Monday, May 30, 2005

Off the Radar

Dearest LivePoets . . . Once again I find that I have manifested my incredible talent for the mismanagement of time. I am going to Utah for a couple of weeks to spend some time with my mother and abruptly I find, it is suddenly time to go. I’ll be leaving Wednesday morning. I have a list of ‘things-to-do’ that is so long, I don’t think there is anyway to do them all before Wednesday morning. I am hoping to take a lap-top with me so that I can at least check into the Blog’s on a limited basis, but the jury is still out on whether or not I’m going to get away with it. If not, it will be mid-June before I am back on line. I know everyone will keep posting and that I will find a wealth of beautiful words when I return. The question is, will I have severe, unmanageable withdrawal symptoms? I suspect the jury is still out on that as well! Blessings to you all. ~ Winnie

Another Pain

There are frequent references to pain
and anguish, anxiety and perhaps fear.
Whether these are more companioned in a poet
is hard to say -- or by saying,
a willingness to share
what is of everyman.

Here is a slightly different view ...


Take me there -
A request born of love? Jealousy? Curiosity? Insanity?

It is said the balance of self extends across a fulcrum of uncertainty,
and teeters up into exaltation - down into shadows of despair.

Such is a false design and perception -
The pendulum swings from far out to deep within,

and close resembles the prayerful search
for understanding of will and self
to which all men aspire.
But the swing does not mark a steady beat,

or stretch of time, or centered pulse.
No - often the ends remain
and it is the center that swings instead.

Consider a runway

lit from the sides by the harsh lights of a thousand vehicles;
each containing a stranger
whose visage cannot be perceived behind the blinding glare --
each shouting for attention lost in a wash of shrieking pain.
To be driven to walk
that path with fear that a plane may land at any minute!
Then the end is reached in marsh, or sea, or rocky shoal.

The return!

The lights are out and one must grope along in the dark.
The faces cannot be seen but the shadowy forms sit silent
-- giving no support. Is the demand no less?

Take a pill -- get some help -- it will go away.

Now to crawl that same demanded run.

The lights cannot be seen, for sure,
as one's face is now directed to the ground
where the horizon cannot be seen
but minute pebbles, worms and weeds are ever present.
Pick up the litter one by one --
stones and sticks and human trash placed into your rucksack.
Crawl on while helpful voices tell that all is better now.
Wait until that sack is so full
that it breaks your back and pushes your face into the mud.

Find a way to empty the sack

so that the journey can start again.
Crawl -- crawl on while love is lost
because you cannot hold up your head enough to see.
Remember the lights -- the dark.
Remember that when the plane arrives
you will be destroyed whether up or down --
you cannot run away!

At least when striding tall you were a man!


The Bristlecone

I am alone, barely standing,
on this cold
and wintry mountainside.

My comrades,
they are mostly gone now.
Their skeletons scattered,
bleached white, disintegrating
on the frozen ground.
My life is short now,
my future dim.
Can I withstand
another year
of winters such as this?

Long ago,
when I was just a sprout,
a tiny seedling,
I was slow to grow,
but resilient.
My cones were full of seeds.
I was just one of a few,
spaced wide apart,
an open forest on the heights.
Life was harsh
at ten-thousand feet
or more,
but we thrived
from one year to another.

Bears came to visit,
nuthatches and squirrels, too.
I heard the cry of eagles.
Years passed, then centuries,
some were good, some bad.
Rain was sometimes scarce,
the snow pack thin.
I couldn't grow much,
but I built a narrow ring.
Humans came.
They picked my purple cones,
gathered up my needles,
stole bits of me for souvenirs.
They probed my heart
for specimens to study in the lab.

For centuries,
we had the mountain to ourselves.
We survived,
but now I am alone,
having outlived all the others.
My trunk is twisted,
there's very little green.
My needles are small and weak.
My cones, what there are of them
are scattered in the wind.
These old roots cannot
hold me upright for much longer.
Soon my sun bleached carcass
will lie upon the frozen ground.

But, my energy,
my nutrients, will feed the soil.
Someday, some tiny part of me
will become a seedling,
a sprig of green
and I will survive again
to survey my world
from this lofty mountain-side.

Feel not sorry for me
or kick my bleached bones aside.
I am not a beauty;
a Sequoia or a Redwood,
but I am unique, resilient,
I am a hardy Bristlecone.

©May 30, 2005

Sunday, May 29, 2005

Pink Mermaid Delirium Dream - from a comment on Vi's "Fevered Visions"

Pain in the Words

Pain in the words
Bounced off the page
Smacked me in the face
Much too much later

It’s not too late
It’s not too late
It’s not too late
It’s not too late

But what if it is?
….Then it is…..

You kept saying
“If this is all there is,
Is it enough?”

And you foolishly said
Yes… though now
It doesn’t feel like it is
It feels like I want more

Pain in the words
Bounced off the page
Smacked me in the face
Much too much later

Fevered Visions

I see in the stupor of my fever,
through burning bloodshot eyes,
a skull with ears and dancing legs
dressed in a skirt of leaves and pointed shoes.
It dances there outside my window,
this thing I cannot recognize.
Now on the shoulders of another
with a long and pointed snout.
Dancing demons reaching for me
while my fever rages.
I sleep in fearful fitful moments,
afraid to close my eyes
as the skull with ears
keeps dancing outside my window--
until the sun goes down
and the bougainvillea no longer casts its shadow
upon the wall--
until it no longer dances in the breeze.

©May 29, 2005

Promted posting

This is not 'gleaned', but its posting is certainly 'prompted'
by Winnie's 'Storm' poem today. Perhaps such things should be
posted on another Blog such that each retains a sort of
priviledged indentity. Certainly I would prefer that CF
be restricted to 'braided' poems based on a previous 'thread.

This is prose and written eight years ago -- and never shared,
even with siblings who would not understand
some of my feelings for my previous wife
of 36 years -- now a dear friend
as in the beginning
and cherished
by m'lady Em.

