Live Poets at Soul Food

Gwenerrella's First Poem

2008-03-12T04:41:00.000-07:00

Gwenerrella’s First Poem

I have a chocolate Penguin,
I got it from my Sis,
She gave it to me for
Christmas.

I love my chocolate Penguin,
In its shiny paper tree,
It says his name is
Pee-Wee.

I wanta keep my chocolate penguin,
He sits on top some books,
In spite of peoples hungry
Eating Looks.

I’ve kept my chocolate penguin,
It’s almost Easter-time.
And now the Pee-Wee penguin,
Calls alla time.

But now my chocolate penguin,
Has drawn an icky bug,
Tine for the ants to
Wake up.

So I ate his face off.

Song of Brothers Raven and Crow

2006-09-12T04:12:00.000-07:00

Before The People
First Man
Walked upon
Mother Earth.
Great Spirit
Bade them love
Earth Mother.
Treat Her with
Kindness
And respect
At all times
In all ways.

First Man was
Rebellious
He refused
To do what
Great Spirit
Asked of them.
He dug metals
From the flesh
Of Earth Mother.
She cried out to
Great Spirit
‘Stop this hurt!’

Great Spirit
Looked down to
Earth Mother.
He saw the scars
In her flesh.
He smelled
Filth in the
Sweet air.
He saw the
Good water
Defiled,
Too despoiled
For any to drink.

He called to’
Rainbow Raven
And his cousin
Many Coloured Crow.
Help me undo
The hurt done to
Earth Mother.
Purify Her
And begin life
Over again.
Raven and Crow
Honour Great Spirit.

They carried fire
Over the world
Diving to start
Cleansing flames.
Over and over
They swooped
Low to ground.
Touch the
Brand to grass,
Light the trees.
Burned away
All First Men.

Raven and Crow
Returned to
Great Spirit
In Star Lodge.
When he saw
Their feathers,
He wept for
Lost beauty.
No longer did
They shine all
Colours under
The warm Sun.

Now they were
Shining Black.
They sacrificed
Their beauty to
Obey Great Spirit.
They tried to
Wash the smoke
And ash from
Their feathers.
Still they were
Shining Black
As storm clouds.

Great Spirit
Bade them stay
Become His
Messengers.
Raven and Crow
Were honoured.
They remained
Awaiting His call.
Great Spirit
Looked down
And saw lonely
Mother Earth.

Star Woman
Came at His call.
Together they made
The world anew,
All of the things
In the Seas,
Every growing
Tree and flower.
The Animals
Great and small.
And Second Man
Came to be also.

The People
Looked at their
World and they
Knew wonder
And gratitude
To Great Spirit.
“We thank you.”
Tell us, please
How to serve
You, Star Woman
And Mother Earth
The best we can.”

Great Spirit,
Star Woman and
Mother Earth
Knew great joy.
“Know us as
Mother and
Father to you,
Obey our wishes
Love and respect
Mother Earth.
Obey My Laws
Follow Star Woman.

Memories

2006-05-23T15:21:00.000-07:00

Do you remember me?
Or have you forgotten me
as you sit in the sun
sleeping,
while time
trickles through that
corner of your garden,
where dappled shade, and water,
and evening sunlight,
erase all memories

In response, Sage -- sort of

2006-05-03T17:16:00.000-07:00

NO GIFT

I was but a small lad, in size and experience true. But I remember the words. The figures moved with the flickering sunlight that filtered from the trees. A shadow there -- no an arm. A fluttering bird -- no a laughing smile. Perhaps there were no words -- only a random drifting of sounds from amidst the leaves. "When tears are seeds on the lowland meadow, we will sure come again."
I have thought long on the gifts they have, both real and imagined. The forest skills to track a deer or hide from marauding bear. How to drop a bird in flight and not loose the arrow point. How to prepare for a storm long before the clouds have formed in the western sky. But other gifts too, perhaps. How to steal a wayward child in the night. How to attract a careless boy to deep waters. How to make barren a faithless wife. Gifts? Magick? Tales of gossiping crones?
These things called gifts, are sometimes blessing, sometimes curse. Are they born or learned? My father can find water with a twig but stumbles over the smallest stone. My brother cannot sing a note but can catch fish in his tiny hands. My sister is plain of face but has suitors all down the lane. And I -- I have none of these gifts, nothing for prayerful thanks. No skill at arms or story told. Flowers die at my feet and the squirrels chatter incessantly when I pass. I am passably fair at everything, and I get by. But surely there must be a gift for me -- something that sets me apart.

