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

home.att.net/~btlotz5/ dtp5/dtp5.html

shadow, shadow

2005-08-28T17:59:00.000-07:00

about a friend. She's more like me than I ever could have thought.

~Anonymous Princess

***

lines are nothing but lines
strung together words dripping
from aching fingertips
they break easily and clean like dawn
break down into words
little charms to hang on your
bracelette
a little reminder
something from the past
that you take
into bleached hospital rooms
and rooms empty of all but
the moth-eaten, ancient lace of curtains
and dusty sunshine

you break down
throwing rocks into a pond
screaming something about the
monster in the night
shadow, shadow
you whisper
words fading
shadow, shadow
maybe it's not your choice to make
you say as you step into the
thirsty water
maybe it's not your choice
maybe it chose you

From Honeymoon

2005-08-28T17:22:00.000-07:00

TRIPLE BREEZE

I
can
find
peace,
knowing
and being
by simply
listening to
three breezes
of evergreens...
One pulse is deep
and draws from earth
and cycled seeds of birth.
One rustles with green breath
and vibrant heart and branching,
reaching out to embrace my soul.
The last, or first perhaps, is way up
and beyond the reach of human ken ...
the whisper of spirit rain on yearning leaf,
ever
falling,
dancing,
to a song,
a praying
I can but
imagine...

Sakin'el Wedding Cake

2005-08-28T12:36:00.000-07:00

2005-08-26T01:16:00.000-07:00

Walk me away where the world turns dark
Wrap me bright in the singing of birds
Sift for me silent the spell of the lark
Tell me the meaning of words

Walk me in circles, weave me in rhyme
Wrap me still and half woken at dawn
Sift me the silver shiver of time
Tell me the meaning of gone

Walk me around the heart of the earth
Wrap me in seas that you never will cross
Sift me a dying song, backwards toward birth
Tell me the meaning of loss

Walk me and wrap me, sift me the sky
Tell me, at last, the meaning of why

~ Edwina Peterson Cross ~

Something for faucon & Emrys

2005-08-18T20:47:00.000-07:00

Something from one of my favourite poets on your wedding day.
Best Wishes
----------------------------------

On Marriage
Then Almitra spoke again and said, "And what of Marriage, master?"
And he answered saying:
You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days.
Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Love one another but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together, yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

Kahlil Gibran - The Prophet

Try Anything

2005-08-13T16:53:00.000-07:00

In an effort to keep you abreast of the ever-changing world of musicalterminology, we provide you with some terms with which you should befamiliar:

Adagio Fromaggio: To play in a slow and cheesy manner.

AnDante: A musical composition that is infernally slow.

Angus Dei: To play with a divine, beefy tone.

Anti-phonal: Referring to the prohibition of cell phones in the concerthall.

A Patella: Unaccompanied knee-slapping.

Appologgiatura: A composition, solo or instrument, you regret playing.

Approximatura: A series of notes played by a performer, not intended by the composer.

Approximento: A musical entrance that is somewhere in the vicinity of the correct pitch.

Bar Line: What musicians form after a concert.

Concerto Grossissimo: A really bad performance.

Coral Symphony: (see Beethoven-Caribbean period).

Cornetti Trombosis Disastrous: The entanglement of brass instruments that can occur when musicians exit hastily down the stage stairs

Dill Piccolino: A wind instrument that plays only sour notes.

Fermantra: A note that is held over and over and over and ...

Fermoota: A rest of indefinite length and dubious value.

Fog Hornoso: A sound that is heard when the conductor's intentions are not clear.

Frugalhorn: A sensible, inexpensive brass instrument.

Gaul Blatter: A French horn player.

Good Conductor: A person who can give an electrifying performance. or,alternative use, one who obeys the orchestra and/or chorus

Gregorian Champ: Monk who can hold a note the longest.

Kvetchendo: Gradually getting annoyingly louder.

Mallade: A romantic song that's pretty awful.

Molto bolto: Head straight for the ending.

Opera buffa: Musical stage production by nudists.

Poochini Musical: performance, accompanied by a dog.

Pre-Classical Conservatism: School of thought which fostered the idea,"if it ain't baroque, don't fix it."

Spritzicato: Plucking of a stringed instrument to produce a bright,bubbly sound, usually accompanied by sparkling water with lemon(wine optional).

Tempo Tantrumo: When a young band refuses to keep time with the conductor.

Tincanabulation: The annoying or irritating sounds made by extremely cheap bells.

Vesuvioso: A gradual buildup to a fiery conclusion.

ZZZfortzando: Playing REALLY loud in order to wake up the audience.

faucon

Wedding Thoughts

2005-08-09T08:41:00.000-07:00

In the midst of preparation for my wedding
I have scanned my archives for pieces written about weddings.
Most are about an 'invitation to a wedding'
related to the concept of community joining
rather than individuals. Em writes songs to play at weddings;
so I have not been drawn to this before.

I do have one story about a wedding, though --
and quite different too,

enjoy

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

Blood Quest

He was her father’s age and that would never change; and they had been brothers in arms and comrades of drink and sword and song. It was he who carried back the bloodied armor while the falcon circled overhead. It was he who took the grieving Aldaisa and the swaddled Braides back to the castle of his Lord, and rode his charging steed no more. He was Chandar, Knight of the Duuran and called to field and valor – but he stayed with the child, as would you by right.

His lance became a walking staff and his helm a cooking pot; his shield a fur lines cradle and his sword a guiding cross. His cloak draped long to mask a limp and the hood shadowed vicious scars; and haunting eyes of golden fleck and a dimple when he smiled. Then the mother’s tears crashed to the rocks beneath the parapets and they carried on alone – the guardian in black and the girl in white, both with a mem’ry’s scarlet sash. With a legacy secure in future years as heir to land and sky, she had much need for courage and arm to protect from feckless greed. But she never knew that he was but a friend – a playmate at her side; the strangest pairing you’d ever see of strength and innocence.

She ringed his neck with flower chains and they tumbled in the grass, and pranced ‘cross rocks in laughing streams and caught moonbeams in wooden cups. She grew wise with ancient stories told round pulsing twilight fires, and gentle of heart and spirit ‘neath his ever watching calm. He held her high on his shoulders to claim apples from the clouds, and watched her blossom to womanhood, an Aldaisa yet reborn. He became known as the Knight of Butterflies and the Champion of Thistledown, but he took their jibes in silence and she never knew of pain. And legend held strong, backed by ready staff, for all knew he was forever, of the dread Duuran. “Too bad he knows no love,” they said, “as a girl needs a woman’s hand.” Yet he defied both Bishop and Prince and walked this road alone, though some sensed tears within the songs he sang at every dawn – tiny hand in gnarled fist.

At her wedding she graced her mother, or so the crones did say; and pined that her father was not near to give her hand away. And Chandar just stood in the shadows, his quest fulfilled and done; then he kissed her once and walked away, into the setting sun. For it was mem’ries honor he forbear that day and on –
that she would never know …
from whence were gifts of dimples
and gold flecked loving eyes.

The Desert is...

2005-08-08T09:53:00.000-07:00

Dome and pillared rocks
thrusting from Earth's naked belly.
Scrubby shrubs asking nothing
but a piece of stony ground.
Life that requires precious little,
gives nothing,
shares less,
except to give us pause to wonder
about a place
where survival is little more than risk.
Tiny drops of precious water
'neath seamless sky burning hot,
except when thunder heads
raise their glorious anvil towers.
Saguaros tall and battered,
ugly, but resilient.
Utilitarian life that asks no quarter
but survives in hostile places.
Melodious wrens at home midst
spiny cacti, yucca, and mesquite.
Canyons cutting deep,
revealing what has gone before.
Arches so impressive that we stand in awe.

Traces of people long since gone,
proving that man has not domain
in arid places where life is sparse.
Ruins high above the desert floor.
Black holes in walls of stone,
windows to the past.
Ghostly eyes watching
as we disturb what's left,
as we move without respect
bones that were once hidden
'neath muscle, blood, and skin.
Bones that once supported
a beating heart with lungs
that breathed fresh desert air--
a frame that once contained a soul.
Shards and kivas, alone, left to bake
in the unrelenting sun.

Dark winds, Sons of light.
Daughters of the desert.
Despite its hardships
this arid place tugs the soul
as it shares the basics
like a skeleton revealed.
Is there a place
closer to the Gods than this?
I think not.

Vi
©August 2005

Just Fun

2005-08-08T02:30:00.000-07:00

FUNNY THING!