Where to post?? move as thee will


The most profound smell in all the world is that of fertile soil welcoming the rain! Here on the high plateau I know it can signal instant birth, with each drop of the meager 7 inch per year offering treasured and utilized. I recall as a child seeing flowers bloom in a matter of hours after having lain dormant for many years. With the new aroma arising from the earth the fragrance of the sage- brush, pine, and squaw-carpet seem intensified. Oh, hear the thunder roll and grumble. There! A finger of lightning feeling its way to earth, branching, searching. One thousand-one, one thousand-two, one thousand three ... Wow, that was close. Maybe it's not so safe here under the cedars.
I remember our excitement when we found this grove eleven years ago. How did they get here? There is not another cedar within a hundred miles; only here in the shelter of one small canyon, protecting a tiny spring. Today they hide me from the rain, the interlocking branches forming a natural thatch. The peaceful incense from the towering ruddy trunks is masked by the gentle breeze and intrusive scents from the outside world. Our special world. I can almost see you there lying in the grass. Those memories I always carry with me. How we held together, after, and watched the clouds form in the high reaching cold layers above. Perhaps if we had returned here more often ...
I wish I could tell you of the quotations I heard from the life of Mother Teresa.”
“Love is not a feeling; it is a way of acting toward another.”
“Let each who come to you leave with greater happiness and a sense of well being; they will know it in your smile, your stance, and in your eyes.”
“So simple,” I muse. “Remember our most successful business where each employee was instructed ‘insure that every customer leaves happier than when they came in.’ Why should it be any different in normal life? Why do we work so hard to make things difficult, and in the process hurt those we cherish the most? Why can’t we just stand in the rain and wash all of our pains away, down, down to the oceans of our birth? Could a new flower then burst forth in our hearts every day? Would I have the courage to make a gift of the blossom to you each morning, or perhaps evening as the heavens bless us with a stained glass view of our earthly bond? Probably no sunset tonight! Only mist, and perhaps the full moon allowed to peep through the clouds, watching me. The time should be right for an amazing sight with the dawn, the sun fully visible in the East with the moon still round and bright in the West. I shall climb the mountain early to watch. Oh yes, always the mountain to climb! It never stops. Life will cease if I don’t keep climbing.
There! The last of the stones is in place and the dam restored. I hear your laughter, just like the first time I tried to capture the tiny pool. The stream from the spring was barely visible through the grass, scarcely an inch across, but certainly a desert miracle. Sadness, as always, that the rivulet disappears again only five yards down the slope. So short and ephemeral, just like our lives. Yet in its brief passage does it not provide life for these towering trees, fern, and even the pea-sized frogs playing in the moss? But without the pool I couldn’t see the ripples swell out from each slow drop of life oozing from the rocky cleft. We rebuilt that dam many times over the years, pebble by pebble. Red, yellow and quartz white. You found most of the right stones and I placed them gently in position. Was that the right balance? We both knew that the dam would slowly fall apart without our care, but it didn’t detract from the joy, and necessity, of protecting the pool.
There! The basin is almost full once again. Your glistening pebbles carry a memory, each by each, and the stream breaching the top tinkles almost silently towards its fate in the rocks below. Where is your laughter?
Strange, I found myself just now reaching back so that you could press another pebble into my palm. Oh, would that the pulsing, ebbing waves from the shimmering pool spread out into the world and find you, touch you; wash away your fears.
Think of it. The rare rains on the peaks above will trickle ever so slowly through the cleansing sands and rock to this spot. Years perhaps. Hiding? Waiting? What clock determines when the tiny, pure drops will weep from the earth? Is this spot just for us? Is it part of some great plan that we, now I, preserve this spot? I have accomplished so much, had an effect on so many. Yet, it is the joyful knowledge that someday another may find this spot, and pick up the work of rebuilding the pool, that stirs my heart. Who said, ‘we all have a purpose in life, if only to serve as a bad example?’ At least here, together, we did better.
How long have I been here? Alone! Yes, but not lonely! Such a difference. But enough of this sheltered spot. The mountains call. Climb - climb.
No! Not today! Today I am going to dance in the rain.

Storm Above the Siskiyous

Saturday, May 28, 2005


Thunderheads, building flat black mesas in a sky
Not yet gone from blue
Kachina whirls bleed and breathe down
Ropes of west wind weaving songs of

Green of pine and green of maple
Green of cottonwood and Aspen turning,
Green of leaves of olive and emerald stop
Suddenly suspended without breath
Earth’s air grown still and soundless
A strange swimming amber, quivering under

From a blueblack bruised horizon
The southern sky swells across the heavens
Pregnant with potential of pitch-black pearls of rain
A silvered skeleton shocks the shadowed summer sky
Bare winter tree of incandescent light
Energy explodes it’s instant searing branches

A hush on the lioncolored hills
Breathless the mountains of jade
All moisture could be swallowed
In a fickle lick of wind
Followed by a phantom too familiar . . .
The scent of smoke . . .
But today the capricious summer symmetry
Splits the sky
And sudden silver sheets of blessings pour
Singing, bringing
Sky to

Bends the leaves and beats the ground
Tattoo drumming calling water spirits home
Drinks the thirsty ground quick sated
Pooling, puddling, splashing, splattering
Shafts of sunshine carve
The blackened clouds to shreds
Turning air to shivering crystal
And color spills like wealth across the sky
With wings of gold, here Iris dances
To bless this sacred land once more
From Cascade to Siskiyou, Siskiyou to Cascade
Tthe bright bridge bends
Earth and Sky

©Edwina Peterson Cross

About "Gleaners"

Hello LivePoets . . . just a note to let you know about something interesting that was generated by the birth of Cherita Fitzgerald. One of the members of the Soul Food community was interested in the idea of Cherita Fizt, but was unsure about ‘poetry.’ She said she would like to be able to take a line from any of the Soul Food Blog’s and write about that idea - using prose as well as poetry. And so “Gleaners” was born. I suggested locating “Gleaners” at the Alluvial Mine Blog because that Blog had been inactive for awhile. There are some “Gleanings” at the Alluvial Mine already, a couple of them mine, one poetry, one prose. When a line is “Gleaned” it is always fully credited to the author, listing which Blog it came from, the date and, of course, the authors name. There is a “Gleaning” that came from LivePoets on the Alluvial Mine already (the poem is Rudwulf’s and the seed line is: "We interrupt your regularly scheduled day to report the mackerel sky. . ." with the citation: Ruhdwulf at Live Poets, 4/26/05.) The Alluvial Mine can be found here:

If anyone has a problem with this concept, please let me know. It seems to me nothing but a compliment to an author’s wordsmithing and just another avenue toward the birthing of language and the cooperative creative process. However, they are your words, and if there is any hesitation about it, please let me know.

~ Winnie

Friday, May 27, 2005

Can't do Quest

I have a number of ballads named 'Quest'
in one way or another, that pale in comparison
with Ruhdwolf's fine poem ...

So here is one that is sort of an "Un-quest"
The unusual abbca rhyme scheme is ancient Tracian,
while the 'rhythm' is more like 'Parzival'. The intertwined double verse
is 13th century Trevere' style.

The Gauntlet

His form was bent and crippled, with a face that torture told;
but his Falchion sword had a Toledo edge, with buckler shield to hold.

