game boy
Had they taught
your spirit how
to dance -
you would not need
to hide among the
shadows.
Peace, now.
The Dead Poets Society met in a cave to read and share verse. This group is for poets who are very much alive, who have words running, pulsating through their veins. From an outside landscape that can be harsh and barren, we come together in this nurturing, verdant oasis; fellow wanderers, wonderers, sharing our words.
Had they taught
This very day
Earlier posts of Duenda,
From my work in process "Soulground For Women"
Ingunn Ådland: Pianist At Troldhaugen
Don’t count to quickly who will be gone
Sailing from Geiranger
Sanctioned by the sun
A weed struggles to thrive amidst the trash,
RIFT
Orpheus,
Sometimes I misplace/file a poem
I wrote this for my dad's dad after he passed away a couple of years ago and read it at his funeral instead of a reading. Even now, I make an effort to read and reread it, because it reminds me so much that there are infinite aspects to people and reminds me that everyone plays different roles in others life. It reminds me my mother is a sister and a child, that my brother is a friend and a partner, my best friend is a mother - it reminds me to look harder at them as a whole and that gives me so much more respect for each of them.
Two poems from the book I'm working on--Soulground For Women.
A seed planted
down deep and dark
fed and nourished
by sunlight
and rain
sprout breaks
through
little by little
season to season
year by year
the seedling grew
into a
towering tree
reaching the
sky
Raven
at home
in the
tree top
new seed
pods sprout
dropped
here and there
carried by
Raven
far and wide
to begin
again.
© Megan Warren 25/7/2005
Salt Doll visits the usual places
For the past year
Presumed innocent
STICKS
She has bathed his feet
I never could sing much --
Five haiku that I wrote.
Abide in me, abide in me
My posting of this was somehow prompted by Christina's --
What happened to Tessa--
I won't go into why a casual friend --
each word gleefully
Please let me know if this post shows lines of HTML, I'm typing into the post instead of copying and pasting. Nothing is showing on my screen so have to ask. Thank you, Chris:
There seems to be a thread of sorts
At lunch
our secrets linger
over iced cappuccino
or hot chocolate
whatever the season.
We dress in the colours
of whispered women’s affairs.
Today,
you in a mouth-watering melon
and me in wash-worn fatigue.
You speak of expertise, harmony
and limitless.
I of bloat, cramps
and pointless ovaries
after conception.
But we know this will change
like women do
over iced cappuccino,
hot chocolate,
and seasons.
(c)--Christina Cowling
When I was young and learned of death
I worried mom would leave
So in the yard beneath some junk
A board I did retrieve.
Then on the board I painted in
Two laughing eyes of blue
A wise wide smile, a tiny nose
Just like the mom I knew.
And when big sister went to school
The board I took with me
And planted it where ever I played
So mom would always be.
Now years have passed
I can’t pretend midst Alzheimer’s disease
When from her rocking chair mom says,
‘There’s a soul—,”a soul that I can’t see.
But I can’t help but wonder
When grandma comes to mom
And mom describes her like before
Before when I was young.
Oh how I long to tarry
Within my childhood space
Find comfort in a piece of wood
And peace in childhood faith.
©--Christina Cowling
Chistina's posts caused me to dig it out --
In the earlier stages of my mother's Alzheimer's, she would often laugh at herself and I would join in as "laughter is good medicine." On one such occasion, we had been for a drive in the country and as we neared mother's condo, she asked me very seriously, "Are we on Alzheimer's Lane yet?"
Alzheimer’s Lane
<> For some>there is a dead end path
famous for no road signs
that bestows upon its travellers
bends and twists
lined with apparitions and specters.
This perilous path
spins out of control
like a broken merry-go-round
until thrown from the ride,
confused travellers are compelled
to climb back on again,
to riddle their way
down Alzheimer’s Lane.
(c)--Christina Cowling
I have planted a sprig of a tree
beside the old maple
in my back yard.
The sprig makes the maple
look stronger
though the maple is old
and shedding her branches
as the aged shed their hair
and teeth.
I shall nurture the maple
for her trunk
is filled with
my memories
and the sprig
so she shall sprout me
new memories.
But like a puppy
tries to replace
a once faithful dog
the sprig must
grow into my heart
in order to stand
as tall as the maple
in my eyes.
(c)--Christina Cowling
Slicing through water
You have promised
Endurance is not a test
but a mother’s capacity
to stretch her arms
across shattered miles
and carry her willful child
home.
©--Christina Cowling
We have three posts
with no new
Like mercury leaks
from a broken thermometer
then clings stubbornly
to where it has fallen,
our tears cling to our cheeks
before tumbling
into the crevices
made by our forgotten smiles
that allow us
to lick the salt
before it stings and wounds.
Faucon's comment "This thought you share invaded much of my writing, and is perhaps a key to poetic dream" about my piece "The Greatest" inspired this:
My dream lurks
inside me,
overgrown
like a savoury garden
with grand watermelons
and pumpkins
that stand
as high
as a toddler.
But I have lost the key
to free my dream
somewhere
in the auspicious foliage
that holds my compulsion
to find it
and must be careful
that I do not deflower the garden
while I search.
©--Christina Cowling
Christina's post touching on natural brotherhood
Light is seen only through resolve—
the decision to blaze with the secret of compassion,
which is “To love thy neighbour as thyself”
for in doing so
we treat self as we would our neighbour
with respect,
gentleness,
forgiveness,
and charity that is greater than faith or hope.
(c)--Christina Cowling
You kiss my brow
religiously
like morning dew
kisses branches.
You serve me
a seductive tray
with raspberries
then roll with me
‘neath coloured sheets
in fashion.
Though much grows old
like trees and woods
and memories
we oft’ unite
religiously
from habit,
from honeyed years
of love and lose
and sharing life,
our passion.
(c)--Christina CowlingA year before I moved to Tennessee from California,
<>
I will not grab
for the crumbs
you offer
though you promise
prime beef
from a mad cow
and auction pretense
as if giving away
highly priced tickets
to see though your eyes
that have avoided clear mirrors
for a very long time.
(c)--Christina Cowling
I hitch a ride
with my imagination
that transports me
to long ago—
to floundering Prairie soil
where far from death
I see myself immortal
in perfect skin
without the flaw of age.
<>by nervy winds
that whirl me
past slippery chances
taken,
that bid me trust
my frosty breath,
my bustling heart
to churn eternally.
<>a warmer breeze doth glide me
to romance,
new ideals
and promised spring.
I float from billowing clouds
to puffs of leniency
and bite hard on the gripe
old age can bring.
<>I looked around the other day and realised that I was surrounded by some of the bravest, most incredible people - every day people, who don't look like heroes, and have never saved the world or made the news, but who have battled their own little wars and displayed strength which belied their frame - a friend who lost her brother, a cousin who had a stroke, my mum, a friend who was scared of the dentist, but went anyway, another who was scared of public speaking, but made the speech - all these people give me strength from remaining strong themselves through hardships, yet trusting me enough to allow me to see them at their most vulnerable. Fear is fear is fear, whether it's of a thing, a person, an illusion or the unknown, no matter how big or small, conquering it is, to me, an act of heroism.
Skirts of fog,
Winnie's post caused me to search my archives --
I walk this lucent pathway