not with us,
the one who loves us still,
who has heard the laughter
and come to linger for a while,
to offer a tender blessing
on this holy
meal.

--Timothy Haut, March 24, 2016

Question

Why
is
this 
broken,
battered,
cruel,
cancerous,
terrifying,
twisted,
sorrowful,
senseless,
desperate,
dying
world
so
beautiful?

--Timothy Haut, March 23, 2016

Chains

We are shackled, held
by such sturdy chains:
the beliefs beaten into us
that bind us beyond usefulness,
strong as steel--
the chains which imprison our hearts,
rip us raw, stay us from joy,
rob us of the freedom
that our souls seek.
These rusted links last
through years, lifetimes,
fastened by an iron lock.
But here is the secret,
the liberating truth
which must be discovered
by those who would be unbound:
we each own the key.

--Timothy Haut, March 22, 2016

Bless

Each of us has a well
that reaches deep into
living water,
from which love flows.
Out of it
we draw a sweet drink,
and share it:
tenderly hold a baby
who cries to be touched,
put arms around a lonely friend,
nestle a seed into fallow soil,
knead a knotted muscle,
sing when a heart is breaking.
At that moment
a touch is a miracle,
a simple meal is a sacrament,
a smile is a benediction.
We are humble, holy creatures,
shining,
when we do ordinary things
to bless,
to bless.

--Timothy Haut, March 21, 2016

Parade

There is always
a parade.
Some are all pride and glory--
bands and flags and uniforms
with gleaming rifles in array
snaking their way through crowds,
hats raised, cheering
to the thunder of drums.
Some are processions
of tears and sorrow,
the riderless horse, the bowed heads,
the heavy silence,
always, it seems, under dark clouds
shrouding the brightest day.
But I think my parade will wind away,
off the beaten path
and everyone will be in it,
dogs and cats, too.
We'll leave our footprints in the sand,
skip stones in the water,
sing songs until dark
and pass out cupcakes by firelight
before we go home to sleep
and dream about
the great, good parade
that goes on, and on.

--Timothy Haut, March 20, 2016

Morning

Come morning,
almost before light,
my dreams slip away

into wakefulness.
Outside the window,
one bird calls, then another,
and a car rolls by, off to somewhere.
I swing the old legs out of bed,
feel the floor on bare feet,
realize that the world
is still under me.
I recognize it,
this good, familiar place,
pause for a moment to take it in:
the dog sprawled out
on his back,
the woman I love,
her face buried in a pillow,
a cat curled in the curve
of her arm.
They will sleep on, for a while.
But they are awake
in me,
bright as sun,
my morning,
my life.

--Timothy Haut, March 19, 2016

Despair

Save me
from this airless place,
bereft of any healing touch,
where all is bound
in a joyless knot
of agony and desolation.
Save me
from the other death,
where hope is gone,
where words are stubble,
where the barren waste
is broken only by the wailing
of my heart.
Save me from this despair,
from the empty echoes of my weeping.
Save me
so that I may not neglect to see
the one forgotten door
opening just a crack
somewhere at the edge
of my helplessness.

--Timothy Haut, March 18, 2016

Night

We fear the darkness,
the danger hidden in the shadows--
sense a lurking menace
keeping nocturnal vigil,
just beyond the edge of sight.
We hear the creak of the stairs,
the shrill siren in the distance,
the moaning of the wind,
or worst, a terrifying silence.
And then come the uneasy sleep,
the haunting dreams,
the aching awareness that
a final darkness awaits.
But this, too, is ours:
the moonlight on a lover's face,
the silver rainfall in a yellow streetlight,
the little bulb in the hall to guide
our sleepy steps,
the candles reflected in the wine,
the sky littered with a million stars,
the longed-for face
that lights up our dreams.
Night
is just a different kind
of light.