The massive hall seemed hewn from the cliff, stone by massive block.
It stood alone at the crossroads of life,
calling to those knights of suffer and strife,
a safe haven for all, weak and the strong.
Such was the fortress named Ravennoch.

The vaulting arch was carved with deep care, in language four by four.
"Enter here only knights, weapons by the door."
He entered there and cast upon the floor
a mailed gauntlet that called to shame
the ancient sad boast that castle forswore.

The liveried guard was giant of form, with spike hauberk set to bar,
But he tumbled to sprawl upon the cold floor, with crash that carried far.

The gathered knights rose with a mighty shout, grasping for missing blade.
"By what right do you defile this pledge,"
cried a Templar priest of historic age?
They surged forth to be sure challenged
by flashing dance the spinning sword made.

"I was here when these golden stones were set, before your father's birth."
'Hearken unto me with weapons at rest,'
were the words we carved above the crest.
With passage of years your presence defiles
this most hallowed home upon the earth."

They slowly drew back in confused awe, shaken to their very core,
for the knight prancing there was of legend,
stories told by fire when the day did end.
No one knew his true name or favor claim,
but by bronzed rondels on chest he wore.

"I'm passing by from distant land, that of shallow youth's fame,
On to the place where 'was' and 'what will be', are found to be the same."

"I am the squire of the morning mist, herald of each birthing day.
I am the champion of daily hour's command,
from chivalry's call for helping strong hand.
Hearken to me poor excuse for a man
Who huddles here 'neith that craven display.

Only once in this life will your heart be touched, gleaming honor brought to bear,
when a maiden's silk scarf burns in your hand,
launched on brave quest set by fire's brand.
Only once in a knight's life will heaven call.
Yet you stand without blade, holding only fear.

Forbearance, not carved demand, that excludes the spirit bold,
and imprisons the will with devil chain,
can surely replace surrender's pain.
Stand up one and all and reclaim your pride
and quick remove those words the arch does hold."

He stood there firm in warrior pride, driven by right's own claim,
while those haunting words of yesteryear's call, erased the chiseled shame.

"Yes, I am on the path to most certain death, n'er to pass this way again.
I am the monk seeking peace in Mother Earth
where setting red sun will measure my worth.
But do not fear for God's claim on my soul,
for each day grants new life devoid of pain.

I will bring in the day to squire your birth, gentle gird your loins in mail,
And cap your brow with helm of pure delight,
and grant curved shield of Aegis' might.
Claim your sword my friend and never cry yield
for I will be watching, will never fail.

Where what 'was' joins 'what will be', there is proud eternal braid
that in our evening's death there will cycle new life, to conquer unafraid."

"Hearken unto to me with weapons at rest."


The Quest

Undefined in The Dictionary of Seeing,
no listing in the Soul Encyclopedia,
not covered in The Idiot's Guide to the Unfathomable
nor in The Book of Raveling and Unraveling,
not taught at the University of The Void
or at the College of Butterflies,
no entry in The Unknowing Manual,
never mentioned in the ancient texts
of the U'alu Sesto, Mountains And Valleys of the Eternal Journey,
called the Prang Pr'th Xor,
not found in the online Help Guide,
not approved for your level of service
from the 24-hour HelpLine,
never mentioned by your parents,
not summoned from the Ancestors,
not channeled from the seventh priestess
at the Temple of Isis at Corfu,
inaccessible at this time,
the File of Forgetting not found,
an error has occured,
please stand by,
or try again later,
or restart your day or your life,
try unplugging for seven days,
refill the reservoir,
thump once,
give it a glass of water,
sing to it,
set it outside,
clean with a soft cloth,
carefully clear the jam,
make sure the access door is fully closed,
consult your doctor or pharmacist
or shaman or the person
dressed in sky blue,
await further instruction.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Oh, Quill of Mine

Oh, quill of mine,
How do you profess to know
Of what I think,
Of what I feel,
Of what is in my heart?

You take my thoughts
And display them
For all to see,
For all to know
My pain.

You share emotions
Best left
In the silent darkness of my soul
Then, broadcast them
For everyone to see.

Oh, quill of mine,
How dare you
Take my privacy
And flaunt it
With those who know me not at all.

You strip bare my soul,
Shred my heart
Into a thousand pieces
Then, toss them outward
To the winds of fate.

Oh, quill of mine,
Tell me why
You have the need
To probe my mind,
To destroy me.

Oh, quill of mine,
I beg you,
Let me stay behind this wall
Of comfort
And of safety.

Oh, quill of mine,
Be still.
Keep your counsel to yourself.
Move on.
Leave me alone
In the darkness of my being.

©May 26, 2005

Green Things

Sometimes I envy poets who seem to have a 'STYLE'. Faucon, May, Winnie and Ruhdwolf - I already recognise your voice as your own, before I know who has posted.
For a while I immitated other poets- fishing around for an authentic voice. I did e.e.cummings, a truly awful Sylvia Plath, a hazy kind of Margaret Atwood. Here are a few of my different voices. Perhaps all of them are masks, but I would be interested to know how they appear in the world.


In the midst of green
and smoke and furl
we fall away from chip and push
we droop and lap and limbs uncurl
in the midst of winding wild and bush

Amongst ourselves
in sap we seep
through rustle and shush
while the willows weep
we'll not be blown from
our hallowed sleep
for the slender sighs are ours,
the slender sighs are ours.

Winking our eyes at the pale slipish sun
our damp and dusk-drunken pores will bloom
under quivering thicket, beneath querellous moon
a drop of the glimmering soon we'll become
a drop of the glimmering soon.


Do you think I'm a monument of grief?
Is my poor heart cold as stone?
Have I shed all my tears
night after night since you
left me alone?

Are my hands exhausted from wringing?
Have I sobbed and cursed,
are my eyes still stinging?

Will I ever have hope?
Will I ever be free?

you're already poetry.


across the mirror of your eyes
i slide

two separate images of 'I' collide

and slow you close the point at which
my selves divide

and in a dark sweet place
we compromise

Of desert and tree

My sister in Reno, NV had a small restaurant effecting Southwestern cooking called the Manzanita Cafe. I wrote this for her menu backpage.


Before there was a moon to glow in the sky,
before creatures walked upright upon the earth,
there was the manzanita.
Black and ominous clouds roiled
continuously close to the ground
and many plants thought a while
and vanished from the high desert slopes.
There still was the manzanita!
It was silver then,
with wispy leaves of faint yellow,
and shallow roots that were easily pulled free.
The bush rolled and tumbled in the ceaseless winds
that laughingly kicked it about.
It was a plaything of the evening spirits.
But it survived.

