Mists, mists surround me the smell thick in the air. Ghostly figures walk, enveloped in the fog, some sit by the fire seeking clarity.
I cling to my father, surprised that this is a cloud, clouds should be fluffy, friendly, not like this.
Pleasant scents of affluence wafted through the air; I was standing on the edge, though my stomach growled, we didn’t stay to eat.
The din of voices, water rushing over cliff face, humming suspension as I step into the tram; we descend, down, drop down into the carnival of people awaiting their turn up the mountain.
Silence now reigns at Bridal Veil Falls, nature leveled all with a mud slide. Still I ache to think of the ghosts at the top.
Mists and chlorine, sweet oil, and sweat. Paradise, an oasis in the desert, a place to squeeze out regrets.
Dry heat, dry wood, steam rises from the towel as I sit to excise my sins in the sauna. Cedar bleached scents, lacking substance and body, aching dryness creeping into my head through the nostrils.
Persistent, the heat licks away at my skin, my hair, my breath, to relieve the dryness I squeeze out the wet strands of my hair and the mists rise, briefly. I imagine I am in Hell, the fagots lick at my feet until I open the door to release me from the inferno.
Overpowering mists that strike at my face, another place, a sauna of steam. Steam rising up to the heavens, white billows where people sit breathing shallowly as they meditate. Reflecting on the pools of water below, as steam cleanses and purifies from within.
Purification or perdition, something to think about as I walk between the two saunas.
Mist surround me as I stand out in the cold. I am waiting, thinking and waiting. The mist is thick, fog surrounds everything, swirling in the orange light cast from the street lamp. I close my eyes and focus, the mist feels right, like my mood.
Shivering I feel as though I am the only one left in the world, a lost world, every sound is muffled in the night. My father pulls up, tires crunch in my ears, in slow motion I open the door to another world.
A world of harsh overhead lamps and heater vents where I warm my fingers as we pull away.
Swirling mists in the bathroom, clinging to me, familiar and thick. I will never dry my hair in the dampness, so I open the window then regret the loss of warmth as goose bumps jump out on my arms. I wrap the towel tighter and rush to dress.
Subtle amounts of steam rise away from the heat of the blow dryer, the dry heat feels good against my scalp.
Mists cling to the forest floor, I walk out savoring the smell. Dew hangs near the ground like a shroud. Spring grasses are glad of it, sparkling green grasses with their diamond jewels.
I long to taste the elusive dew. I catch a drop on my tongue as the sun rises, brighter and brighter. The dew lifts as a brides veil, the mists are gone.
There is mist outside now, I can smell the familiar scent of rain. The night is cold, I wonder if it will snow...
(This is a re-write here is the original for comparison)
Friday, July 31, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Summers with Shanalee
Everything that I always dreamed was possible existed in the carefree summertime when Shannie would come to visit. We would spend our time walking about barefoot, out in the garden, out on the rope swing.
On hot summer days, there was nothing like climbing up to the old tree house and swinging out over the snake pit, so called because we were imaginative youth. Though all the snakes we ever found were harmless garter snakes, and never more than one or so at a time.
Everything was blooming, gardens full of fresh vegetables, bushes brimming with roses, full blossomed roses and spicy hot pink ones. We were blooming along with it all, awakening each day to the newness of life as young women.
Shannie and I liked to walk downtown, wandering in and out of the deserted shops just to get out of the sun which had tanned our skin and bleached our hair. Each air conditioned oasis was a chance to find someone to tease.
Our usual attire, cut offs and t-shirts adorned with natural bead anklets and bracelets, and as many rings as we could fit onto our fingers.
We talked of life, as we walked in the oppressive heat, we talked of becoming fishermen up in Alaska, a lark of an idea we got out of a newspaper ad.
Our favorite place to visit was Ako Ako which we called "The Blue Door" because the name was not conspicuous above it. We socialised with the owners, hippies lost from the 70's still apparently smoking weed and breathing incense as the air. The shop stunk, smoke filled, and perfumed.
It was full of hemp fiber purses, jewelery made from mood stones and crystals, American Indian things such as feathers and pipes, posters of Bob Marley and Jimmy Hendricks, it was eclectic.
The music that wafted down over their large speakers was usually something by "The Doors," "Jimmy Hendricks," "Bob Marley" at times, at times "The Grateful Dead."
It was always a fascinating venture to visit Ako Ako, but they were not always open, so often we found ourselves sitting in a little Chinese place called "The Four Winds Restaurant."
There we would order egg drop soup and some pop because it was cheap. Then as we were waiting we would sit around writing ridiculous songs or singing something from "The Beatles," our favorite group.
We had a favorite waitress, "Jenna," she treated us well though we were just silly kids, we asked her about herself, her life. She wanted to be an accountant, she was only working there during the summers, it was a family business.
Hot summer days often led to cool nights, nights spent out sleeping on the lawn, in the front yard to be conspicuous.
Our neighbors often came over to chat as we sat in our sleeping bags, snuggled up cross legged. We would all gaze up at the stars and discuss music, art, school, philosophy and religion, anything that came to mind.
Shannie and I had our opinions of who we thought was cute out of the neighbor boys, my crush was my best friends brother, he called himself S. He barely seemed to know that I was alive, much to my consternation, yet we were friends, we were all friends.