Every path, beyond distinction,
of enlightenment or growth of spirit,
touches on simplicity of thought,
and often action –
and communication --
with the Divine.

A ‘return to innocence’
has a universal call of heart
that caresses the soul --
and breaths peace o’re troubled minds.

A Christian view most certainly
would enjoin we be as children
within the embrace of Lord and all;
and any sense of Covenant with Nature
must hold rebirth as essential.

We may ask then of the children –
what gives them special providence
and claim on oneness with the Source?
I will propose the essence and key
is that of ‘fun’ and nothing more.

We tell our children early on,
“Don’t pester me – go have fun,”
then later convince them
that simple joys are wasteful,
sinful and unworthy of those
planning on ‘getting ahead’.

By the time we get serious
about being less serious –
realizing what is important –
we have forgotten how to have fun,
and even how to laugh at sunrise,
and dance with butterflies,
and sing with thistledown.

It really is a choice, you know –
about having fun, I mean;
and I will grant you three wishes,
or options at any rate:

As you approach adulthood (abandon innocence) –

Only pursue work and hobbies pre-defined as ‘fun’.
Find ways to make your work and life ‘fun’,
including laughing at yourself and adversity.
Define everything that you do as ‘fun’;
worthy of laughter
bound in awe and wonder
a chance for sharing joy and love.

In any case, embrace a simple rule –

Anything done alone is never fun,
while everything shared with another
is profoundly fun,
if done in selflessness.
The tools are your open hands,
the song is laughter,
the game is life itself.

faucon

The Strangers Head

2005-08-07T03:17:00.000-07:00

Part I

The night was dark and dreary
I was feeling kind of weary
The light of the moon
Lit up the room
Like a spot light
In the dark of night
I abandoned my loom
Sensing impending doom
I moved to the window
Brushing the hair from my brow
I looked out into the night
What I saw gave me quite a fright
Standing on the ground below
Staring up at my window
Was a headless man
His head in his hand
I tried to hide my face
Behind the curtain lace
It was then he spoke to me
“Don’t be afraid lady
I come for your help
To reattach my scalp
You see it was said
That you go late to bed
And you were my best bet
To reattach my head.”

Part II

I pondered the strangers request
All the town can attest
I am the woman most prepared
To reattach the strangers head
I went and met him at the door
He looked like he belonged in folklore
I invited him in
Wherein
I led him to my sewing room
And lit some candles against the gloom
I got some water
And suggested a doctor
Might yield a greater effect
He said “I must protect
the secrets of my people.”
This caused my mind to boggle
What had I let myself into
Looking at the sinew
That protruded from his neck
First I had to check
That I had the correct tools
I gathered some spools
Of thread and my needles
And prayed to my angels
That my stitching tonight
Would be more than alright.

Part III

I bathed the wound
Which made him swoon
I threaded the needle
And with a bit of fiddle
His head upon his neck was placed
There we stood face to face
Starting to stitch
Using a topstitch
Trying to keep my stitches quite small
I tried to recall
A time
That stitching of mine
Held so much importance
I wondered what instance
Had befallen this man
From which unknown clan
Did he belong
Whose song
Did he sing
What secret did he bring
The stranger dressed in capes of black
I pulled the slack
From the thread
As I attempted to reattach his head.

Part IV

The night was growing long
The stitching only half done
It was then the stranger spoke
He was a most mysterious bloke
He spoke in riddle
Of which I understood little
I kept on with my stitching
I looked forward to finishing
It was then he told a tale of woe
That sounded rather like Poe
The wind outside was howling
I could hear a cat meowing
Suddenly the window blew open
And in from the dark blew a raven
Landing on the loom
In the corner of the room
I felt quite frightened
Wondering when this nightmare might end

Part V

I continued stitch by stitch
Trying not to twitch
With the raven watching over
My shoulder
It was nearing dawn
When the stitching was done
Little had been said
While I reattached the strangers head
The stranger reached into his pocket
And pulled out a velvet
Pouch
While I settled on the couch
He handed me the bag of gold
Saying it was very old
Thanking me for my kindness
And my stitching quite painless
Then he was gone
Into the rising dawn
The raven on his shoulder

Part VI

I woke at noon
In my sewing room
I thought it but a dream
So it might seem
Upon the loom a ravens feather
And a bag of gold from the stranger.

© Megan Warren August 2005

Earth, Sky and Space

2005-08-06T16:48:00.000-07:00

I called you Agni, god of fire
Agni Devta, clear and just
I lay my heart upon your altar
With simple, artless
Trust

I called you Agni, god of fire
As lightflash through the storm is thrust
I lay my heart upon your altar
Where the stars told me I
Must

I called you Agni, god of fire
A smoldering, sky flaming lust
I lay my heart upon your altar
Ashes, ashes
Dust

Agni was one of three great gods in the Rig Veda and was also worshiped by the Persians until the time of Zoroaster. His personification of fire made him the center of the ancient Vedic worship. Agni took three forms: celestial as the sun, atmospheric as lightening, and terrestrial as fire. He is all that burns: sun, heat, stomach, lust, and passion. His three spheres are the Earth, Sky, and Space, the worlds respective of men, spirits, and deities. He is priest of the gods and the god of priests, and serves as liaison between gods and men. His fire altar was oriented toward the East, the direction of the sunrise, the ever-new beginning.

The last stanza of this poem was written when I was in college; actually, it was written on the fly leaf of my Lit to 1650 text book, where it is still. I added the first two stanzas in 2003 upon studying more about the three incarnations of Agni.

Yellow Wave

2005-08-05T17:55:00.000-07:00

Something from Samuel Taylor Coleridge, whose works can be explored through Google search (there are many complete writings available for thought...):

"Green Leaves, and blossoms,

And warm sunny weather,

And singing and loving -

All come back together."

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. (18th Century Poet.)

Memory

2005-08-05T13:49:00.000-07:00

I wonder at times
About the blessing or curse
Of memory
Selectively piercing, it gifts me
Vastly varied strings of jewels
Which glisten from absolute emptiness
To something vague, shimmering and hollow
Behind which I know there is content, but cannot see or feel it
Through bits of beautiful, broken mosaic that won’t form a picture
All the way to the bright, incisive bite of recalling and reliving
Every word, every expression
And the entire, enveloping veracity of every feeling
That coated my throat, quickened my blood, sang beneath my ears

I remember
Holding a daisy in the tips of my fingers
Pulling the petals with a soft, satisfying tug
“He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.”
Warmth, a bright yellow fire, surged
Through my chest, down the insides my arms
Curving my backbone, all the way to my bare toes in the cool grass
Behind my forehead a huge, smooth expanse of quiet joy
The color of candle-lit alabaster
If they had turned me inside out
I would have bled light

I remember

©Edwina Peterson Cross

Missing the Pacific

2005-08-05T07:00:00.000-07:00

Surf

I do not know much of the sea,
except for crashing exuberance
on the Oregon silent coast,
and walks on the gentle waters
where the stream meets foaming surf.

There is a draw to the dangerous,
roiling, churning, hungry waves,
but I do not full understand.
I stand and say. No! Please hear my stand.
Is there naught to my singing voice?

You may shriek with the dread awesome
power of the Tengri nature's force.
Attack with loneliness and despair.
Call on my trembling empty loins.
Is my plea only to the suffering?

Yet, I will stand against my ground
and defend my chance worthless life,
for it is mine -- yes mine alone,
and God and I will measure its worth,
and I will sing in the morning sun.

Double Haiku - My Scarf Made By Megan

2005-08-04T03:23:00.000-07:00

Birds must have dreamed it
For it seemed not made by hands
Swirling, soft, scarlet

Delicate feathers
Song of ruby ‘round my throat
I am clothed in wings

Moments

2005-08-03T01:15:00.000-07:00

Moments . . .
Happenings plucked from the swirl of time
Circumstance suspended
Like blown glass on fine filament wire
Caught by the sun
Spilling rainbows of reality
Flash of forever

In the window of a Parisian hotel
Sipping bottled water
Amy watches the morning . . .
The green streetcleaner
The man in his matching uniform
Cleaning the already neat streets
People walking hand in hand,
Two friends meeting
Exchanging a kiss on both cheeks
In the window of a Parisian hotel
Sipping bottled water
Amy for eternity

Caught in crystal
Blood and bone
Of being
Life

Is made of
Moments

©Edwina Peterson Cross
~ For Amy Caroline Velho ~

Tangled

2005-08-02T08:22:00.000-07:00

I wrote this in response to a news report this evening, about a whale and her newborn calf. The calf became entangled in a shark net and died before rescuers could free it.