There came a time when the great Taqawito
became displeased with the state of the earth.
He reshaped it by drawing away a great ball of rock,
and the whole earth trembled.
He tossed it away unto the sky
and watched the water rush into the crevasse,
and with it,
all of the creatures and plants that had come to bore Him.
At the rim of the great basin the waves crashed
and grasped at all the plants and drug them to the sea.
Only the free root manzanita escaped the wrath
and was laughingly ignored by the destruction.
The Taqawito began again
to built the earth and place upon it animals and fish,
and many beautiful plants, and birds high in the sky.
Seeing all this beauty
the tiny, lonely manzanita cried,
“No! Enough!”

It seized upon the jagged rocks
and claimed a place for itself in the new land.
The sun beat relentlessly down upon its silver skin
since there was not yet any clouds in the heavens.
Its fragile bark turned a rusty brown
that hardened against the wind.
Its tender leaves hardened also,
but absorbed the life giving rays at its own choosing;
bright green on the top if the weather was harsh,
a hint of silver on the underside to draw in the morning dew.
Stark. Aloof.
There was the manzanita.

It came to be
that all plants and creatures had to learn
that there was a time to wander free
and enjoy the pleasure of the gods.
There is a time to stand firm against adversity -
or vanish from the earth.
There will come a time to say,
“I care not what you think,
care not how you see me,
care not if you ever travel to the high desert
to share my silhouette
against the coldly sparkling milky way. I am...”
“I am the manzanita!”

Star Rise Over the Superstitions

Dancing in the Light

If I Were a Spirit . . .

“They say that candles attract the spirits so when I light them at night on our patio, I invite all, seen and unseen, to join me in the light.” (Vi Jones)

If I were a spirit
Drawn like a dream
From the star-scattered sky
Where the dark Superstitions
Turn back time . . .

If I were the marrow of myth and magic
Spun in the deep chambered heart
Of the giant Saguaro . . .

If I were the earth echoed essence
Of red desert wind
Yearned through a coyotes throat . . .

If I were a spirit . . .

I would be drawn to your fire
And finding there such giving grace
She wisdom, such love
I would stay
And dance forever
In your light

Edwina Peterson Cross
May 26, 2005
(For Vi )

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Skert of Fitz'in??

To show those who have not yet joined
Cherita Fitzgerald (so that this site can return to normal),
don't be 'skert' -- any 55 words will do.

To remove any doubt -- I wrote this last year for a friend who actaully sang it!

(rain leaf song)

tip tip tip-it-ip tip tip bruuurt
shoo oosh oosha da hulti na na
tip tip tip-it-ip tip tip bruuurt

shoo oosh oosha da hulti na na
bort bort cuinnit it buu uut na
tip tip tip-it-ip tip tip bruuurt

bort oosh nit nit da hulti buu na
hulti buu bort bort -- na tip oosha da


Oudwalla origin
origami folds
of earth and light.
Ozark plateau.
Enfold, entreat, entry.
over blue spring water.
Punctuate dawn
with fog,
phantom horse tails
flicking the first sun
from the back
of mountains grown smaller,
swallowing their own mystery
with a sinkhole.
Susserating oak,
hickory, ash, walnut,
tulip, river willow,
honey locust, black locust...
summer speaking
in tongues of waiting.

Please Join the Revelry at Cherita Fitzgerald!

Dear LivePoets,

You will soon all be receiving invitations to join a new Blog that I have wistfully named ‘Cherita Fitzgerald.’ It is a site for poetic extrapolation, cooperatively braiding of various poetic forms, working together to create layered verse and compose reflective poetry.

The new Blog is also under the umbrella of The Soul Food Café. I want to make it very clear that Cherita Fitzgerald is in addition to, not taking the place of LivePoets. I hope that our output here continues to be as full of both quantity and obvious quality as it has always been. We will certainly still see poetic forms here, in fact I will not discourage cross posting in anyway and we may bring pieces from one Blog to the other.

Of course Cherita Fitzgerald is just the catchy name that I choose to call this Blog, what we do there certainly need not be restricted to these two forms. Poetic forms are practically endless and many of them lend themselves to partnering and cooperative poetic blending and reflecting. Renga, Sijo, Tanka and Hakiu are a few other forms that spring to mind. And Tan Renga! Which, like our friend Cherita Fitzgerald is a combination of forms . . . looking like a tanka and working like a renga. Then there is the Marquisette which Mrs. Marsh may have invented. (The final word hasn't come in on the name yet!) And the Marquisette Fitzgerald . . . the vistas are endless!

I hope you will all take the plunge and join Cherita Fitzgerald and give it a try. If you are new to poetic forms, please do not let this stop you. They are easy to learn and often very easy to use. Several of us have recently discussed the fact that, though it seems strange, working within a poetic form often makes writing poetry easier. It can act as a laser and bring your focus to a point where the words flow in a way they otherwise wouldn’t. There is also something really lovely about the blending of words, thoughts, minds and spirits that this brings about. As writers, we often talk to each other about writing; we read each others writing, but this experiment of extrapolation, braiding and reflection takes working with other writers a step further into something really fascinating and new.

I will quote faucon of Sakin'el (since I have already done so all over the new Blog!) These blended forms bring “a golden braid of mind, soul and spirit endlessly folding back upon itself to reflect new images of poet and EveryLight”.

Everyone please join the revelry at Cherita Fitzgerald! Heather and I are already there, waiting for fun. All you have to do is hit "accept" when the invitation comes.

~ Winnie

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Tree and Me

I often write lyric prose, not considered poetry by most,
but enjoyable for all of that. This is an oft requested piece
at Bardic Circles.



Grasp a solid staff in hand and marvel at the strength that it draws up from the earth! Walk in a silent wood and hear only the measured thump as the shaft guides your way. Nature is strong in the blood and even a swordless knave can feel kinship with a knight and lord. There is not a man who does not feel a stirring of the heart at the hint of the first Spring blossoms taking a risky glimpse at a New World. Is it a kinship with a sense of awe lost with innocence long ago? Some primordial yearning for a time when work was more directly connected with hands, and dirt and wood? Is there Viking in your past, or Frankish soldier or Norman warlord? Or is it that we have a special link to the trees, one that we need not understand. Hold close thy staff and sing with me.

Religion, sorcerers and bards draw from trees in symbol and in purpose; a carved figure on a spear, an olive branch or a structured tree on a barren hill. Others draw strength from the connected roots and life giving elements from earth to heaven. Whether there is truth in none of these, or in all, explore for yourself. Hug a tree! Embrace the texture, vibrancy, scent and strength. You will discover that this simple act will allow you to hug another person more profoundly. Hold close thy staff - it is a tree!