When they came there was no warning, these soldiers from the south. They did not seek land or wealth, but only pleasure in blood and lust and ale. If there was a leader he be not in control, though perhaps that was their way. Oxen lay half-eaten in the fields and grain rotted in broken barrels. Waste, waste everywhere. No help -- no hope -- our knights were serving in another land. Our simple gifted life would vanish here in mud and mire and sharpened despair.
Then it happened! I walked alone into the square and stood on the piled stones. I reached out wide my arms with fingers in dance. Our love of the earth, this land, swept up though my loins and into my heart. A flash of invisible light burst from my eyes and I was knocked to the ground. A primordial sound alone crashed through the glades and canyons. Its silent might crushed pottery and churned the placid stream into boiling rage. No one understood what had passed. But we all knew!

They came. The arrows rained down on the drunken brawl like hail on a summer morn. Though they ran and hid, each was found to die in agony. We of the land stood very still. Though the blood gathered in pools at our feet, none was ours -- none would feed the land save those who would defile it. Silence -- only silence. The shadows twisted into human form -- hunters, gamesmen, outlaws -- the simple of the forest. Then gone!

I will never have a gift, they say, for heaven's touch does not extend beyond God's simple harmony of man and earth and faith. They call me "The Given." "The Given", just that. Not in honor or awe or respect or fear. Just fact. The memories are mine.

So are the tears.

Freebase Dawn

2006-04-20T18:17:00.000-07:00

4:30 AM

Come then the morning …
for I have dreamed too long –
ingly of soft shadow –
ed memories of hope –
lessness.

Come then the morning for –
tune of faint melody too far –
gone beyond thought –
ful acts of kind –
ness.

Oh, to sleep again –
st ill heavy with pass –
ions of fine tom –
arrows seeking heart –
beat your drum.

Still my fevered mind –
ful awake –
ening line by space –
cadet refin –
ance –
were …

2006-04-20T17:28:00.000-07:00

Entry
Wind hides
and seeks out every hollow
counts crevices
tormenting through cracks

Wind whirls
the white and bitter winter
into October

Blind
hot wind of summer picks up
the field driving black
dust across the house yard
into the kitchen
into the mind

Into the mind wind
marks
off days and nights
Land burned
and scarred an angry
lonely wind
drives a continent
to the distant sea

Lady Luna

2006-04-20T15:48:00.000-07:00

Sweet Lady,
O wise Lady.
Come you down,
Come you
Down to me.
Call him to me
The one who
Forever holds my
Battered heart.

Yea though his
Armour has seen rust,
And time has
Silvered his hair.
Yet still a hero,
In both heart
And fearless deed.
The gentile parfait knight.
He who sees
With tender heart.
And never judges,
But always accepts.

May I know him?
Will he want me?
More questions
Still
Without answers.
Learning to mind not.
Celebrate the love
Regret not what
Cannot be.
Simply love him
And be glad.

My Twin Soul

2006-04-20T15:45:00.000-07:00

My Twin Soul

Sister, Sister tell me please,

Whence thy tears and heavy sighs?

What locks you away in mourning?

You know the one who loves you true.

His heart aches so for want of you.

I have known the unquiet ache within.

Waiting so long, until at last alone,

Then the tears scald down your cheeks.

I know the choking tightness of throat,

Born of holding words of love unsaid

While they beg and cry for their release.

Sister, Sister tell me please

Of the joy found in his loving caress.

Know you peace and wholeness now?

With a Dear Soulmate at thy side.

No longer are both torn in twain,

You celebrate the union with him.

Wear thy smile fearlessly, and oft,

Now you’ve much to bring happiness.

You, who is his one true love,

He who holds thy heart in tender hand

At thy side, and in thy life now.