Grieving mother
distressed
flailing
watching over
her newborn
gone from
this world
tangled in a
shark net

Medusa Challenged

2005-08-02T07:54:00.000-07:00

I give you Tegsh
the mistress of our home,
who entices all who come here
that they ask, "what is her name?"
Coming here, they do not turn to stone,
but extend an open hand ...

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

Sakin’el Hush

And the Bard sang by the fire bright …

“If you will do this in trust and love
then Sakin'el will live anew,
and at each splendid sunset kiss
you will hear the faint 'Silent Breeze'
of ever profound inner peace.”

“but what will I hear,” asked the maiden faire,
with teasing eyes and coquettish aire?

“draw close to the flowers with petaled dew
and look at the reflection there,
while gentle bees caress the wind
and hum of sweet nectared dreams
soon lost to age and vanity.”

“how loud is the sound,” mused the withered crone,
with vacant eyes who slept alone?

“the trees will thunder and the stones will shout
if you stand as one ‘pon the path;
while holding hands can mute the din
and change the music to quiet song
best heard from the lips of a friend.”

“do they tell stories,” requested the youth
with wand’ring spirit searching truth?

“brave soldiers on horseback beat steady drums
and dragons breathe through piercing flutes
and Viking ships sound a longing horn,
calling to arms companions true
to follow a quest most daring.”

“are they ever hushed,” sighed the tonsured priest
whose fervant prayers never ceased.

“if one can be silent they sing the same
and echo spirit’s harmony
to a song of Light and knowing,
where heart strings are plucked
by an angelic choir in love.”

“can I sing along,” laughed the little elf
with innocent mirth beside himself.

“if you sing ‘belong’ and soon join right in
and dance a lick and whistle now,
then birds chirp in and clouds applaud
the music of humanity,
gifted by the morning dawn.”

“can I then just sit and watch,” cried the child
with remembered touch beguiled.”

“to live life is to surly embrace life
and conduct an orchestra grand,
where you will coax your soul to sing
and blend with whispers of Tegsh
as she accomp’nies even me.”

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

faucon

Medusa

2005-08-02T07:19:00.000-07:00

Oh priestess
hiding behind
the mask
of the
goddess
mortal woman
Athena transformed
into a
gorgon
golden winged
with lizard scales
and hair
of vipers
blood spilt
sends forth
snakes
to every
corner of
the earth
one look
upon your
face turns
a man
to stone.

© Megan Warren 2/08/2005

Eternity

2005-08-02T06:06:00.000-07:00

Understanding forever
is the wonder of endless constellations,
the quiet moon
chilly and alone
in the darkness
watching small stars
while incredible and amazing
cross my mind.

(c)--Christina Cowling

Fragile Things

2005-08-01T20:49:00.000-07:00

"Don't step on the glass," mother said
Like the rusted sky was falling
Or papa was dying again.
Things are always breaking

Like waves on a rocky shore. We never get a break from the tears.
Mother's always crying
And even though I've gathered sandbags for years
I still feel the water rising.

Papa said there was a god,
He said I should believe. "Mercy on us," he whispered.
Then he was gone, to rot,
In the ground. Mother was left to wither,

Like a white flower on his grave. "Mercy on us," she said,
"The sky is crashing down again."

~Anonymous Princess

game boy

2005-07-31T17:24:00.000-07:00

Had they taught
your spirit how
to dance -
you would not need
to hide among the
shadows.
Peace, now.

Fuss

2005-07-31T16:54:00.000-07:00

This very day
rare moments have gathered
closely around me
like the heat wave.

Too shocked to observe them
in their activity
I now comtemplate
their aftermath.

Bu who am I to say
what follows startling moments
I have not created
to make my hours anxious?

(c)--Christina Cowling

Spanish Dancer

2005-07-31T08:28:00.000-07:00

Earlier posts of Duenda,
and later mention of swirling skirts,
flashing eyes and passion caused me
to search for this -- took a bit of time ...

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

SPANISH DANCER
Rainer Maria Rilke

As on all sides a kitchen-match
darts white flickering tongues
before it bursts into flame:
with the audience around her,
quickened, hot,
her dance begins to flicker in the dark room.

and all at once it is completely fire!

One upward glance and she ignites her hair
and, whirling faster and faster,
fans her dress into passionate flames,
till it becomes a furnace from which,
like startled rattlesnakes,
the long naked armes uncoil,
aroused and clicking.

and then: as if the fire
were too tight around her belly,
she takes and flings it out haughtily,
with an imperious gesture,
and watches;
it lies raging on the floor, still blazes up,
and the flames refuse to die --
till, moving with a total confidence
and sweet exultant smile,
she looks up finally
and stamps it out with powerful small feet.

(from German)

Bluff's Powder

2005-07-30T10:31:00.000-07:00

From my work in process "Soulground For Women"

Manufactured by Bluff
she covers her face
with a thick powder
but in a magnified mirror
the cracks can always
be seen.

(c)--Christina Cowling

2005-07-30T05:45:00.000-07:00

The Midnight Sun

2005-07-30T05:42:00.000-07:00

Haiku From The Top Of Deck Ten

Dome of day-lit blue
Horizon laced with scarlet fire
Comes the Midnight Sun

Sky burns with sunset
Three hours waiting for midnight
A wet moon rises

The sky at midnight
Is lit with coral and pearls
The roof of the world

I hear them calling
Through time and the deep Northern sky
Great Gods of the past

She rises shadowed
In veils of amber and pearl
Wet moon from the sea

Incandescent West
The Midnight Sun still paints they sky
Sea gives birth to moon

Alabaster moon
Scattering a trail of stars
In the midnight sea

Woven in the West
Sun still simmers the midnight sky
Wet moon rises East

Midnight Western sun
The nightwalking moon rises full
a gift from the sea

West blazes midnight
East gifts the sky with marble moon
Silence sings between

Haiku From the Edge of Exhaustion

The last time I slept . . .
I cannot even remember
The last time I slept

From the East, far North
Today I have chased the swift sun
Half way ‘round the world

Study in pastels
Sunset over the Great Salt Lake
Sink me in the sun

West into fire
Coming home from the Midnight Sun
On wings of white light

All the world’s beauty
Is wrapped in this final soft light
The green hills of home

2005-07-30T05:41:00.000-07:00

Mount Ashland, Oregon - Looking toward Mount Shasta

2005-07-30T05:39:00.000-07:00

Ingunn Ådland: Pianist At Troldhaugen

Her dancers hands
Elate and rise
Singing spellbound with his breath
Shaping his lovely, lyric dreams
Into sweet, soaring sound

Ascended from this altar
Of ivory and ebony
She strikes with the strength of sun on stone
Crashing like crystal cascades
Melting like the midnight mist
From her flying, fluent fingers
Norway comes
Dancing

As the music ends . . .
Her hands lift full
Holding secret silence

©Edwina Peterson Cross

2005-07-30T05:38:00.000-07:00

Piano Concert at Troldhaugen

2005-07-30T05:37:00.000-07:00

Waterfall at Geiranger Fjord

2005-07-30T05:36:00.000-07:00

Don’t count to quickly who will be gone
Who should be fated, or lost
Deep are the darkening Skandic seas
Loath to be patterned or crossed
What calls from the depth of darkness
Is not always fragile or fault
These bones are formed out of mountains
This blood is anointed with salt
Assume what is there unspoken
Suppose that feeling means frail
That which will bend won’t be broken
A flower can drive in a nail

2005-07-30T05:34:00.001-07:00

Sailing from Geiranger

I.

It is true
The Midnight Sun
Twilight spun of cloud and pearl
A silence of light

Below the fjord slips away
Dark liquid jewels
Hushed and glistening
Black blood sprung from
Norway’s bones
Vast bones risen massive from the mist
Grey with time
Green with forever
Wreathed with whispers of white wind
Breathing a mystery

II.

Down from the path of eagles
Where the seven sisters fall
Thin white veils on the mountains
Great green and granite wall
Down from the cusps of heaven
Down a threading rock stair
Down past diamond falls dancing
Down through the whipping white air
Down to dark dreaming water
Bay carved of winter’s ice art
We sailed on a breath of wonder
Straight out of Norway’s heart

And here in the midnight twilight
Here where the mists rise and fall
Laced through these mountains of magic
I hear their echoing call
I hear their names on the white wind
Their songs in the bright crystal falls
I feel the power of their mystery
Throbbing from towering green walls
Back in the deepening shadows
Of transcendent towering rills
The ancient Gods of the Northland
Still walk these enchanted green hills

III.

