Saint Julian Press Poet
Ron Starbuck
A Mockingbird's Song
A MOCKINGBIRD’S SONG
There are moments,
like this morning,
when my heart is so full
it has become the song of the
Mockingbird singing outside our windows.
Who may sing at any time day or night, its song
of wonder and making.
Who is binding the world together
with each single and heart-making note, whose
songs are as bright as God’s love for all of creation.
It is 4:42 AM precisely now,
at such and such longitude and latitude.
And I am sitting in a chair
typing as quickly as I can these
words arising out of the emptiness or nothingness
of my own being, alive with wonder.
So that no single word may escape the
motion of my mind, which in
this moment is like a razor’s edge,
sharp and clearly defined.
The mockingbird is still singing its song, which you may
easily imagine moving up through its gentle heart, and
throat, and out through its voice, to spin again and again
up and around this fragile world, our home.
The song of its being is still winding its way
into the many mansions of my heart,
opening my heart to the mystery of its
word and voice.
On Friday our neighbor delivered to Joanne,
a bouquet of lilies, Easter Lilies in May.
Oh, more than a dozen I imagine now.
And then yesterday Joanne bought home
even more flowers.
Carnations and mums for church today,
so the house is full of their fragrance,
along with the smell of my morning coffee.
If the self is constantly changing,
from one moment to the next
as my Buddhist friends tell me.
If the self is so impermanent as
to be not-self, or no-self, anattā (uhn-uht-tah).
Why is it then that I feel so
completely and utterly
alive in this very moment?
Why is it that I can still
hear the song of the mockingbird
entering my heart?
Raising it up again and again
like a sacrament,
to the wonders of creation,
to this gift we call life.
Why is it that this one song never
seems to leave me from
one hallowed moment to the next?
Why is the song more, much more,
than a vague and distant memory?
Maybe as the Buddha suggests, this is
a question we should put aside for now, not to worry.
And just to be as we are, to answer or say neither
yes or no, to live in the mystery perhaps.
Still, wherever you may be this morning, whatever you may
be doing, stop now. Stop and take one deep breath,
breathing in slowing and fully, and out once again.
Stop, and realize if nothing else, that you are alive.
And that within your own heart is the same song,
of the same mockingbird, in the very same tree outside
our window that is singing through our own hearts,
binding us together as one human family, a family of humanity.
Let this one moment become a beginning, a healing,
a grace, a passage from one human heart to the next.
Where the world is made new and whole, where we know
with a certainty marked by compassion.
Where we come to see Christ, and even the
Buddha, alive in one another.
There are moments,
like this morning,
when my heart is so full
it has become the song of the
Mockingbird singing outside our windows.
Who may sing at any time day or night, its song
of wonder and making.
Who is binding the world together
with each single and heart-making note, whose
songs are as bright as God’s love for all of creation.
It is 4:42 AM precisely now,
at such and such longitude and latitude.
And I am sitting in a chair
typing as quickly as I can these
words arising out of the emptiness or nothingness
of my own being, alive with wonder.
So that no single word may escape the
motion of my mind, which in
this moment is like a razor’s edge,
sharp and clearly defined.
The mockingbird is still singing its song, which you may
easily imagine moving up through its gentle heart, and
throat, and out through its voice, to spin again and again
up and around this fragile world, our home.
The song of its being is still winding its way
into the many mansions of my heart,
opening my heart to the mystery of its
word and voice.
On Friday our neighbor delivered to Joanne,
a bouquet of lilies, Easter Lilies in May.
Oh, more than a dozen I imagine now.
And then yesterday Joanne bought home
even more flowers.
Carnations and mums for church today,
so the house is full of their fragrance,
along with the smell of my morning coffee.
If the self is constantly changing,
from one moment to the next
as my Buddhist friends tell me.
If the self is so impermanent as
to be not-self, or no-self, anattā (uhn-uht-tah).
Why is it then that I feel so
completely and utterly
alive in this very moment?
Why is it that I can still
hear the song of the mockingbird
entering my heart?
Raising it up again and again
like a sacrament,
to the wonders of creation,
to this gift we call life.
Why is it that this one song never
seems to leave me from
one hallowed moment to the next?
Why is the song more, much more,
than a vague and distant memory?
Maybe as the Buddha suggests, this is
a question we should put aside for now, not to worry.
And just to be as we are, to answer or say neither
yes or no, to live in the mystery perhaps.
Still, wherever you may be this morning, whatever you may
be doing, stop now. Stop and take one deep breath,
breathing in slowing and fully, and out once again.
Stop, and realize if nothing else, that you are alive.
And that within your own heart is the same song,
of the same mockingbird, in the very same tree outside
our window that is singing through our own hearts,
binding us together as one human family, a family of humanity.
Let this one moment become a beginning, a healing,
a grace, a passage from one human heart to the next.
Where the world is made new and whole, where we know
with a certainty marked by compassion.
Where we come to see Christ, and even the
Buddha, alive in one another.
THERE IS SOMETHING ABOUT BEING AN EPISCOPALIAN
New & Selected Poems
Ron Starbuck
New & Selected Poems
Ron Starbuck
SAINT JULIAN PRESS, INC. © 2022
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This arrangement does help to sustain the press and allow us to publish more books by more authors.