As we travel the way of a knight or other personal growth and internal peace, we tend to forget the lessons of the trees. When confronted with a life branch before us, a choice of commitment, integrity or purpose; we choose a path and then spend all of our time justifying that decision. Each day brings us new choices, and each year a chance for renewal. Our life decisions may need pruning or grafting. The very soil in which we have planted our roots may have to be tilled, nurtured or the field abandoned. Each branch and fork in every tree provides the key to all tranquillity. Time proceeds one addition in a measured step, each segment in exact mathematical proportion to the one from the proceeding year. All of mans’ attempts to control his environment and stand up to forces of God and Nature cannot forestall this imperative.

Sheath thy great sword and take up this staff - this branch. The tiny twigs swirling in the ripples of a pool are but a minuscule tree branching into the depths of myth and outward to the mysteries of the heavens. If you view this covenant as an oppression of your spirit - it will destroy you! If you view the gift of free will as an obligation or requirement to be restrained by choices - you will never be at peace. If you can live each day in gratitude that a choice was possible, and pass the branch like a baton to another, then you will embrace compassion and fellowship with the essence of man. Walk with a staff and you walk with me.

Fitzgerald for the Jardine Juniper

1850 vertical feet
Just to look at a tree
Ten miles, round trip
Again, again, I’ve climbed
From sage strewn valley bottom
To a ridgeline thick with fir, maple
And aspen shivering in the canyon wind
Clinging to the rocky hillside
The juniper is scourged by weather, truck twisted,
Ancient as thought and . . .
Still alive

This is the Jardine Juniper, 3,200 years old and still very much alive. Clinging to a rocky ledge in the Cache National Forest, above my home town of Logan, Utah.


Marquisette Reflection

Building on Winnie's tree theme,
I can try this form in homage ...
to the Bristlecone Pine and Mrs. Marsh

(I have pictures if anyone wishes them)

Bristling With Life

You can easily stretch back in form and time,
until your cap falls on the ground in awe and humility
before a redwood daring to caress the feet of heaven,
and stake its claim against fire and axe and strife
that each soul touched raises their arms in praise.

You may choose instead to hug a tree in twain
with primordial knowledge and pulse of Covenant;
and should forever embrace a sequoia by stretch of arms --
knowing that it will take many more in fellowship and reach
to understand the frailty of me, that must say 'we' in finality.

But for wisdom bound in simplicity and innocence,
seek instead the bristlecone's lonely silence.
Dare to ascend to 11,000 feet of pristine air
where no insects pervade nor animals scurry small
to tarry the ringed pace of 4,000 years and more.

Understand the power of this simple, forlorn, ugly tree.
It alone can choose to allow a part of self to die
to insure that a single branch will boldly survive
to flick a single tiny cone a inch or two beyond
its own withered, windblown shadowed memory.

So learn, my friend, though it take a year or two,
that the secret to eternal peace 'bristles' in simplicity --
let go of what is not important here and now;
keep ambition small yet perfect in design and purpose --
do what no one else can do -- be what no other can be.


Cherita of Light for a Dark White Night

I burn candles

Radiant, knifelike flames of spirit and heart
Flickering, dancing, with the breath of hope

Transformation, translation, testified in hot wax
Intention illuminated incarnate
Light glowing from within: prayers made manifest

©Edwina Peterson Cross


I’m posting this up as an entry, rather than a reply, to make sure it is found. This is faucon’s idea on a title for Mrs. Marsh’s poetic form. I am completely enamored of it as it is based on ‘Marsh’ and has it’s own meaning that fits so beautifully as well. A fine woven fabric. Indeed!

Mrs. Marsh - the final call is up to you! Shall we title your creation a Marquisette?



fine woven fabric: a fine woven fabric, often made of cotton or silk, that is used for making curtains and mosquito nets

REFLECTIONS - The Redwood and the Sequoia


I love the ‘reflections’ that come back from these braided poetry forms. Like something seen in still water, they are an image changed, deepened, shimmering and enchanting. This is from faucon’s C.F. reflection of my Cherita Fitzgerald.

It also happens to be my first attempt at the new form called “Marsh.” Or do you prefer, “Echolalia”? I can’t quite get there. The word reminds me of the pipping repetition often done by autistic children, though I believe it happens with schizophrenia as well. It seems to have an element of ‘meaningless repetition’ to me, that makes me hesitate to want to use it to describe this interesting form. Until further notified . . . here is my first attempt at a Marsh.

The Redwood gazes into pools of memory
The Sequoia looks back
They have reflected together
Soaring serenely, nearly three thousand years
Only the bristlecone is older

Older than man’s momentary remembrance
Remembering Buddha
Remembering Christ
Remembering what Confucius said
Remembering eternities of luscious, liberated air

Air that now burns from a hole in the ozone
Sharp sting of acid in the once quenching rain
Hearing the whirring rumor of chain saws
Knowing the wielding thwack of an axe gone mad
Brief, senseless narcissists, who would end the dreaming

Dreaming deep, drinking earths eternal affirmation
Still they drop their seeds on winds of hope
Silently, sanguinely, awaiting three thousand more years
Dream on Redwood, gazing out into the river of time,
Dream on Sequoia, solid truth of the Breath of God

©Edwina Peterson Cross

Monday, May 23, 2005

In the silent hour, I miss you
I wonder what you have been doing
These past few months and feel sad
That I don’t know

I wonder how long the grieving will last
And wonder if my silence is foolish
And wonder if I am strong enough to
Try again

In the silent hour I know that I must
I must I must I must stay in my impulse
Witness the heartbeat, pulse of my art
Which means I sacrifice my love
For you

I wonder
No, I know
I know

Radiant Heated Fear

Radiant heated fear
Pulsates through blooded intestines
Pressing on my sphincter
Demanding I purge
Bloated intestinal tubes

Tubes pumping, pulsating
Razor edged emotions temporarily purged
Nervously anticipating another
Spontaneous panic filled attack
Triggered by relentless, stalking, circling fear

Fear of loss, of grief
Of utter helplessness in the face of
Chronic, debilitating pain
Fear that nothing will
Appease or palliate.

Palliate or appease the pain or
the rising bitter tasting vomit
Wedged in my throat
Unrelieved by sips of water.
Desperate I consider the gate of Mount of Purgatory

Purgatory no lofty island mountain
With indifferent angel keepers guarding the door
Demanding Prudence, Temperance, Fortitude, and Justice
Bowing my head in penitence
Will not change our fate.

Fated to stand on earth
Fated to bear witness to
a multitude of injustices meted out
By the hands of capricious
Mother Nature

Well I have tried Mrs Marsh!