When the midnight sun has finally set
Just before the dawn
I throw a glimmering libation
To Gods who are hushed, not gone
An entire bottle of sparkling champagne
Into the dark crashing waves
To the memory of names of power
That echo through green mountain caves
Odin! I cry to the white wind
Into the dark, glacial sky
This for your knowledge and wisdom
What you see with your piercing blind eye
My ancestors spilled wine and called you
From longboats skimming these waters
Catch one more cry on the ice wind
From the last of the Vikings daughters
Come from a young land of promise
To the ancient land of my blood
I call once more and leave this gift
Here in the primordial flood

(And there in the tops of the mountains
Where the white falling waters flow
I whispered the name of Skadi
Into the deep Skandic snow)

2005-07-30T05:34:00.000-07:00

Sailing from Geiranger

Created A Woman

2005-07-29T10:05:00.000-07:00

Sanctioned by the sun
she acknowledges
hours reserved
to rejoice or to mourn.

Called by the sparrows
she mends broken wings
and offers flight
in new directions.

Busy like the bees
she hums lullabies
as she gathers honey
for her family.

Led to weeping willows
she touches blue tears
and blows them away
with her kisses.

Caressed by the divine
whether with or without child
she has been given
a mother-heart.

(c)--Christina Cowling

Please, Don't Walk Upon the Grass

2005-07-29T08:17:00.000-07:00

A weed struggles to thrive amidst the trash,
reaching through a veil of smog,
searching for its share of that little bit of sun.
Nature, though feeble, is fighting back.
Please, don't walk upon the grass.

High above, upon an artificial ledge,
reflected in the glass, a hawk surveys unlikely territory.
Has he lost his way?
What prey is his to take here, in this concrete jungle?
Will his yellow eyes see only human ants,
traffic scurrying about,
prey too big to grasp within his talons.
Ah, but if he's lucky, a mouse perhaps
will catch his eye as he soars above the city park.
Please, don't walk upon the grass.

The park, the closest thing to Nature hereabouts,
yet so manicured,
with benches for the elderly to rest
beside a man-made pond.
The geese, majestic, but spoiled by human scraps.
I see one, a sickly bird
with discarded plastic wrapped around his neck,
trash tossed away by some uncaring passerby.
Please, don't walk upon the grass.

Migrating birds in a city parks, or those in residence,
they say, are messy.
They defecate upon the grass,
an act that labels them a nuisance.
What can the city fathers do?
Remove the geese …
diaper the ducks.
Please, don't walk upon the grass.

We have strayed so far from our earthly home
that we know not how to act.
We are afraid to feel the Earth, unimpeded,
beneath our feet … to know her warmth
like a baby knows its mother.
Please, don't walk upon the grass.

Feral cats, stray dogs, and rats.
Drug crazed killers on the loose.
Mothers battered,
babies lost, abandoned, shot.
Fathers gone, not caring.
We need our Mother's breast to suckle
so that we can feel and be again,
know the touch of grass beneath our feet,
smell the green, see blue
and, at night, the stars.
Please, do walk upon the grass.
We need to walk upon the grass.
We have to walk upon the grass.

Vi
© July 29, 2005

Different Perspective

2005-07-28T03:24:00.000-07:00

RIFT

The climb up the ravine was difficult enough without the lantern. Yet Daron did not complain, nor doubt. The crone’s strange legend had proved true thus far, and faith is not served by distrust at the crest of completion. Somehow the added weight on his back balanced his careful stretch across the chimney of granite. Each breathless swing from hold to grasp was guided by knowledge beyond faith. There was a secret way in -- the amulet would be delivered in time -- his quest and pledge fulfilled. His left foot was secure in the chistled slot. His fingers curled confidently within the angled crack, finding there a matching unnatural cleft. As he whispered the chant his right toes counted knots bound along his calf to guage the leap. His secure support almost spat him out as he pushed away from the frozen wall -- reaching with pointed toes in the darkness. As his yearning foot entered the new tiny haven in the other cliff wall he pressed upwards -- his left fingers leaving the cleft behind. For an instant he was flying -- no fragile flesh in contact with the stone -- his right fingers slicing like a dagger into the hidden crack above. Yes! For an hour it had been so. Even if the sun had been high above the hidden holds would have passed unnoticed, carved to match the natural rills. So deep and narrow was this defile that part was always in black shadow. At this hour before dawn not even stars could be seen above -- and none would have assisted for Daron’s eyes where wrapped in silk. If he had seen where he had to go he never would have started. If he understood where he had been fear would have gripped his soul. Again! A new measured height and plan -- chant ,chant. He became the star -- a five pointed shape in an abyss of lonely flight. No man should have to climb in this way -- by faith alone. None did. Daron was but eleven years old -- at least before this night. This night he was a man.

The castle was impregnable -- and it had always been so. The Duke was arrogant -- and it had always been so. His greed and pride blinded all reason and compassion, and this too was accepted. It would change with the sunrise. The silver medalian would change all that. Daron did understand how this could be or of what power it held -- no matter. There was no wizard waiting there at the portal --- just another child as he -- one who knew where the disk must be placed -- or so he had been told!

He lay on his stomach now -- another hour passed -- another yard or two across the glacice. The patterned cloth on his back matched the blocks of stone. His movements were catlike and ever slow. It may not have mattered. The blazing fires on the parapets above were blinding in intensity, reflected from gigantic disks of bronze to probe every hidding spot or corner of the walls. His eye covering that had protected his fear now saved him from searing blindness. Yet soon he had to see -- to find the hole in the wall in a sea of pristine glaring white. He rested against the towering wall, knowing that he could not be seen from above. The assembled lantern also would appear only as another stone. Not that more light was needed. Daron opened the hinged door with silent care and reached within to find the candle wick -- and at last he understood!

All his life Daron had looked at lanterns as a source of light, a tool to fight off the darkness. He had never consider how the flickering tongue of flame was only possible because of the protecting shelter of the frame and mesh. While a little essential light crept out in a patterned beam, the lantern itself kept away all distracting glare and distracting beeze. He had once laughed at his reflection in the shining brass, possible only in the special sheltered view, even at the height of day. The lantern held nothing -- nothing at all! The boy would have to provide the flame. His own eyes would be the light! This lantern would cast a shadow that he could see!

His slender face fit easily within the metal frame and allowed the silken scarf to shift aside. The narrrow slits let in only filtered glare from the polished wall, but even then Daron had to squint and pan the stones in little sweeps of wonder. He found the hole where one had not been before, just large enough for his bundled fist. It was enough! His arm stretched into this well to above the elbo before he felt a brush of warmth -- a tiny kiss! His fingers opened and dropped the necklace and a tiny hand clasped his -- pressing briefly -- gone. It was done!

Daron could scarcely sleep bundled under his patterned cloak -- but did, for a day or more. He did not struggle against the arms that picked him up and carried him home. But he awoke to laughter -- and that is all that mattered.

faucon

Orpheus

2005-07-27T17:32:00.000-07:00

Orpheus,
play your music,
engage the senses,
drawn down love,
move the stones.
copyright Monika Roleff 2005.

Pirene Fountain

2005-07-27T07:47:00.000-07:00

Pirene
of Corinth
daughter of Asopus
weep for your son
Cenchrius
dead at Artemis hand
tears well up
and spring forth

Pirene fountain
sacred to the muses
healing waters
spring from the tears
of a grieving mother

Misplaced

2005-07-26T18:39:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I misplace/file a poem
and find it only years later ...
there must be reason to have found
this one right now --

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

Spin

It was impossible to discern
whether the action was a chance caress

of art and human spirit,
or the culmination of eons of practiced form.
Such is life.
The coin snapped up -- up -- out -- away. A gift? A prayer?
Spinning -- churning -- yearning.
By necessity, the man's palm followed -- open
fingers extended in a conductor's grace.

Last coin or first?
Flashing silver proceeds absorbing dark;
two faces wink in ever changing pace.
Janus dies and lives.
Look ever forward my love and dream.
Look within and learn -- spin larger dreams.
Only a little while -- a breath's eternity --
fall -- fall to the bitter earth

Plink!
The coin scarcely breaks the pulsing
surface of the pool of cycled tears.
Ah yes -- a wish….
..................................

Rested

2005-07-26T10:00:00.000-07:00

Triumphant I awaken
from a cherished sleep
to light weighted
on my eyes.

(c)--Christina Cowling

Papa

2005-07-25T15:26:00.000-07:00

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.