Sister, Sister, tell me please,

Of the love that cannot be gainsaid.

something old, something new

2006-04-16T21:33:00.000-07:00

(with a slight modification from the original)
A Walking Meditation

a story for every door
opened
journeyed through
ignored
missed
slammed in my face
choice, chance, challenge, change
courage, fear, and confusion
Childhood Bedroom
"I'll be good."
Principal's Office
"you're not trying hard enough!"
First Apartment
"why did you let him in?"
Doctor's Office
"there's no cure."
Funeral Director's Office
"your mother's ashes."
Emergency Room
"she's not breathing."
Prayer
"I trust you."
Meditation
"I hear you."
I remember every door
and I weep
and I wish
I could go through every door once more
with my eyes open.

An Agoraphobic's Ill-considered Initiation

To me, trees huddle together
obscuring sunlight, providing cover
for carnivores as they sneak up on you.
Forests suck up sounds of warning,
Unwelcome words like "Wolverine!" and "Run!"
I was convinced the conifers were conspiring
to look as much alike as possible
to obliviate my sense of direction
to cause me to wander aimlessly
to die of exposure and starvation under some conspiratorial cedar.

Day one: I can do this.
Triumphantly, I set up the tent.
Patiently, he told me to take it down.
Explaining, he pointed upward
to a heavy, jagged limb
dangling, dead, ready for a strong wind
to send it crashing down,
skewering us in our defenseless slumber.
Pitching the nylon coffin in a new location,
filling me in on the otehr fifteen ways
for trees to finish me, I wept.

Day two: heading for home,
half way back to sanity, the sky blackened.
Rocking and rolling, the lake looked scared,
searching itself for a place to hide.
In horror, I pointed to the nearest shore.
To my greater horror, he replied, "Not enough trees!"
Instead, he chose a small island salvation
comprised entirely of giant, serene cedars.
Gentle dips and slopes covered so thickly with needles
they swallowed whole the wail of the wind,
softening even the sounds of my considerable panic.

Listening to less number two in Trees,
we settled our tiny tent against the side of a steep slope
where my new enemies stood branch to branch,
weaving a roof above the abode we tied to five trunks.
Standing so close, like a family enmeshed,
shutting out sunlight and warmth
in favour of secrecy and silence,
their fibers spiraled together, their roots intertwined
tightly interlocking the systems o its own family of trees,
strong enough to survive abandonment and betrayal,
poverty, death, and the illness of a beloved child.

For two stormy days we lay in the arms of our saviours.
When all was calm, when it was time to leave,
we parted ways with reticence and relief.
Every shoreline but ours was strewn with debris.

Stephanie K. Hansen 2006

No poet I am, but still, I have words to spend. You know.

Damn near fainted when the spotlight hit me. The audience was absolutely gracious. Many people came to me later, poets as well, and complimented my word-after-word play. I was asked to return next week. One man alone, an acquaintance, said, "You know...you have a soft voice and it was slightly difficult to hear you in the back of the room." I said, "Yes, but it was a bloody incredible performance for a woman who couldn't breathe!" *laughing*

You might see me around the Poetry Blog for a bit, Fran, if I decide to stretch my word wits for next week's poetry night.

Steph

Geraniums should grow in windows

2006-02-27T04:15:00.000-08:00

Geraniums should grow in windows

I did not know you then
sitting at the far end of the table
the light too bright against my eyes

You must have been the listener for you
are he who listens:
listens to the long drone of trucks
to crunch of gears

Listening much later in another month
after winter chill
or summer rain
I do not know cannot recall
the moment or the sound of your voice
only the chink of glass
your tidy toe seeking
my polished brogues
I think that day the old plane tree shimmered
against whispered air
Were the mulberries falling?

Were the mulberries falling?
Seasons confuse me here
but this is your native land
you have fixed dates:
September first is spring
you tell me—
but I am thinking April — I think you touched me
held my arm as I tried
to clamber over a rusty fence
I know we walked along the sea— you said the shore
was a better place
That puzzled me
That puzzled me for I am still confused by time
by a hot northern sun
by a profusion of house plants growing
as wild things

Geraniums should grow in windows

Autumn Scatters

2006-02-23T22:28:00.000-08:00

Time for scattering, soon,
with Autumn only days away.
Things scatter in life, memories, thoughts,
seeds, and leaves.
On the other side of the earth,
blooms will be bursting,
part of the balance of things.
The order of seeming disorder,
is magnificent,
in everything.
copyright Monika Roleff 2006.

Valentine Fitz

2006-02-14T13:18:00.000-08:00

Found Again

I walk the hush of empty rooms,
and touch the walls of lonely,
feeling there the whisper of a song --
now gone except in fancy.

