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Memorial Poem to Bernard Jensen
Report of a Missing Persimmon was a memorial poem
I wrote to Bernard Jensen years before he left the body.
At the time, I did not realize what I was writing. He had a cabinet where he kept certain treasures behind lock and key. I was touched that he chose to save this poem. Tomorrow
will be the first time I have been back on this land in more than five years. I have deep feelings stirring.
Date: 3/26/2005 12:27:13 AM ( 19 y ) ... viewed 1496 times A Tribute to Dr Bernard Jensen
March 25, 1908- February 22, 2001
written by Leslie Goldman, Enchanted Gardener
Memo: To Bernard Jensen
From: Leslie Goldman
Subject: Report of a Missing Persimmon
On the slope that leads to the Alpine goats--
the trail that reminds me of someplace far away,
that trail between the strawberry starts
and the greenhouse of tender young plants
where many times night caught me
unprepared, but I was safely carried
by some thickness in the air--
through the gate, the one with grapes
that have already given--
four or more fruit-bearing trees down
toward the old ranch, at the place
where the Japanese Fugi Persimmons grow
like little lanterns catching
the last November brilliant twilight bursts--
you may notice one member of the prolific
harvest missing. It went into my pocket
as we ran in silence, Alice, Linda, and I.
We came chasing the sunset,
the third day after Halloween,
after stopping at Bates Farm
where we burned away images of the past
by kicking out anger on half-rotten pumpkins
laying waste in the field.
Linda played her keyboard sitting
on a large orange globe.
Alice and I noted the success of this kicking
therapy. Concerns of last year gone.
Linda sang. We praised the glorious possibilities
of something even more glorious
entering our lives.
Then we raced to your place in Hidden Valley,
up the hill where the the physician of the past
and future still lives,
and the land still stands strong and firm and bold
and more and more beautiful each day.
We each stood in front of a while fragrant rose
and breathed, and breathed, and breathed
until our lungs got the message.
We visited the Camelias and pond,
and all the little sacred sites.
As we passed the mulberry tree to bless you both
with long life and continued abundance,
I wondered how many miles you were gone
from this place, my dear old friend.
I wondered, did you note good feelings
coming your way; did you feel it where you were?
Did you feel a contentment pouring form Souls
who were taking time to give the crickets their
full due?
Did you note the land was being fully
appreciated, even in your absence?
After dark, we stood watching an old oak,
and listening to bird sounds Alice imitated.
We put sprouts on rye crackers
and drank carrot juice.
We took bites of that persimmon
that was more than enough for three of us,
we were already so filled.
November 4, 1983
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