From before I can remember
you have been a part of my life
so I guess I presumed you always would be.
And now, when I discover this is no longer so
I find myself grasping for some remnant
some small thing to keep you near me a little longer
because I am scared of losing a constant from my life.

I unconsciously passed up all the opportunities I had
to ask you all the questions I wanted to ask
and say the things I wanted to say
because I always took your presence in my life for granted.
Isn’t it strange,
How even when we realise what we take for granted
it is virtually impossible to act on
that awareness in the present?
It seems we can only conjure up those opportunities
as past tense.
Imagined regrets.

I was shocked to look at you one day
and see a frail and withering old man.
When did this happen?
Perhaps if I had payed more attention
I would have noticed the gradual change.
The steady decline.
Or perhaps I did notice
but refused to acknowledge even the possibility
of the inevitable.
That this world had taken it’s toll on you.
That you’d given this life, and me, all you were capable of.
That you were tired.
Tired of struggling.
Tired of fighting.
Tired of simply existing being such an effort.
I still don’t understand how you took it all so passively
and simply accepted what came with resignation.
But then,
I guess my youth sees the world for it’s possibilities
and your experience saw it as it really is.

I know I neglected to show you how much I love you.
I guess I always assumed you knew.
Assumptions are dangerous things, aren’t they?
I hope more than anything there was never any doubt in your heart.

I’ve always thought of you
in relation to the role you have played in my life.
Not as a whole person
who has lived and laughed and cried and loved.
I realise now that I didn’t really know you.
That there were so many other roles you played
and parts of you I never knew about.
And while I regret that my perception of you
was only partial,
I appreciate that I was allowed to know you
completely, unconditionally
and free of judgement
in that role you played in my life
and the lingering imprint that will leave.

I want to say thank-you
for all the things you have ever done for me.
I want to say sorry
for the things I didn’t do,
and some things I did.
I want to tell you how much I admire you
and how much impact you have had on me.
On the parts of me that are so precious
and so personal
I find it hard to compromise them and make them known
for fear they will somehow be marred or affected
by the world outside of my core.
I want you to know that your very existence
reached into me this far
to influence the person I have become
and the person I want to be.And I want you to know how very grateful I am for this

Two Poems

2005-07-25T09:55:00.000-07:00

Two poems from the book I'm working on--Soulground For Women.

Daughters

A reputable man's daughter
finds comfort in her skin
and rallies around her brothers
in the battlefields.

A hooligan's daughter
fears her beauty
and believes she is less
than her brothers
dressed in bombs.

The second poem is inspired by lisa's work.

Older Hearts

She nurses her desire
to return to him
not a fightened woman-child
but to offer him an older heart
only if his
has matured too.

(c)--Christina Cowling

Golden Grove

2005-07-25T07:22:00.000-07:00

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 II

2005-07-25T05:55:00.000-07:00

Salt Doll visits the usual places
Sand and sea and wind and surf
Inspiration leaves no traces
A foreigner on once familiar turf

Slingshot pellets-neurons fire
mudgems soothing 'tween her toes
The choice to wallow in muck n' mire
That decision is hers- and hers alone

The Doll did venture to the shoreline
Not quite prepared to dissipate
However, she knows not the day nor time
and though embracing Now.... She waits.

2005-07-24T23:06:00.000-07:00

For the past year
I've carried this burden.
Held this grudge close
like the lover it's replaced
the friend that's been lost.
So long I forgot it's weight
forgot even I carried it
until I saw you again.
Felt that familiar pang.
What happened to you?
what happened to me?
I don't recognise either of us
and I don't know if I'm brave enough to forgive you
because that means asking you to forgive me.
I've got to be tentative.
I don't know what to say.
I've got to listen to my soul
I've got to find a way
back to you.
Can "I'm sorry" mean a thing
in spite of all the damage I've done?
Can I summon the courage
to say it?

Lisa

A Secretive Woman

2005-07-24T16:06:00.000-07:00

Presumed innocent
she hides
beneath white sheets
behind drawn curtains
in the motel room.

Exhausted by promise
she waits
to be discovered.
If not by the world
by him.

Then wonders
if she were his vow
would she be forthcoming
or still
the other woman?

(c)--Christina Cowling

Deeper Faith

2005-07-24T04:19:00.000-07:00

STICKS

Even thrust deep in the sand for stability, the staff rose five and a half feet above the smooth, multi-colored pebbles. Gordon rolled one of the small stones around his mouth to help slake the thirst that would come from the afternoon sun. He knew, of course, that it would be prudent to seek some small shade and simply sit until nightfall, but his mission required visibility. A hidden monk may be a safe monk, but accomplished little! The slotted cross on the top of the staff served as a suitable hanger for the long white robe, the brown edging and piping blending effectively with the mesquite and rabbit brush. The artificial tree cast a conical shadow on the burning drift, a safe haven for pack, boots and beads. Food! He would have to find food. Later! His sun bronzed form cleaved the surface of the pool in a dive defined more by yearning than practice. He drank. He rejoiced! The spring that gave birth to the twenty foot pond spoke of the mysterious underground river far beneath, whose life-sustaining force filled the basin two days each month, then retreated until the Goddess guided moon coaxed the spring into life once again. The pool appeared on no map but was well known in legend by the tonsured pilgrims. It took a special leap of faith to walk 60 miles to an empty hole in the ground. It required only awe and a pounding heart to watch the miracle of birth -- rebirth -- of the soothing waters. A primeval lust had stripped the clothes from his corpulent frame. Training and discipline had brought him to his knees in payer for this special gift. It began, "Good job Lord..."

"The ducks knew about the water too-- probably calculated their departure from Canada to arrive here today. Gene algebra -- or a little nudge from Him?" chuckled the gristled priest. "Maybe they're the same thing!" Dinner! The pond was still -- waiting; his snare just beneath its glistening surface. It had only taken minutes to whittle the thorn gaff hook and braid the line from the inner bark of the swaying willows. The rock anchor had been selected for its beauty as well as weight, a nice addition to the pool, blending well with the others showing through the crystal depths. The bait and hook, drawn by the stone to six inches below the surface, would insure that the unsuspecting duck would never return to the surface. Now -- to bring them down.

The contents of the pack were laid out in neat piles, each essential, each selected to work in harmony and efficiency with the others. The ritual of unpacking was as orchestrated as the packing, each item fitting into a pre-planned space, following a custom that was centuries old, developed through expediency in the rugged hills of 16th century Spain. Gordon picked up the two plain sticks from the center of the array, then replaced them as he considered the length of the shadow projected from the staff towering behind him. He glanced at his compass and performed a quick mental calculation involving longitude, rear-azimuth and magnetic offset. The small stones he set out would now mark off the hours, the larger ones indicating the Masses he would say while waiting for James to arrive. The thought of a long, sweet night ahead beckoned. "Oh night that guided me, oh, night more lovely that the dawn," he chanted to the winds. "No need for concealment here, but my house is at rest." The sticks were once more in his hands; and the tactile stimulus of the edge notches took him back -- back.

He had studied the bush for several hours, praying, planning, deciding. Mountain mahogany -- a tree actually -- useless to the practical world, and cursed by many 4 wheel drive enthusiasts. The incredible strength and resilience of the branches that punctured tires and gas tanks could be turned to a Knight's task. When he decided on the sections of trunk that would become his cross, Gordon marked them with a silken tread and returned to the chapel. Others would cut out and trim the raw stock, but he knew not how. No regular saw or drill could cut through the rare wood, composed of naturally braided long and short molecules that dissipated and reflected attempts to destroy it. He would have 40 days in the desert to shape the branch segments into these two slim strips. When he later began his silent pilgrimage, the two pieces were laying by the sanctuary fountain. Now, the hand finished strips would never leave his side, even unto eternity. They seemed cool to the touch, oblivious to the scalding sun, a physical touchstone to the memories of long years of purgation. "The only thing I own," he thought, "I wish my spiritual cross were as easy to carry."

Each night in the wilderness, Gordon had charred the wood in his fire, partially to prepare it for the next day's honing, and partially in contemplation of the ancient story of how man and soul had to be tempered and prepared, pride and sin burned away. The following day would find him scraping the outer layers away on the sharp edges of granite and ruffing the reduced sticks in sand. When he returned from his ordeal in God's desert forge, the shaped sticks were laid by the fountain, not to be seen again until he began his first pilgrimage. By then the precious pair had been completed by hidden hands and tools, notched, polished and blessed. They served him well.