You cannot ken where I will be,
not leave a conscious kiss;
but your wings will ever flutter
and caress life's emptiness --

my knowing heart
finding you again
since yesterday.

A Seed? Valentine? Muse? Creative Impotence

2006-02-12T16:27:00.000-08:00

The Mystery of Goya's Saturn

The painting known as 'Saturn Devouring One of His Sons', by Francisco Goya, presents us with a terrifying cannibal god, Kronos, whom he depicts as a wild, revolting figure, consuming his offspring. The ancient deity looks crazed, his eyes are atrocious and the painting is one of those which imprints itself on the psyche of those who examine it closely.

'Saturn Devouring One of His Sons' springing from the Kronos myth, was a part of Goya's 'Black Painting' series when Goya 'carved his fates and inscribed his nighmares directly onto plaster.'

The earliest version of the Kronos myth--Saturn is the later Roman name--was written down by Hesiod in his Theogony, around the eighth century, B.C.E.

First comes Chaos; then Earth/Gaia; Tartarus in the bowels of Earth; and finally Eros. Earth gives birth to Heaven, also known as Ouranos, and then bears twelve of his children, the last, "most terrible of sons/The crooked-scheming Kronos." Earth and Ouranos have three more sons, so fearsome and mighty that Ouranos forces them back inside their mother, burying them alive. She forms a sickle, and asks her other sons to use it against their father, "For it was he/Who first began devising shameful acts." All are afraid, except Kronos. She gives him the sickle, hides him in her, and he castrates his father, preventing him from having more children, then assumes power among the Titans. But fear lives in his heart; a usurper himself, he learns that one of his own children will usurp him, and he devours them at birth:

As each child issued from the holy womb
And lay upon its mother's knees, each one
Was seized by mighty Kronos, and gulped down.

Through a ruse by his mother, the last born, Zeus, survives, leads a war against Kronos, and casts him down to Tartarus. Even gods cannot overcome Fate.

Reviewers have asked what it was that Goya recognized in himself that charged the work with such raw, wounding power? Jason Scott Morgan, for example, alludes to the traditional father and son narrative which has been presented in, amongst other documents, the Bible.

Maybe Goya was painting this narrative but I suspect not. Before he began the Black Paintings, Goya survived a near fatal illness, documented in his Self-portrait with Dr. Arrieta. Goya depicts himself as a "pained and weary artist, surrounded by dark, phantasmal faces." It is plausible that Saturn was painted as a way to express the lonely terror of mortality. Since my husband's body has been ravaged by a third round of bowel cancer, and we have faced the lonely terror of mortality, I have every reason to think that this is likely. If I could paint I would paint Atrophe, towering like a giant, scissors in hand, tormenting us with the reality that she has the power to cut the thread at any moment. Goya's Saturn touches me deeply because it expresses shared pain and his Atropos paints the dark dreams that haunt me.

So what charged Goya's painting of Saturn? As his health declined, as he stared creative impotence in the eyes - Saturn's eyes, Atrophos's scissors his work gathered momentum and a dark force. It doesn't really matter if Goya threw away his pastels and used someone like Saturn as a metaphor to represent the terror of creative impotence. Who cares if Goya used Saturn as a metaphor to depict the 'black dog' that consumes artists offspring -- that hungrily devours work deemed, for whatever reason, not to be of any merit, not to fit the stereotypical mould. The main thing is that Goya went right outside the square and painted with force that speaks with passion today.

I imagine Goya must have smiled wryly when he realised that he had captured the demonic figure who had lived with him all his life. But most of all I am grateful that he has so powerfully captured the demon who lurks in my nightmares, for I know now that I am not alone.

Bored and Adrift

2006-02-12T03:51:00.001-08:00

This guy has been adrift, and quite bored --
waiting for a posting of words to be played with ..
seeds of inspiration

Post-it for the Devil

2006-01-14T08:51:00.000-08:00

Saboteur
Opponent
Adversary
You're a virus, dormant and waiting
Attacking at the weakest point

Dweller on the threshold
Black orb circling and darting
You torment me
Eroding my defenses
Distorting my smile

I'm mystified
Awestruck
Baffled
Impressed by your cunning ways.