Winnie, Faucon, Fran, Maya, and to all of you not yet met,

I loved the challenge of writing a Fitz. Sometimes perversly, I find that restrictions make the creative process easier- like the students in Pirsig's novel who found their voice only when their teacher restricted their composition to describing 'the third brick from the left on the municipal building'!
This is a poetic form without a name. I made it up. If you want to play, the rules are simple. Each stanza may be only five lines long. The first word of each stanza must be the last word of the previous. The first word of the fourth line of each stanza in mine is a verb, but I will leave that to your discretion. The form is fun, but this poem, which I wrote only a couple of months ago, is very sad.


You waited 'til we'd gone
as I've heard the dying often do, and
somehow broke that habit-
breathing; the rythym worn
and whittled thin.

Thin-walled, your skin seemed
stretched beyond its means
on garish bones prematurely
jutting. I kissed your papery cheek
before we left.

Left alone, released from care
you fulfilled the contract made at birth
that said 'No more; no less'
Rattling disinfected air you settled
still at last.

Last time I saw you there
in echoed breath that filled the room-
hypnotic drag and push of air,
dying, I gazed on you
not quite a glimpse of death.

"Death" I knew the word
but I was ten and without fear.
What word could possibly convey the
breaking of that fragile sound,
your breath so dear.

Dear, you waited 'til we left
I did not hear the rattled pall.
Your breathing went on in my ear
whispering- a wetly laboured fall
without an end.

End we must, but I won't try
to find words to describe it- they don't exist.
No, not even now I'm grown and
learning each day a new
language for grief.


Poetry is, because it is the natural way
the breath, the rhythm
the language of the body and the mind

Time was

A silver day wide whipped
clouds unfold move to the east

Weary the memory
fades into darkness

Shadow embraces
the lonely space

Stone walled
garden turns to grey

Dry stocks
whisper together
wait for the winter wind
bend, break, decay

Rooted in deep earth
in a stranger’s place

What is Poetry

Winnie asked this of us, and I am hard put to attempt anything as grand and perceptive as her posted poem. Yet I am drawn to ponder the old question, "Is it the singer or the song?" I would wish to say that as I am a poet, everything I write is poetry -- and cannot be else. Thus I need help here from my friends to decide not only what poetry is, but what makes a poet -- and more profoundly, why many seen driven to write. Up until about five years ago I hardly wrote a thing outside of business stuff. Now, hardly a day passes without writing several poems, stories, reflections. Am I gifted or cursed? I am certainly possessed.

The other day, due to miscommunication and wrong information from the bus company, Em wound up waiting for hours to be picked up, while I talked to the grass at another location. My concern was not nearly as deep as hers -- fearing that something terrible must have happened to me. Later -- safely home, she sat beside me and asked me to write something for her. She says I can share it. I wrote this, just as is without editing. This is the way I think -- the way I speak -- the way it 'flows through me'. Poetry, I don't know -- life, yes!


My pulse is perhaps slowed a bit
with the touching of your sadness -
and I extend out and within
as of want and call of being;
for there is a tremble in your presence
of which we are not aware in fullness -
from the newness and the nearness of it all.

The melody of your playing
need not shift to minor key -
nor fear that fine strings are broken
on the lyre of our togetherness;
for what you sense
is the breath of lonely
whispering in a duet of longing -
of which you have never been blessed before.

By chance and error of assumption
you were to fear I'd come to harm -
and in an instant of panic
reality set in and down;
for the life we assemble is fragile
and puts us both at risk of fame and fortune -
for of we there must be us or all is mem'ries.

Welcome to true humanity
and the oft bitter sweet passion
that mere mortals embrace in love
that angels may fly divinely;
and know the trembling of my heart and soul
when you are late, gone or choose to walk alone
and I too am skert of being with none but self.

But being two
is what it is
all about,
of course...

and I am here right now.

Dangerous Combination

I had a blank napkin and a free moment ...

A Cherita seems a fairly simple form of poetry at first,

composed of three stanzas counting One, Two, Three
in length of lines and symmetry with rhyme and meter disregarded,

but made a bit more difficult by silly requirements
like coming to an exact total of fifty-five words
without becoming extremely dull or too confusing.


Ftizgerald Pantoum - Someone is Getting Carried Away!

The garden where Shakespeare walked
Is planted full of rosemary
Growing wild outside the gate
The holly and the ivy

Planted full of rosemary
This, he said, for remembrance
The holly and the ivy
Pray love, remember

This, he said, for remembrance
Growing wild outside the gate
Pray love, remember
The garden where Shakespeare walked

Another Fitz Virgin

I am catching the whisps of this weeks postings- had seven days of 'me against the world'.
Now we're playing on the same team again.
Is this a Fitz? I took a line from Winnie's last post ( I don't mind that you rhyme at all!) and it is 55 words long.


Time will not be giving
the freshly broken flesh
of this moment twice.

Brilliant and sharp,
even as I bite, the
tang of ripe and juicy now

and sweetly calls
to melancholy yesterdays-
familiar savoured aches
of memory's joy.

Thus sensation dies-
fierce, immediate,
this pungent, freshly broken world;
beautiful, if bittersweet
its passing.

C. F. Reflection

by thy will ....
daughter of Winnie Cherita Fitzgerald

A dream of endurance, a prayer of hope -- within my grasp.

Behold my staff of Sequoia branch -- spiral twist and yearning;
inner bark reflecting the myriad contortions of will and spirit.

All are now drawn to touch and caress
this simple ruddy shaft -- solid in form and stature,
yet known as the 'Breath of God'.

Sunday, May 22, 2005

Cherita Fitzgerald

I swear, I'm going to name a character in my next book 'Cherita Fitzgerald.' Also a do-able combination of poetic forms.


I can’t reach my arms around the stiff, stippled bark

Standing where it has stood for two hundred years
Stretching up with an inspired flight into a cloud washed sky

At it’s feet, a seeding sends tentative roots the other direction
Deep into the soft, loamy ground
A dream of endurance, a prayer of hope

©Edwina Peterson Cross

short short

I am searching for old, short poems --

only one so far ... (not for Em)

I wanted a glowing ember,
pulsing, vibrant.
You only wanted a chunk
of icy crystal stone

Just Back

We spent the weekend driving to Pennsylvania and back (512 miles) each way, but did have some time to write -- three of which just happened to be Haiku


my view overlooks
a lake of steel silence
waiting for the dawn

will you whisper now,
or shout upon the breeze,
or just sleep alone?

clouds laugh lonely tears
on the meadow’s singing lark,
whee – do – diddly – oh

Saturday, May 21, 2005

Saving Old Poetry

I’m finding bones in the garden
Where the darkness is spiked with cold
Asleep with webs of roots and worms
Winding through the shifting mold

What lost and murky deed was this
In the mist of some long lost night?
That has moldered thus for decades
Away from the air and light?