Gordon easily climbed the small hill behind the spring, chanting as he scaled the huge rocks. The two sticks were now locked in the center, forming a balanced "X" with a slightly curved plane. From this high perch the carefully thrown tool sailed out like a boomerang, several hundred feet above the glittering pond. To the ducks it seemed like a hawk circling for the kill. They settled to the water. With its wondrous flight complete, the whirling "hawk" returned to the monk, who, with a quick twist of the wrist, separated the tool into two cold sticks once again. The roast duck was very good.
The sinking sun appeared to float on the shimmering mirage lake in the distance, seemingly unwilling to touch the ground. Gordon knew how quickly the light could vanish in the pure desert night but he did not rush his preparations. Each practiced movement was accompanied by a payer; the small flask of wine to the left, the chalice wiped clean, and the flat box of hosts placed to the right. The two containers were unique to the wandering knights, bright gold, of course, on the inside, but dull gray on the outside. The unknowing might think them made from pewter or anodized aluminum. No. Only titanium lent strength to the thin walls while weighing scarcely more than paper. Function, simplicity and beauty -- very much like the lonesome priest who prepared for the solitary mass. The two favored sticks now formed a true cross and rested atop the staff, far above the ground. The amber rays of the setting sun caused the distinctive shadow to lengthen and grow. When the monk raised the chalice above his head in offering the two simple, joined sticks cast an awesome shape upon the ground -- larger than a man -- and the humble priest was not alone.

faucon

Til Death

2005-07-23T06:56:00.000-07:00

She has bathed his feet
with her golden tresses
but the moment grey and blown
by his faltering breath
she recalls all
he has done for her.

Not in the uncomplicated ways
of a mother-woman
but the mischievious ways
of a blushing boy
mind-set
on impressing his lover
and later
a loyal soldier's duty
to protect his territory.

Some had complained to her
about this change,
certain that the embarassed boy
had been a better husband
than the stern soldier.

This thought raises
the corners of her thin lips
as she kisses his chapped;
salved by the grim reaper.

She is glad that she has known
all of him
for had this not been so
there would be fewer memories
to love
and she would not be here
to watch his spirit
fly out the window
after 65 years of marriage.

(c)--Christina Cowling

A Song

2005-07-23T03:58:00.000-07:00

I never could sing much --
'till Lady Emrys touched my throat,
and now I am blessed with 3 1/2 octaves
with vibrato and all --
think I'll take some lessons.

So now I write some songs also,
but, being untrained I often 'filk', i.e.
take a known melody and change the words.

The first verse was written for some
learning disabled children who crafted
earthware chimes. As I whistle the tune often --
"Glockomora" (sp), the rest just evolved.

faucon
........................................................................
KNOWING

I hear a chime,
A distant, earthen chime.
It sings to me of
Loving hands,
In angel voice,
And peaceful days.

I hear a chime,
A whisper, stirring chime.
Of fire and stone and
Gleeful shapes,
In quiet breeze
It laughing plays.

I hear a chime,
A lonely, yearning chime.
In dark of night and
Thunderous storms,
Of fearful doubt
It endless prays.

…………………………………………

I sense a song,
A heart-bound, ancient song,
It calls to me in
Words of crone,
Wizard touch,
And simple ways.

I sense a song,
A shouting, trumpet song,
Of seed and blood and
Honored quest,
In vigil born
It girds my loins.

I sense a song,
A plaintive, wistful song,
In brightest day and
Chuckling clouds,
With loving mirth
It endless prays.

………………………………………………………………………

I know a dream,
A resounding, echoed dream.
It calls to me from
Tears of stars,
And soul's joy
That are the same.

I know a dream,
A living, blessed dream,
From now and when as
Innocence
In covenant
And simple gifts.

I am a dream,
A choice and loving trust;
A rebirth mem'ry of
Of creation fire
And open hand
And trembling heart.

Haiku

2005-07-22T21:21:00.000-07:00

Five haiku that I wrote.
~Anonymous Princess
*~* *~* *~*

Idly her hand
rests on the scabbard and her
wings fold behind her.

Brittle branches make
up the forest she watches
with folded wings.

"Beauty," said the crow
on her finger, "I shall love
thee true for always."

Sepia sky looks
down on the jewel among
the ashes and cries.

Golden leaves follow
in her wake, caught in her
rich satin tresses.

Woe

2005-07-22T13:43:00.000-07:00

Abide in me, abide in me
oh thoughts of tranquil gladness
when bleached with heritage
my javexed blood
doth pump its way
through guilt and shame
and madness.

What relative can be so pure
their sins are white as snow
and yet can bring me consequence
when little yet I know
of guilt and shame
and madness?
'Tis so, 'tis so!

Judge not lest you return to least
the dust from where you started
when on your neck
you find the noose
of those who have departed
from woe, from woe
your woe.

(c)--Christina Cowling

Applied Dreams

2005-07-22T08:12:00.000-07:00

My posting of this was somehow prompted by Christina's --
not sure why. I've never shown it before --
written at the request of a Catholic priest.

Hope you understand why.

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

Pie Ties

The pleasant aromas drifting from the kitchen had neither a claim on his dreams or draw on the omnipresent snack-urge that all youths acquire. A pleasant, lazy snooze in the falling sunlight was allowed; a benefit of home schooling and reward for the pre-dawn assistance he gave J.P. Truthfully, he loved the quite, inspiring burst of new dawn that built upon the prayers of the evening to the yearning of the flowering day. Norman's heart was at peace, but he was not removed from passion over the misted surprise of a new bloom or rain revealed pebble of childhood memory. The call of hidden bird blended with the shriek of morning's hungry child. The patient gasping, grinding of the neighbor's aged car fit in somewhere, as did the song of the postman's steps and the gardener's rake. Now, in the afternoon, silence was more palpable than the angry rush of the working throng. The smells crept in.

Norman awoke with a start -- not alarm -- only chuckling, internal mirth. Since childhood, he had harbored a secret plan to watch her make the pies, to be there when the simple ingredients of flour and butter, eggs and milk, and arcane secrets found their way into grandma's bowl. He was always too late! The pies of last night's blackcaps and fresh peaches from Samuel's tree. They had to be washed in the mountain steam, of course, or they would never taste right. He never got to lick the bowl! Other kids talked about it. Of course their mothers rarely baked anymore. His father got the bowl if he was in the shop, or some passing kid playing on the walk. "Someday, someday, I will be up," thought Norman. "Oh, but that special place between clash of busy day and serenity of stolen internal search was so entrancing. Is it a trade to be sought, or a balance to be savored?" (well, he sort of thought that -- he is only seven.)

Normal had attempted a special ploy this day. As his mother Maria napped beside him on the window-box couch, he had tied her apron strings about his waist. She would not slip away! Ah, but his time was not yet to be! While his skills grew daily from book and written theme and long practiced numbers, the flow of simple human communication often proved more difficult. Maria's flickering smile acknowledge their shared secret, and an extra piece of cinnamoned 'sugar tit' was provided as reward. He had never said that these cuttings from the deftly turned glass plate were better than any planned cookie. She knew, of course, as mothers always know. J.P. got the bowl and he got the scraps -- who got the better deal? The loving stroke was different in each, one by careful count, the other by controlled heat. "Choices, choices - is that what growing up is all about?"

Norman wandered to the shop, still munching the golden goodies. His father, Guiseppi, had not yet returned. Everybody called him J.P. - always had. Norman had been calmly instructed to call him that also -- especially when on a handyman job in a stranger's home. "You must be judged by the work you do, not because you are my son." So he thought, 'Dad' and said 'J.P.'. In the kitchen he thought, 'Maria', but said 'mother'. A deceit? Self-delusion? A touch of humanity's bond? So many things in life seemed to blend together like the smells of the wood shop. Sawdust, glue, machine oil and paint. So like people. Each unique and special in its use and purpose. Together stronger and more pleasing - somehow greater than the bonded parts. J.P. often hummed while he worked. Did he hear a special song that guided his gifted hands? Or did he actually write the melody in wooden form and then rejoice in smiled prayer? So much to learn.

Other children were returning from distant classrooms where squabbling and insubstantial meals seemed more impactful than learning. There was time to play. Norman did not always enjoy the chosen games and was only passable good at the frenetic sports. He had a good eye, though, and could score when the moment was right. Yet, he preferred to pass off to another and share in the moment of victory -- not always, however, to those who thought it was their greater right by skill, or size or bluster. "By our simplest actions we are tied to others," he mused. "May there always be time to share the filtered sunlight and the crumbing gift of another's hand." The thoughts blended into a special blessing he would offer at supper. Norman's love was like that.