I beg you-Retreat now to your hiding place
Return when I've gained strength enough
To conduct a more worthy fight

Maya

Of Tears..........

2006-01-01T15:14:00.000-08:00

When the heartbreaks
Waves of tears
Washing warm
Meandering rivulets
Down the cheek

Predestined to evaporate,
droplets briefly dampen
soft white tissue

Escaping like Houdini
from the confines of a dust bin!
Reappearing, they are mist
When the daybreaks

Woman Made of Thursdays

2005-10-22T23:53:00.000-07:00

Woman made of Thursdays
Eyes of salt and rhyme
Lips of exquisite irony
Backward heart of time
Understanding nothing
With a knowing still, sublime
Woman made of Thursdays
Eyes of salt and rhyme

Woman made of Thursdays
Formed of wax and light
Sung with smoke and mirrors
The whisperings of night
Woman made of yesterdays
The bright side of the moon
Bloomed the broken phoenix
Into ashes much too soon
Woman made of something lost
No searching circle cast
Forever lost, forever
In the labyrinth of the past
A maze of mirrors to find the moon
Ashes broken bright
Woman made of Thursdays
Formed of wax and light

©Edwina Peterson Cross

Design

2005-10-06T17:48:00.000-07:00

Chaos has its own reward
These random drops of color on the grass
form lines and blend
pattern, shaping and weaving
steps begin to flow, and, as the color melds
the old gives birth to new choreography

Following Maya's Lead

2005-09-29T14:59:00.000-07:00

Here is a sonnet from my book "IN RETREAT"

faucon

WEEDS

Of lively weeds there are varied hidden strains
That seize up in the joints of flexible life
And entwine the limbs that stride toward belief
That dreams can be reached without cloying pains.

Round and round the tendrils snake and seek to bind
The heart's resolve to balance loving and duty's
Call to job, and spirit and hunt for security's
Protection against the slow loss of peace of mind.

Memories are like burrs that lay quietly hidden
until they nestle beneath loving's patchwork quilt
and cause restless, dreadful nights and unfocused guilt
and fear that self and caring will be forbidden.

A weed is only a flower in a wheat field,
Unwanted for the fruit it does not yield.

Wild Garden

2005-09-29T12:43:00.000-07:00

Why won't my mind rest in the kindness of friends and companions who are inclined, from time to time, to give me small gifts? How about strangers that smile at me, making eye contact? That wordless connection acknowledging, "I know you....We are the same."

Instead, I obsess over cutting remarks and rude drivers, whose only offering to me that day might be a middle fingered salute.
In the restless night, I latch on to some thought that I was slighted (real or imagined) the day before. Had the "slighter" remained awake in bed regretting their wrong doings, (real or imagined)? I think not.

I'm too sensitive "they" say.
Too thin skinned. Am I?
Were I not, would I still recognize and be filled with wonderment over a particular, majestic shade of blue in the sky? The sacredness of a wood path stone?

A dandelion grows contentedly in sidewalk crack,
bursting with color and life in the un-approved zone!
I'll not pull it. For in my vision, it is a tiny, wild garden in and of itself. Untended. Beautiful.
Maya

Fresco

2005-09-07T14:55:00.000-07:00

There are two small Episcopal Chapels
in the mountains that we visited on our
honetmoon. In the early 70's, frescos were painted
on the walls, and form a special tribute
to faith and art and patience.

I do not know they are not better known,
though you may have seen pictures.

Naturally, I wrote a poem or two
about the experience.

faucon.

....................................................

FRESCO

When you might think that all is doom and done,
lost to greed and perverted use of faith;
when even sciptured attocities of old
pale in comparison with the nightly news --
then take a trip with me to artistry.

Forget your search for God in caves of steel
and words of wisdom in electron spin,
where rigid minds prey on plastic souls
taught that average is good and bland sublime,
and rightious bigotry but a duty.

Peer instead into an abandoned church
deep in the mountains of Carolina;
crafted of simple chestnut planks and shale,
yet nurturing art and passion profound
in the Frescos of Appalachia.

More than a marriage of paint and plaster,
more than a bold artist’s gifted vision --
find instead a wall of mirrored wonder
of mem’ries and spirit and creation
of basic messages of Christiandom.