The shovel turns soil as black as pitch
And clicks against dry bone
Perhaps they should stay hidden here
Undiscovered, untouched, alone?

Perchance there are secrets buried here
That are better left unfound?
Perhaps what this marrow clay conceals
Is best left underground?

Still I dig and flip the shovels-full,
On the ground debris is strewn
Jumbled, disjointed, human bones
White and cold in the shade of the moon

I force my eyes to the macabre brew
In trembling, terror and fear
But as I gaze, moon shadows shift
And the still, pale bones come clear

They are white as pearls in the moonwash
In this garden cold and wild
Unearthed from out the haunted soil
Are the clean bones of a child

The slender bones of a maiden
Scattered across the broken ground
What secrets to these ivory bones
Like ivy roots are bound?

For there is a mystery on them
Unearthed too late, too soon
Suffused with mystical meaning
They glow with more than moon

Who was she, who lies broken here
In echoed pale illusion
These bones of alabaster ice
In scattered, lost confusion?

Did once a name, a heart, a face
Bloom bright beneath the sun?
Before the dank and silent earth
Took all to be undone?

Did the starlight wash her silent
As it sifted from above?
Was she spun of air and magic
As she danced her dream of love?

There is no voice to that dream now
In this dark that has no dawn
No throat is stretched with song here
The singer is vanished, gone

All that was, is afterward
All is nevermore
All that might come after
Was broken by the past before

She is gone without a breath now
Where there dwells no lasting chance
No whisper sings her song now
No steps that mark her dance

And yet - there are these secret bones
Lucent mysteries in the ground
Brittle, broken lilies
Twined with ivy all around

Still full of pith and marrow
Even after all the years
They shine like moon deep opal
Echoed mirrors of ancient tears

A testament everlasting
A rune thorn clearly drawn
Sundered, slivered, broken
Transformed, but not yet gone

There are splinters of words in this garden
Deep buried beneath the stones
Hearts blood spilled onto paper
The truth of a young girls bones

So I gather those splinters like relics
Disjointed and scattered apart
An incomplete hallowed collection
Piles of paper stained with my heart

And there is a mystery on them
Unearthed too late, too soon
Suffused with mystical meaning
They glow with more than the moon

I lock them away, safe and sacred
Shattered bones still charmed and entranced
I save them in humble remembrance
Of the girl who once wore them to dance

©Edwina Peterson Cross


softly, spring winds blow
helicopter seeds swirl down
tree releases her bounty

The Construction of Haiku

Some brief words about
The construction of haiku
A fine short verse form

Strictly, for a verse
To be haiku, it should show
Nature or seasons

In a lightening flash
It should reveal an image

Using the same form
Verse based on human nature
Strictly, are senryu

Poetry teachers
Strictly, nit-picky; sometimes
Are run out of town

P.S.: Remember
Strictly, haiku and senryu
Shouldn’t ever rhyme

The best thing to do
With any kind of taboo
Is prove it untrue

Verse need not always
Conform to five, seven, five
Strict syllable count

Some poets go on
To a more organic verse
Without strict counting

Some always stay with
The strict five, seven, five count
When they write haiku

I like the strict form
Though I don’t really know why
I find it pleasing

I do love haiku
Brevity the soul of wit
Said my friend the Bard

Mostly I find them
Elegant, graceful and clean
Succinct and yet whole

Venerable freshness
Something, calm, rich and ancient
Birthed forever new

©Edwina Peterson Cross

Short Poetic Forms - The Cherita

Dear LivePoets,

I do love haiku - when well done it can take an image or a thought and flash it on the inner eye in one brief, bright second, like incandescent lightening, sudden illuminating the inky night sky both with visual image and significance. The haiku is not the lightening, but rather what you see during that split second of light.

Of course haiku is only one short poetic form. Recently Fran reintroduced me to the Cherita. Like the pantoum, Cherita is a Malaysian poetic form. Cherita is the Malay word for story or tale. A Cherita consists of a stanza with a single line, followed by a two-line stanza, and then finishing with a three-line stanza. It can either be written solo or with up to three partners.

I’ve written several, but have never really gotten hold of the feeling of the form, which, ideally delivers punch of meaning, especially in the last stanza. Fran has written some sterling Cherita. Fran, can I talk you into sharing some of your Cherita? (Particularly the one about the rabbit and the one about the butterfly.) They are perfect examples of the form.

Cherita for Childhood

I liked to play by myself

I knew which trees talked,
and which just drank the wind.

The bark scratched my bare legs
as I nestled in their arms
Dryad in crinolines

©Edwina Peterson Cross

Friday, May 20, 2005

ant ecstacy

A sidewalk crack
corrals a growing puddle
of melting creamsicle.
The child still clutches her sticky stick
crying for her toppled treat.
An army of ants
marches to paradise
sampling the nectar
of ant gods.


Here are a few that I found which meet the criteria, I think. It seems, perhaps, that the brevity does, indeed, bring on the irony - or bring out the irony. Perhaps.


Open up infinity
Before the past was broken
Masked by stars, beloved
The Merlin comes in token
That vision is awakening
That the dream has woken

November Blue

I used to wait and wilt for Spring
The winter grown too long
I ached for every greenish thing
And for the robin’s song

Now winter quenches yearning
With nothing to pursue
Earth's blessing softly turning
A bare November blue

You play people like a six string
With a talent deft as whine
Such skillful art your message:
I. Me. Mine.

Leo rising
Brimming full the indigo sky
Flush with gushing golden fire
Radiant phoenixcal rising
The moon is bright with ashes
The Lion is reborn
With wild wings of wind

It all comes down to Dylan
A cosmic fact that’s true
All things are blowing in the wind
And add up to forty two


words, she uses, whisk
snap, crack
like the flick of a bullwhip
could take a pimple off the
ass of a dilettante at thirty paces

why does she tell me the truth
as if it were the cool earths core?


Thursday, May 19, 2005

Short Poems

I read all of your offerings to m'lady Emrys,
whose 'SmartView' screen enhancer
so badly chops up lines
that poetry loses much.
Her comments,
sprinkled with praise also asked,

"Does no one write short poems?"

By this I intrepet 'less than a Fitz,
but more than a Haiku or fortune cookie rhyme.'

So why not give it a a try?

Each must have a beggining, a theme and an ending (homefully ironic)

for a starter, here is one
that I found years ago that
might qualify.

"Once every person saw a flower bloom
and told no one --
but that was a world now long gone
in stardust."