J.P was home! Norman ran off to jump in the rocker by the den. The smells from the kitchen would mix with the mysterious aroma of sweat and work, kitchen and shop. Mother and father. Without a word their thoughts would join across the separate rooms -- a caress, a brush of faith. He could feel it -- even see colors dance back and forth between them.

Norman liked this place the best.

Infallible Dreams

2005-07-22T07:23:00.000-07:00

What happened to Tessa--
dimpled baby
in her cradle
imagining,
spunky child
in the school yard
creating,
envied teen
on the dance floor
romanticizing?

What happened in between
valedictorian
graduating,
visionary;
bag lady
on the street?

What happened to Tessa,
infallible dreams?

(c)--Christina Cowling

For Daughters

2005-07-21T03:28:00.000-07:00

I won't go into why a casual friend --
single mother with a daughter caught
in the physical and emotional
fears of becoming a woman,
would ask me to write something --
for a girl I had never met ...

but I did, and now dozens of mothers
have asked to use this piece --
though most hide the fact
that it was written by a grandfather ...

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

TREE DREAMS

Everyone thought that Amy was very shy, or didn't like to talk much.

Talk - walk - wall - call - ball - bill - fill - filly - silly - willy - will - wall - walk - talk.

"Grown-ups are like that -- always a 'reason' for everything. You would think that someone would ask -- would care enough, be curious enough to … Well it didn't matter -- they wouldn't believe me anyway."

Amy was quiet because she was listening. She didn't have to talk to be understood. They didn't have to have a reason for being. They were the reason for being. They were trees.

Seed - root - stalk - stem - trunk - branch - bower - flower - flow - know

Yes they knew -- everything. For they were not just trees -- they were THE trees. And they had moved close to Amy, for she believed. And they sang. And she heard. Then she knew too.

Feel the kiss of brave cloud shine
That turns the lake on its side.
If the yearning water falls
Into my hands and heart
I laugh and dance.

"There is nothing like hugging a tree. A touch of Earth drawing up energy from ancient trust and tomorrow's dream. Today they hide me from the rain, the interlocking branches forming a natural thatch. The peaceful incense from the towering ruddy trunks is caressed by the gentle breeze and shields against the intrusive scents from the outside world. With the new aroma arising from the earth the fragrance of the berry-brush, pine, and ivy lawn 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.

Breathe with me Dear Lord. Enlighten me Father. Protect me Mistress Moon. Walk with me Mother Earth. I wish so that I were grown -- yet perhaps only as a child do I hear the whispers. Better than hearing the hurt -- the sadness. 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 someone special -- perhaps someday."

She picked a flower from beneath her beloved trees and drew it to her ear -- trembling. Unknown emotions washed over her.

"tell me -- whisper of love to me"

The blossom trembled too, but did not mind being picked if it could serve -- to sing.

“Love is not a feeling; it is a way of acting toward another.”

Chimes tinkled from the dripping dew…

“Let each who come to you leave with greater happiness and a sense of well being."

Tree branches bowed and waved in joyful play -- responding to a breeze -- a thought not felt on cheek or golden hair.

"They will know it in your smile, your stance, and in your eyes.”

The flower wilted then, and died. In its place were two caterpillars -- fuzzy, twisting -- a tickling touch of hope and prayer. Amy giggled -- and sighed. "I will be a little girl for a while more, I think. I am not ready yet to become a butterfly."

She placed her tiny friends gently on a tree -- they would be safe. For a brief instant she had seen -- had known -- had touched the pulse of humanity. Then, with the growing splendor of the sunset, she left the hidden glade.

Walked away -- out -- back. Back to look through the excitement of a young woman's eyes. To swim in the calm between -- little girl or proud female spirit? Ever both. With the trees she -- knew and understood.

Then with a skip and hop -- she forgot.

Making a poem on Salmon Beach: haiku triad

2005-07-20T21:45:00.000-07:00

each word gleefully
snatched by the wind, then scattered
in all directions

some roost in twisted
trees, some are claimed by bronze ants,
a few hide within

winkleshells; later
they come straggling home again,
soaked, scuffed, eyes shining

Joining

2005-07-20T12:43:00.000-07:00

The Silver Mistress full above
would be a herald of delight –
for when next she rises
two fortnights hence
you will embrace a joining.

The Lord and Lady of Sakin’el
invite all to a wedding –
to public witness and proclaim
their twilight marriage
in most ancient rite.

They are bound in pledge long past
but friends and family
will not be denied their celebration
nor planned revelry
and foolishness.

Cynthia Ruth Andresen
and
Kenneth Fredrick Muller
will be publically wed
in the Henge of Sakin’el
on August 19,2005
7:00 PM EST

may your spirits be with us this day.

Haiku

2005-07-20T11:46:00.000-07:00

skimming stones
skip.. skip.. skip.. kerplunk!
deep summer

2005-07-20T07:23:00.000-07:00

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:

A Poet's Window

Through a poet's window
She sees further
Than the end of the round earth,
Beyond the circle
That encompasses the world,
Past the finding of Columbus
To transcending ocean words.

(c)--Christina Cowling

Why we forget

2005-07-20T05:18:00.000-07:00

There seems to be a thread of sorts
on a number of blogs herabouts,
on remembering and forgetting.

I am drawn to reflect on this
and will carress it everywhere,
and so throw this into the pot ...

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

SINCE WHEN

Somewhere between the moon’s jump into the sky
And man’s found ability to write things down
Evolved (or was ordained – choose one) a notion
That all things should be uniquely named and labeled.

Now if the useful purpose was meant to be
to share something grand or wondrous just beheld,
then certainly saying I saw a ’whatsit’
flip a ‘wow’ wouldn’t convey much sense of awe.

Beyond this agreed simple expedience
Man became a bit obsessed and controlling;
Setting some names above the rest in order
Such that judgment was required and corrupted.

Before long – well a millennium of two,
Prejudice became such a necessity
That hierarchy came to be ‘gooder’
And being ‘lesser’ meant some subservience.

Forgotten was the bless’d gift of life itself
Which respected all is one and divine,
And as man forgot love and brotherhood
He created sin out of nothing but pride.

Humans, in their folly, even split up God,
And forced evil from a dualist nature
While projecting that their eternal spirit
Was now up for barter and thereby worthless.

Occasionally God would send a herald
To help us get it straight and guide the way
Back to innocence and liking life a lot,
But we just squabbled over which was better.

Now that I’m getting on in years and wisdom,
Which is to say ‘more wise than’ but forgetful,
I’ll be excused for driftin’ back to childhood,
When all along that is what is meant to be.

Desert Ritual

2005-07-19T21:35:00.000-07:00

pour out your water
on the thirsty earth, so that
the well won't run dry

Over Lunch

2005-07-19T11:18:00.000-07:00

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

Before

2005-07-19T08:43:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-07-19T07:50:00.000-07:00

Chistina's posts caused me to dig it out --
perhaps it relates to many things
unspoken

faucon
............................................
DAVE

The tinkling of glass chimes were so faint that Anna could not place their location, and in fact, resisted being drawn back from her brief nap. Here heightening awareness combined the scent of honeysuckle, the fluttering of lace at her chin, and a slight press of urgency about the tasks ahead.

“tinkle, ching” –

I hear a chime,
A distant, earthen chime.
It sings to me of
Loving hands,
In angel voice,
And peaceful days.

I hear a chime,

A whisper, stirring chime.
Of fire and stone and
Gleeful shapes,
In quiet breeze
It laughing plays.

I hear a chime,
A lonely, yearning chime.
In dark of night and
Thunderous storms,
Of fearful doubt
It endless prays.

-- awake
“For shame,” she chided herself. “Dosing off at ten-thirty in the morning with Dave and the kids arriving this afternoon.” She checked again the two roasting hens in the ‘fridge', each with a different stuffing. The macaroni salad was partially prepared, awaiting only the mayonnaise and few secret ingredients to make it a family heirloom. No one else would serve these items together, but Anna would broach no argument. Dave loved her chicken and he liked her salad – enough! Dozens of other delights had been prepared as well, of course, and all far in advance, for that was Anna’s way. She fretted over each napkin, candle and spotless fork. Sunday afternoon was more than a tradition and certainly more than the chore others would make of it. Yet the lure of the sunlight on the window chair held its magical allure as well. “Ching –“.”

“What if they arrived and found me curled up here like a Cheshire Cat, all mischief and unpredictability? The kids might think ‘take-out’ a great idea but they get too much of that all ready. No, Dave. I could never do that to you, my love. You deserve so much more.”