--Timothy Haut, March 17, 2016

Wind

The wind stirs, sings,
tosses the branches of budding maples,
carries six circling hawks
high, higher, above the hill.
I hear the call of the hanging chimes
making music behind the house,
and step into the open yard
to feel the breath of the world.
At the edge of the garden,
the old prayer flags
feel that breath,
flap wildly in a sudden gust
and send peace sailing out
into the restless evening.

--Timothy Haut, March 16, 2016

Prayer

She sat at the window
her hands held together tenderly,
a cup of offering. Speaking voicelessly
she imagined each person
she carried in her heart.
The names flew out from her,
like a hundred starlings
rising into the sky.
She saw them lift up,
sunlit, glittering,
a wave aginst the blue
seeking somewhere to land
at the end of her prayer.

--Timothy Haut, March 15, 2016

Preach

Do not preach
with many words,
but with your empty, earth-worn hands,
held out in welcome,
or in the soft wrinkles around your eyes,
smiling with kindness.
Let there be some hope
in your being,
so that even in your silence,
or helplessness,
you may be more help than you know.
Stand for goodness, and truth.
Be a safe place for children.
Sing sometimes, or a lot.
Laugh often, and be grateful.
Pray
that your life will
preach.

--Timothy Haut, March 14, 2016

Stones

High on the mountain flank
a cold mist paints sky and earth
the same icy gray.
Still, something urges us on
as we trudge wet, unyielding rocks
in search of a promised peak
from which, today,
nothing will be seen.
We would be lost altogether
but for the stone cairns
marking an unseen trail.
We ever climb for summits,
we who live in lowlands,
and we would be failed, fallen creatures,
uncertain of our steps,
robbed of even a little glimpse of glory,
except for our cairns:
the stones left
by those better climbers
who have gone before us.
"Come on, higher," they say.
"The view is beautiful.
Step well. Stay together.
You will be fine."

--Timothy Haut, March 13, 2016

Imagine

We imagine
 what might be
 and then live for it.
 We imagine
 one more hug from a son
 who is gone.
 We imagine peace,
 a world where all are welcome.
 We imagine tender things,
 rain and flowers,
 a kind word, forgiveness,
 a long restful night.
 We imagine
 because that is what we do,
 Because we are spirits, dreamers.
 We draw deep from the well
 of the heart.
 We see simple things,
 like the egret in the marsh,
 catching the morning light.
 We don't imagine eating frogs
 from the bottom of a pond.
 We imagine wings.


--Timothy Haut, March 12, 2016

Wild

We have fettered
this wild world,
shaped it to our use,
laid roads, built houses,
mined its secret stores,
circled it with our machines,
tamed it enough
that we forget to see
how terrible and beautiful
its wild weathers and creatures
can be.
But perhaps a crack of lightning
shatters the night,
or a tiny mosquito sends us running.
Or walking at dawn
on a country road,
a fox crosses our path,
stares at us for a moment,
calls to us across the mysterious border
of our mild and managed nature.
Then a thrill of recognition
may stir deep inside us,
help us to remember,
for a moment,
how beautiful
and terrible
is the wild
in us.

--Timothy Haut March 11, 2016

Drink

Here
in the backcountry
of a universe of cosmic fire,
is this blue world.
Water surges here
in vast oceans,
tumbles in tiny streams and great rivers,
waits to flow from glacial ice,
falls from a thundering sky.
And yet so many of us
have none, or little,
thirst for a cupful
to baptize a field, or a child.
And others, arid of spirit,
yearn for more of everything,
but fail in gratitude
for this simple, holy thing.
That there is water
to drink.

--Timothy Haut, March 20, 2016

Eyes

What are they saying,
these eyes?
They are looking at me.
They are looking into me,
asking me to notice:
I am here.
I am alive.
I am afraid.
I am curious.
I am ready to play.
I am hungry for love.
Don't turn your eyes away.
See my heart.
See me.