Wednesday, May 18, 2005

first "fitz"

Cloistered in an unlocked cell
each morning I linger
for an hour or so,
reluctant to join the world at large.
My inner drums are broken,
rejecting natures rhythm
but I've memorized the music
and still can play by ear.
At the moment of my choosing,
tiny electronic portals
aid my journey
toward your laughter.


The recent references to fog
left me dank of spirit,
befuddled of mind,
and blind unto myself --
and my 'fell out' reprise contained
that I would never walk in fog again.

This is choice, for me
of a spiritual bent rather than climatic,
and I embrace, prance and sommersault
in all profoundness of nature ...
yet, 'tis true I avoid such enclosed space
in story, poem or on a river bank.

In a quick search of past creation sins
I found but two references to 'fog'
of any note or pretense:

"Beautiful is the Fog
as it envelopes, hides and comforts;
holding as I 'collect' soft mem'ries
the Night and Days of my Life..."

"Sprigs of greenery and berry-chains
hung limp and sad as the freezing fog
breathed in and out of the narrow streets."

Yet a search for 'mist' produced hundreds of hits,
and I rejoiced in the focused implication,
knowing that for some the two are seen the same.
Alas, many hope filled recollections
of faint scribbling and thought bashing
were naught but
MIST-akes and MIST-ress and MIST-rust,
but not necessarily in that

A more guarded exploration,
now filled with trepidation,
brought my quickly and adroitly
to visions of rebirth
and nothing more (oops)

I also know that 'dancing in the rain'
would be found as repeat refrain
and that 'fog' must be relegated
to a 'nothingness' in between --
that within this void of sensation
I am stripped of all creation
and caressing of my soul.

So, I will walk with you into the fog,
or choose to crawl about in fumbled
exploration of awe and wonder
(but not both at the same time),
and willing stand in Tully fog,
naked below the neck,
laughing at the world --

but walk there? Nevermore.


that you might understand -- a sampling of 'mist images'

"Consider the choice to blend the lively mist
and fading Autumn blush..."

"A gentle breeze carries forth
the cedar whisper and the aspen's quake,
into the mists of yesterday
that disperse this new day's perfume.
Diamond dew drops do distill
and join the twinkling of the brook,
and birth strong song of meadowlark
and glint of fluttered fairy wings."

"Would that I could now find such divine innocence,
and cycle anew from tinkling stream of birthing,
to dreaming mist and laughing clouds of morning.
Oh, then to be drawn to the soul of Mother Earth.
Chose – it is your life and song of vict’ry to sing.
Plunging, frantic deluge to nurture new Spring life,
or silver fairie stars of tumbling snow bound hope
that will melt and finger through stones and sandy ridge
in a cent’ry long quest to live as one with me?"


What is Poetry? What Does it Mean To You?

Perhaps it is time for this? Perhaps it is time for something I haven’t written yet and might never write . . . What is Poetry? What Does It Mean To You?

Rudwulf’s “Visiting a Poem” slid between my solar plexis and my throat with a resounding thunk. Truth. Does it tell ALL the truth of poetry for me? Ah! I think I could write on the subject exclusively for the rest of my life, producing tens of thousands of pieces and never even begin to touch ‘the truth’ of poetry. And I am just talking about my own, personal meaning, never mind the labyrinthine intricacies of the universal, pandemic truth. If such a thing exists.

I’ve considered poetry in metaphor, metonymy and metalepsis; in simile, symbolism and synecdoche. I’ve written about poetry in prose, poem, poultry, paradox and personification; in image, imagination and irony; analogy and allegory, in allusion and illusion . . . I’ve approached the bottomless well of poetry from my beliefs, my brains, my breath and my bones. I haven’t yet scratched the surface of the rippling surface. I never will.


The poetry came with breath
Perhaps before: certainly, my mother says I danced
Nourished greenly on watercress and sparkling lemon-lime
The poetry came with language
In that mystic moment when labeling turned
To understanding
Perhaps before: star-fish fingers, sky-reaching to touch
The limpid moon

On a scaffolding of idea and image
I have been sculpting since my fingers formed
Perhaps before: shaping with shadow
Gilding with glitter, building with breath and bone,
With layers of learning and lore,
Hollowing out the harmony
Between the language of deep darkness
And the radiant tongues of angels,
Balanced in an open door of twining twilight

Neither actuality or accuracy, factuality or fidelity
But a blending of both
Synthesis and symmetry
Something replete, round and whole
Stones of antiquity, classic bedrock granite
Blending smoothly with seafoam and mist
In this abstract, concrete creation
This spiraling, seamless montage
Produced for no audience, for no audience will come

Fact: there will be no eyes to see
No ears to hear; no fingers with enough interest
To trace my pale blue veins, from wrist to heart
Truth: it matters not at all
The creation goes on
A conception shaped of joy
Forged out of pain
Fashioned of a needless necessity
Molded to pour full and mellow
Filling a sweet, hollow yearning
Which has echoed with seasound and moonsong
Since the dawning
Perhaps before . . .

©Edwina Peterson Cross

(Anyone who caught the chicken gets a sticker!)

Poem From the Ether

Whoa! I have NO idea where this came from - except from faucon saying he’d never walk in fog again. It tumbled out exactly as you see; whoosh, bang, boom. Always sort of freaks me when that happens.

Never say never
She never has said
I’ll spin silvered air
Into gossamer thread
I’ll call down a moonbeam
A diaphanous dream
And set it to weaving
Viscous clouds of sweet cream
Where moist meets the mountains
In a lush pearled haze
Time ceases to trickle
Ageless white days
Alabaster eternal
With the future before
The gray ghost of the past
Through a mist shrouded door
Never say never
‘The End’ or amen
In this soft timeless fog
You just might
Walk again

©Edwina Peterson Cross

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Description of Place

Dear Live Poets,
I always feel as though ‘this place’ - LivePoets at Soul Food - is, indeed, a ‘place’; a destination, a location, somewhere that I actually go. Perhaps it is just my spirit that comes to this ‘place’, maybe it is my eyes, perhaps my thoughts. Whatever it is, it comes here seeking green; searching for soul nourishment in the form of elegantly woven words, fresh and fascinating concepts, ideas, images, metaphor, meaning. All this, and more, I find ‘here.’ This afternoon, I read a response to a comment from Maya that struck such a cord with me that it vibrated my spine until my brain sang. I loved it so much that I have taken her words and worked them into the description of the group that appears at the top of the screen. Added to Heather’s original description, there is now a bit of Maya’s. Together they paint a portrait of this ‘place’ that is beautifully descriptive and full of truth. ~ Winnie