Blind Vines
We are blind vines,
Spiraling, grasping,
Spinning ourselves round,
and around, objects, and thoughts,
Not truly our own.
In time we becoming one,
Containing, capturing,
Shaped by our foreign foundation,
Structured by the bones,
Of our desires.
Yet we are not satisfied,
We still send out tendrils,
Upwards, outwards.
Greedily seeking in empty space,
Something, anything,
Probing for hopes and dreams,
Until collapsing,
Under our own weight.
When I Think of You
When I think of you…
I think of books read and reread,
With story endings always in flux,
A willingness to dispel the certain future.
When I think of you…
A sense of calmness overwhelms,
A watchfulness, observing what is needed,
Prepared to provide the missing piece.
When I think of you…
The parent comes through, the care, the hope,
Aware of the responsibility, pushing past the fear,
Finding the love that replaces it.
When I think of you…
I think of laughter that penetrates the soul,
A joy that is contagious, bursting upon the scene,
Changing everyone in every direction,
Please never change.
When I think of you…
I think about thinking,
I think about the past and what it might mean,
I think about how I am a part of the past,
And how that it shapes my future.
I think about the civic responsibility to learn.
When I think of you…
I think I love you beyond measure,
And how inadequate my words express how I feel.
The Groundling
I am by nature a groundling.
I am on the earth, and only very rarely,
And unnaturally,
Traveling above it.
Mostly, I step forward falling, only to catch myself with my other leg,
And then the process repeats.
I sometimes use machines, with wheels.
I propel myself forward, on the ground.
Always looking to the ground, watching for sharp things.
Watching for obstacles that would block my motion.
I am by nature a groundling.
But there are times, when I hear the wind.
And I look up to see the Ruach HaKodesh in the trees.
Surrounding the branches, enveloped in the soup,
Yielding to the effect.
Then I realize that I am in the soup as well, the wind is on my face.
And that we are connected, the tree and I.
In that moment I am not a groundling.
And my spirit, and the Ruach HaKodesh, are one and the same.
I am completely carried away, wrapped in the arms,
Of the Companion and Comforter.
Desk Object
A cracked cup, notched for a dying rose
Longs for coffee and lips.
Rheem
Space wraps endless arms
While I sit watching time pass,
…dust falling on my food.
John Diestler is a retired educator who has some time on his hands. He has lived the phases of the typical work life: terrified new person, under-qualified responsible gatekeeper, the “go-to guy,” the seeker of opinions, the shaper of opinions, the reliable “old hand,” “the quaint professor,” and “who invited him to this meeting” guy. With a nice pension and unrestricted time, why not try new things? He has been a feckless hitchhiker, a pre-hippie hippie, a professional soldier, a steelworker, he canned fruit cocktails, he worked as a printer’s apprentice, he was a senior electronics technician, he was a graphic designer, he taught graphic design, he was the chair of a media and fine arts department, he sculpts, and he makes edged weapons. And when time permits, he puts phrases together until they are sentences. And enough sentences sometimes makes a story.