--Timothy Haut, March 9, 2016

Sit

The rocking chair collapsed
under me,
pieces of old wood strewn
in every direction,
and I, on the floor,
with kindling all around.
To sit
can be a dangerous thing.
Still, it serves us well
to find a quiet place
to be,
perhaps to watch the clouds
shift shape across the sky,
or to close your eyes
and listen to nature's morning overture
before the pause, the silence
of the busy mind, at rest.
Memories bubble up,
or whispers of ideas struggling
to be born,
or the heart's deepest prayer.
Everything else may seem
to fall apart,
even the chair,
but it is usually good
just to sit,
to listen, to wait.

--Timothy Haut, March 8, 2016

Sing

Cold fingers,
sunrise,
earth under my feet,
pussy willows blowing
as blue jays cock their heads,
sassy as springtime.
I am alive,
going home to coffee
and a warm wife.
It is good,
this day.
I should just sing,
so sassy.

--Timothy Haut, March 7, 2016

Great

We who loved him
knew he was great,
but this was not a common fact.
We heard that he once played
a mean game of tennis,
and he never forgot a face or name.
Through boyhood Depression years,
he walked the tracks
and picked up scattered coal
to help heat the house.
And he had twelve years
perfect attendance at Sunday School.
He was best at love,
the kind that makes you know
you are safe, and good.
He grew roses, and talked to them,
so that they would be lovely enough
to give away.
He was tender with babies,
and he laughed at his own jokes.
After a terrible stroke
and the death of his wife,
he hiked a long trail in the woods
and when he stood by the waterfall
at the bottom,
he shook his head with wonder
as if it all were such an amazing gift.
It was, of course.
So was he.

--Timothy Haut, March 6, 2016

Speak

Anything can speak.
Today, amid the scrubby weeds,
an old baseball mitt
tells a story.
It tells of summer dreams,
a boy drifting out in the green grass,
looking up for that white speck
against the sky,
blue as a cornflower.
There is the smack of a fist
against leather,
the echo of a cheering crowd,
the father's pat on the back,
the little flame of pride
to carry through the years.
Or it might be a remembrance
of bitter things:
of not being good enough,
of dropping the ball, the shame,
the long ride home,
the childhood gone.
Anything can speak.
You just have to listen.

--Timothy Haut, March 5, 2016

High

The sky was full of clouds
and feathers,
alive, calling
as she stood there
by the river.
Slipping out of
her heavy coat,
she felt the great wings unfurl,
and flew
as high
as her heart could take her.

--Timothy Haut, March 4, 2016

Faith

Faith
is the candle in the window,
the beads counted,
the hands clenched in prayer.
Faith
is the shovel in the ground,
the long airport goodbye,
the doctor’s best advice.
Faith
is the ring on the finger,
the good-night kiss,
the sleeping baby and the prodigal son.
Faith
is to trust what can’t be seen,
to seek a great but hidden pattern,
to risk everything on love.
Faith
is the stitching on a broken heart.

--Timothy Haut, Feb. 3, 2016

Power

Today I am weary,
though I have food and shelter
and a Magic Number bed,
and love is around me.
I am helpless against all the things
beyond my changing:
the ruthless anonymity of evil,
the bluster of the self-absorbed,
the nearness of pain and death.
I wish for the power
to change it all,
and lament my smallness.
Then I walk outside
on this cold March morning
and find myrtle blossoms--
tiny, purple, hopeful--
pushing winter away.

--Timothy Haut, March 2, 2016

Secret

Secrets
can be corrosive,
old poisons that we stash away
in the lock box of the heart,
hidden where no healing air can reach,
becoming shadowed monsters
in the darkness.
But secrets
can save us, too.
Love can reach those hidden places,
grow like a seed underground,
show us the undiscovered loveliness
of our selves.
Like the birdhouse on the barn,
a mystery may wait inside us.
Today a shining eye catches light
as a small head peeks out,
waiting for the pulse of Spring.
Soon he will fly back and forth
with a bit of grass, or a dry leaf
to ready the nest
where a wondrous secret
will be born.
So we wait
for the secret
readying for a birth
in us.

--Timothy Haut, March 1, 2016