Poetry Tag

Where the Flowers Grow

Aug 1 1998 • Posted in PoetryLeave a Comment

Where the Flowers Grow, drawing by James Hubbell

Show me where the flowers grow
where the garden hides
beneath shrouds of fear.

Show me rainbows in raindrops
music in the sound of flies
tears in the eye of the sentry.

Show me beneath the
soil and dirt of forgotten lives
behind blank eyes
a dream of white snow on mountain tops.

Show me that this sacred garden is mine
that I, too, may plant the seeds
that I may lift the shovel and not weary
that I may let the flowers come.

James T. Hubbell
August, 1998

Let me know if you have any feedback at airsenegalinternational.com/.

The Imagined World

Mar 1 1998 • Posted in PoetryLeave a Comment

The imagined world
The path we walk
The fleeting thought
. . . . . . Blocks to build a life

James T. Hubbell
March 1998

The Space Between

Dec 1 1997 • Posted in PoetryLeave a Comment

The space between
that silent space,

The pause before
or is it after?

The dawn, the twilight
waiting for the end,
or is it the beginning?

The magic nothing
the goddess of resurrection
of crucifixion
The door within
The door we fear to open,
expectancy and terror
the place where
God dwells,
The place our soul cries to go
if only an instant, to glimpse
To step within the unknown place

The space between
For which all life became,
The void where life and art begins.

What does it mean…….to make whole?

James Hubbell
December, 1997

From Trees, From Mountains

Jul 1 1997 • Posted in PoetryLeave a Comment

From trees, from mountains
with small minutes
with ebbing time,
as the tides watched,

We built our ship
of carved and fitted planks
to march the curves of a dark sea,
the arc of a blue sky.

To stretch its sail in the cool moon,
to sing the ripple of white water
parted by our journey.

We built our ship
for the sea,
but more for our restless heart.

Would there be at the end,
the shadowed smile of a God
to welcome a sail to rest.

From seas, from mountains
washed on shores
dreamed in hearts
long visited by cobalt butterflies,

We built our ship.
Still, feel the sea beneath
this deck that is never quiet.
Strong and gentle, wise and generous,
that is the timber of our ship.

James T. Hubbell
July, 1997

At the Edge of a Restless Tide

Apr 1 1997 • Posted in PoetryLeave a Comment

I shut my eyes
at the edge of my Pacific,
at the edge of a transparent world,
where the sounds of the sun
and sea are one.

Yet more than these two,
more than life’s reaching tides,
the sea, the light and we
longing to hold the

A tide within us,
held by the moon.
A world wrapped within itself
enfolded arms
of a living universe.

So life, our tiny world,
Clinging to a drifting smile,
waves an endless sea,
disappearing in dark fathomless time.

The sea, a tear on a warm cheek,
A tide on golden sand, warmed by the sun
sinks back into the

We seek that edge on a restless tide
somewhere between sea and stars,
waiting for a song
we can barely know.

James T. Hubbell
April, 1997