A pregnant Mary ‘neith a phophet moon --
a savage Baptist stripped of all but love --
a supper scene of people more than twelve,
and Christ crossed in death and life the same
while everyman watches from churning clouds.

This art was crafted on plaster still damp --
endless work on a eternal dreams,
where dialogue was by right suspended,
and teaching was complete or not at all,
and I find Christ again in the heart of man.

Ruins

2005-09-03T15:15:00.000-07:00

The sun pounds the rocks
until they crack and the dry breeze
blows quixotic madness into their minds.
The madman laughs.
He thinks it's raining
as the sweat falls onto the sand.
His legs are too long
and drag on the ground
limply as his horse marches on.

~Anonymous Princess

Wedding Song

2005-09-02T18:12:00.000-07:00

After our ceremony at Sakin'el,
at the end of our Honeymoon --
we traveled to Raleigh, NC
for a handfasting. As part of the ceremony,
I sat on the ground holding her Celtic harp.

She sang this original song ...

faucon
.................................................................

SONG OF GWENDYDD

I will follow you into the mists of time
Where the colors brighten, where the waters flow
Past the barren entrances of Annwynn’s kind
Where naught but the blessed ones may go
And I will guide you to a place beside the sea
Beside the maidens’ standing stones, behind the oaken tree
Farther than all the oracles that haunt dreamers in their sleep
I will shield you forever and a day from a lonely destiny

Ancient promises, our vows made long ago
Before time entered the looking glass of Light
Beneath the waters, above the stars below
Beyond the golden circle of the Light
And I will hasten you to an island fair
Across the Lady’s homeland, beside the Dragon’s Lair
To the cave of crystals, surrounded by the weir
We will once again ascend the Mage’s golden stairs

I will fashion a tower of crystal glass
With portals of nine times eight strong
There we will watch others as they pass
As we hear the echoes of our betrothal song

In the Pines

2005-08-31T10:41:00.000-07:00

This is a new 'Limora Gate' story --
# 16 of a required 24 for completion.
Written on our Honeymoon while Em
practiced her harp.

The heroin is 12 years old and has two views of life;
Sally and Limora

faucon
...................................................................

STREAM

Sally knew that to walk alone in the woods was not wise, for many people had told her so. Yet she did, once again. Limora knew that it was essential to walk in the woods, and she would not choose to walk alone, if there were another who would listen. Sometimes she was lonely, but never when she was alone. Crowds of endless chatter -- people talking at each other, never hearing. Strangers calling to others by familiar names; afraid to touch, afraid to be alone -- and therefore often lonely. “If only persons were more like trees,” she mused. “Spread your branches in the sun -- shake them in the breeze -- just because you can. Drop seeds with faith that some will sprout and grow -- never seen, but never lost. Stay connected with the earth, and ...”

Sally interrupted, “They are only interested in tending weeds and stealing nuts.” She was willing to play the ‘people game’, mixing and mingling; idle chatter in phrases without subjects. Some thought her reserved and shy, but only because she bit her tongue and swallowed laughter. She listened more than spoke. Unfortunately, this attracted pesky flies of ‘good advice’, never practiced, but always with ‘good intention’. She liked those from sage authorities best. “Everyone knows.” “I once heard.” “Common knowledge.” Next on her list of hidden mirth were quotes from great authority, but never correct, and scripture citations with chanted numbers which never related to the topic of conversation at all. People were funny -- individuals were lonely. But they feared to be alone.

Limora took her turn, “They might have to talk to themselves -- what then? Worse, they might have to listen! She cringed as Aunt Beth turned up the radio so that everyone could hear, “You’ll love this song.” That is why she drew Sally to the woods. The noise there was not meant to mask or hide -- or pretend. Others spoke of the silence of the forest, and were afraid. Limora heard the songs and whispers of ferns and leaves and was never afraid of anything. Time for a walk. She would not be missed for a while.

Sally traced the main trail only until out of sight of the camp, just in case someone noticed her escape. Though it was a small kindness to think of other’s possible distress, it came naturally to her, she was little concerned that they might speak amongst themselves of the dangers lurking in the woods. She might even meet a stranger! Limora chuckled in anticipation -- an influx of a new view of the world, one that she could never know without the help of travelers. “Yes,” she cried. “Let us look for dangers here!”