The air conditioning came on and Anna reluctantly closed the porch window a little. She had long avowed that many of the world’s problems could be blamed on air conditioning. No pleasant evenings on the front lawn watching the neighbor kids play ‘kick-the-can’. No box dinners with the whole town out to watch the Little League game. Not even lengthy discussions over the coming weather! Who really cared? Of course, her “open window” philosophy downplayed the dreadful experience of Freddie Barns learning to play the trombone, or that Saturday morning laundry often had more “family linen’ involved that many soap operas. Sunday with Anna was an opening of the blinds on a world that most people would never see, nor would care too, filled as they were with pain and anguish and guilt and regret. Thus, these would miss out on the joy and rapture and passion. Air conditioned minds perhaps deserve only a 78 degree share of life! In Anna’s world dishes got broken, kids got splinters and a new war was just around the corner to fill a Presidential void. But Anna was the first on the block to welcome “that family” to the neighborhood, and always had a new stray cat, and had flowers blooming everywhere, even in a drought. She gave plants away to any that asked, and they never died either. Didn’t dare!

“Mary-Mary, quite contrary. How does you garden grow?” mused Anna as she slipped again into a muzziness, measured by the rhythmic creak of the cane in the rocking chair. She had used many garden analogies in the classroom to inspire decades of reluctant seventh-graders. “How would they view her now? A withered weed who had stood too long in the hail of time? A rock garden in which low maintenance wins out over grooming and care? Had any ever thought of using her as garden in which to plant a seed of an idea and then return generations later to see how it had developed? “ Goosebumps rippled on the back of her arms at the sexual implications of the thought and she sat up, fully awake, at her own laughter. She resisted the temptation to recheck the preparations and attempted to simply enjoy the small sensations of the moment. “What adventures will the children have to share,” she thought. “Can I force another smile?” Can I endure another miss-written assignment awarded with an ‘A’?” Then someone will say, ‘Now leave Anna alone.’ Then, then will I have to suffer the loneliness of being present but ignored. Ah, but they like the chicken! Regardless, Dave and the kids will soon be here.”

The tinkling chimes were easier to ignore this time, and the honeysuckle won out over the thermostat. Sunlight filtered through the damask curtains and set fire to golden curled memories hidden in the long white braids. Then she remembered falling – falling, and Dave trying to catch her.

“Not your fault,” she cried. Her ten year old tears were partially absorbed by “old bear,” a rag-tag, eyeless companion. But she wanted Dave. “Today he will come. It is nice to have an older brother. Run – run – run to me.”

The nurse closed the window for the umpteenth time, partially amused, partially in distress. She swept the wisps of snow from the lap shawl and wheelchair arms. “All the other patients get sad as Thanksgiving approaches,” she thought. “But our Anna here just smiles the day through. I wonder what it’s like to be 108 and to have outlived all of your relatives? I’d be sad! I wish, and pray you could share your secret with me.”

Alzheimer's Lane

2005-07-19T07:18:00.000-07:00

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?"
Realizing what she had said, she burst into laughter, but the horror of Alzheimer's is no laughing matter and later, remembering this time with mother, I wrote the following poem.

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

Getting Acquainted

2005-07-18T17:51:00.000-07:00

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

Dolphin Fantasy

2005-07-18T10:41:00.000-07:00

Slicing through water
like a warm knife through butter.
Fast and graceful,

then, for one brief moment,
she hangs,
suspended

before diving again,
leaving behind
an arc of sparkling

jewels poised, an after image
on an invisible cushion of air
to show where she had been,

just a moment ago.

Vi
(c) July 18, 2005

A Promise

2005-07-17T20:47:00.000-07:00

You have promised
to give me
no more
than I can bear
yet I feel
my shoulders break
'neath the cross
I carry
but remember the one
who carried
the cross of Your Son
thus take You
at Your Word.

(c)--Christina Cowling

Endurance

2005-07-17T17:20:00.000-07:00

Endurance is not a test

but a mother’s capacity

to stretch her arms

across shattered miles

and carry her willful child

home.

A Round

2005-07-17T16:13:00.000-07:00

We have three posts
offered in a row --
a chance synchrocity,
or touch of magic.

If one were to place these poems
(yearling, tears,unlocking)
end to end in an endless braid --
a musical round --

then perhaps each does answer the other
in part and in conjugation

faucon

The Yearling

2005-07-17T14:18:00.000-07:00

with no new
little one this
year, she
still bathes
him like a
starspangled
fawn, until
his fur
stands up
in great
cowlicked
waves, until
the young
does drop
their heads,
hiding their
smiles in the
tall grass, until
he turns
away,
flicking his
tail irritably -

why is it
that mothers
are always
the last to
see: that spindly
twiglegs
have become
strong springy
branches; that he
bears two
antler buds (little
nubs
in peachfuzzy
velvet); that an eagle's
heart
beats in
his narrow
chest?

Tears

2005-07-17T14:08:00.000-07:00

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.

(c)--Christina Cowling

Unlocking My Dream

2005-07-16T08:40:00.000-07:00

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.

A stranger not seen

2005-07-16T03:59:00.000-07:00

Christina's post touching on natural brotherhood
takes me back to thoughts of actions
toward people we do not even see,
yet, in faith, our cherityy must abide.

this was written for a Slavic Medieval Recreationist Publication,
and is in an very old 'stilted' form.

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

Boar Spear

The Carpathian ridge sweeps gently to the east,
except for ragged escarpments of ancient stone
that protrude like teeth of a gasping battle steed.
Twenty yards -- no more, they reach unto the sky
to form a barrier to unwary hunting climber,
and tax the skill and strength of the warrior.
The River Sorok, here little more than a stream
crashes through a narrow defile in cascading mist.
To pass here requires a leap of faith and courage.
There is no handhold 'round a giant sculpted rock
save enough for scarce left finger stretching balance
while a hurtling man can swing around and up
to clutch an unseen, mysterious support.
For there is imbedded in monstrous cedar root
the cold head of a rusted rogatina spear.

Sixty years growth or more have seized the iron
in a grasp secure for the mightiest of men.
Its two foot length and protruding nether spars
allow the traveler to swing up and then beyond
the peril of dashing plunge to the eager rocks
that draw so on the fear and doubt before the jump.
To miss the waiting, assisting hold is sure death,
but to draw back from the blind, challenging test
is to admit defeat where others have passed before.

Safely passed we three look back at wrenching fate
and the terrible opportunity just well met.
I give prayer for the one who placed it there,
that wild boar intended stretch of welcome steel.
How was it placed -- what price was surely paid
to leave a gift for other to follow in faith?
When I did swing about that towering edifice,
with eyes closed and labored breath held tight,
I imaged an ancient warrior hand waiting there;
the mailed fist of a comrade battle friend.
And I know that there is price extracted here.
I must now reach out to a hidden stranger's plight.

The Greatest

2005-07-15T19:50:00.000-07:00

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

Live Poets at Soul Food

Gwenerrella's First Poem

Song of Brothers Raven and Crow

Memories

In response, Sage -- sort of

Freebase Dawn

Lady Luna

My Twin Soul

something old, something new

Geraniums should grow in windows

Autumn Scatters

Valentine Fitz

A Seed? Valentine? Muse? Creative Impotence

Bored and Adrift

Post-it for the Devil

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

Woman Made of Thursdays

Design

Following Maya's Lead

Wild Garden

Fresco

Ruins

Wedding Song

In the Pines

Magnificent Pine

shadow, shadow

From Honeymoon

Sakin'el Wedding Cake

Something for faucon & Emrys

Try Anything

Wedding Thoughts

The Desert is...

Just Fun

The Strangers Head

Earth, Sky and Space

Yellow Wave

Memory

Missing the Pacific

Double Haiku - My Scarf Made By Megan

Moments

Tangled

Medusa Challenged

Medusa

Eternity

Fragile Things

game boy

Fuss

Spanish Dancer

Bluff's Powder

Created A Woman

Please, Don't Walk Upon the Grass

Different Perspective

Orpheus

Pirene Fountain

Misplaced

Rested

Papa

Two Poems

Golden Grove

Salt Doll II

A Secretive Woman

Deeper Faith

Til Death

A Song

Haiku

Woe

Applied Dreams

Infallible Dreams

For Daughters

Making a poem on Salmon Beach: haiku triad

Joining

Haiku

Why we forget

Desert Ritual

Over Lunch

Before

Related Story

Alzheimer's Lane

Getting Acquainted

Dolphin Fantasy