There is a faint deer trail sneaking between the Dogwoods. Not much used -- it must be unimportant, of little value -- leading no where. I might get lost! Yet Limora knew that all paths cross in the forest. Sally was still less confident and whistled a bird call to linger for an hour or two to mark her passage.

Steep! Too steep for safety -- go around. Golden carpets of pine needles can slip or cover depressions and roots. Graying lichen make granite boulders perilous and might stain your cloths. A walking stick -- find a stick. Beware! It might be a snake. Limora had Sally close her eyes and reach out with her focused need. She paced to the right behind a rock protrusion and found her gift -- a perfect length of ‘strangle wood’ -- a branch broken off by a falling rock from the cliff above. Its twisted, gnarled shaft gave proof of another life -- a vine long gone that had also fought for sunlight. Sally rubbed the ends against an offered boulder to remove splinters and surrendering bark. With a new balance, Sally continued up the trail; drawing up energy from the earth. “Good job, Lord!” she sang.

The lake was no surprise. Memories of ancient Baba Yaga tales told of a troll that would drag her in. Sally laughed but stood well back from the muddy edge. The mark of beaver was everywhere. It saddened her a bit to see a whole stand of saplings chewed off at their knees. Yet, she sensed no lingering cries from the destruction -- as if the trees new they would serve a useful purpose. Partially gnawed trees whimpered in dismay, though Limora was no adept enough to know if this was from being chosen and rejected, or not being chosen at all! “The beavers are becoming too human,” she thought. “Any job worth doing is worth doing well!” She drug some stumps and rocks to the low side of some trees in faith that the beavers could continue their work. For other trees no too badly scared, she sang wordless songs -- nurturing, healing. Several animals gather about to join in the praying. An egret lifted gently from a cane break, giant wings but a sky ripple to match the echoing wave pulse tickled by dragging feet. She knew the beavers would return.

She would not have known of the stream bed beneath her feet save for the tactile crunch of hidden gravel. Only in early summer did a trickle eke its way down this shallow course, now buried in leaves and windfall branches. She followed. Down to a crack in the shale wall where it was swallowed up again to appear as if by magic in a spring below somewhere. Up between patches of dried up ferns. Up through hints of velvet moss. Up to an elfin cave behind a thorny bush. She lay on her chest to breath in the cool, most air. There was water still! And music! Tiny chimes as crystal drops rained on a hidden pool inside. Limora cupped her ears to shield out the rustle of the pines.

Ping-g-ggg. Ploink. Pledupe.

Now stream appeared at the lip -- a special balance of birth and death having been achieved in this crack -- womb and tomb the same. She reached carefully in -- barely large enough -- an adult never could. Her fingers dipped as in a font of holy water to touch three stones -- three alone, no bigger than pearls. Dare she? One by one she extracted them to lie on a leaf by her chin. She thought to take one -- but which. They seemed the same, yet cannot be, formed as there were by antiquity. She closed her eyes and listened to the thunder from the tiny cave -- a storm raging within -- her soul that is. She sensed a movement. Open! The tiniest frog imaginable had emerged from the pool’s protection. It could have been a fly had she not have been so close -- irony. Its skin slowly changed to match the color of the leaf -- then gone; only to appear again on the farthest stone.

The shadows were longer on the journey back -- the better to reveal the texture of root and stone and cones. Birds echoed back her earlier whistled markers -- the twisted staff tapping a secret rhythm. Sally and Limora were one with the absorbing silence calling out from between notes allowed most little girls. Tree bark chattered in its growth -- then paused and breathed. Cascading needles crackled whispers of fulfillment as they piled on the waiting loam -- then waited patiently in stillness. Chiding squirrels distracted from hidden seeds, then prayed over their cache in silent dreams.

“What an incredible stick -- just perfect for my collection,” shouted cousin Chad. Her special friend was snatched from her hand. “My reward for having to waste time looking for you!” No adult said a word, having worn themselves out telling Sally’s mother what they thought.

“I saved you a piece of watermelon. I knew you were all right. The others had some fun games in the meadow -- it would have been fun.”

Gradually the other kids and parents drifted back to their own camps for supper -- leaving Limora by herself -- alone; except for a tiny pebble in the pocket over her heart, and an endless symphony in her soul.

© Sakin’el 2005

Magnificent Pine

2005-08-28T19:56:00.000-07:00

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