Friendship oddly defined at this time, friendship newly being explored, trials of adult relationships on innocent flirtations.
One of the wildest celebrations that I ever went to was a church social at the lake, Polynesians really know how to celebrate.
It was a camp out that lasted a week. We were there one night, rather late, the sky held an odd orange glow, everyone was walking around talking to everyone.
Shannie went for a walk with S around the lake, he said he had something to talk about with her, it drove me crazy.
I was sitting there drumming my fingers on the metal top of the park service picnic tables when a Tongan guy came up, short, dressed in baggy clothes, with a knitted Jamaican style hat that reached his knees.
I could tell he liked me, though he didn't speak much English, he was trying to talk to me but I was distracted. Finally Shannie returned without S. I asked her what they were talking about but she wouldn't tell me.
So I said goodbye to my new friend and linked my arm through Shannies and we went off in search of something to do. Something presented itself as the kids had all gotten up a game of rolling down a hill around the bend of the lake away from the eyes of our parents.
It was exhilarating, rolling down the hill in the dark, linking our arms together and running down the hill as a chain. It was an atmosphere charged with electricity, bumping up against the boys in the dark, you never knew who you would run into.
The only regret that I had over this was that I lost my hemp and bead anklet, part of a set of anklet, bracelet and necklace, this distressed me but I let it slide as we took off on a midnight walk with S and his brother, teasing them all the way.
We would poke at them, they would hold our wrists and make us squirm, we would jump up on their backs and make them carry us. We all had fun walking around in the dark, the smell of the lake full bodied in the summer air and the stars brilliant overhead the sky darkening after the long drawn out sunset. It was a night of senses, and senselessness.
Our time spent with the neighbors was cut short that year though, we were going to the Grand Canyon for vacation and Shannie was coming with us. The only sadness about that was the fact that we would drop her off in Phoenix after we were through.
We prepared for our trip in usual teenage fashion, packing our clothing and accessories, not to mention toiletries, perfumes, art supplies and of course our extensive CD collection and our journals.
We dreamed, as we sat in the back of the motor home, of meeting some cute guys on the trip, fickle girls. I moaned about my little outbreaks of acne and bought some witch hazel astringent at a gas station to try and get rid of it, but it made it worse.
We stopped off at a little campground on the way, perfect opportunity to get out and meet the locals. Shannie and I got out to explore and found a small stream running through the trees nearby.
Everyone seemed to have one thing on their mind, cooling off, so the crazed campers were all sitting down in the water and scooting along the stream. Shannie and I were no exception, we hopped right in.
After this distraction we got out our cameras and took pictures of the trees and chipmunks.
We moved on reaching the Grand Canyon after many dizzying miles of road and there found ourselves standing in the gift shop, kids in a candy store as we both had money from our parents. Shannie had a hundred dollars, I had a hundred, we thought we were rich!
I shortly found out though that a hundred dollars didn't go far in a gift shop, I bought some sandstone earrings set in gold that set me back a cool twenty. I put the change back into my flat wallet, made of a soft brown leather that I had adorned with scribbles and doodles of flowers and a peace sign.
I felt a little sick at losing part of the hundred, though I liked my earrings, because I knew how long it usually took me to save that much.
Shannie was smart, didn't buy anything there, we went back to the camper to wait together for the others to show up. It was getting rather late, and we were tired from the long drive so we lay down in the bed above the driver seat and read a bit.
Finally we were off, dad found a campground and we set up camp in the twilight, and ate convenience foods like hot dogs and chips since it was too late to set up a camp fire. Though Daniel, my little brother certainly felt like setting one up, he came in blackened from lighting a fire with fire starter and he stunk.
Shannie and I made a fuss about it and dad made him wash up and change his clothes outside, it was very late when we finally got to sleep that night and we planned to go and watch the sunrise over the canyon in the morning so Daniels stunt really irritated me.
We got to sleep and it seemed the next moment that dad was fussing about, waking us up. He has a particularly annoying way of doing this, turning on the light and singing. We got up grumpy and stayed grumpy until we were seated in front of plate sized pancakes and orange juice which tasted horrible together!
We ate what we could, the pancakes were so big, then we left what was left and headed out to the terrace where people were gathering to watch the sunrise.
There, over canyons of unimaginable depth, the sun rose in gradating splendor and we were met standing in front of the hot glory of the bright morning sun.
We had certainly awoken during this moment, standing blinking before it, yet still we yawned from lethargy over the late night. I had a headache to boot. We would have been glad to go back to the motor home to sleep, but dad had other ideas, he marched us out to the trail head and told us we were going to climb up for a few miles.
This elicited groans of protest from all of us, but nevertheless we were there to see the canyon, so the canyon is what we were going to see. We walked past high sandstone walls, beautiful red rock.
Shannie and I found a crevice on the way up that looked like it would be interesting to explore. As the others walked past, we started to climb up into the crevice, but were soon confronted by an angry German guy who told us off for our temerity.
Thus chagrined from our rebellious venture we climbed back down and joined the others as quickly as we could, giggling to ourselves over the incident.
We finally reached the top of the hike and looked out over the canyon, it was impressive, but we were tired. So we took pictures, Shannie and I mocking a fall into the abyss.
We stood with our arms around each other, trying to appreciate what we knew was one of the great wonders of the world. The climb up the trail, had made us hungry, that, combined with the late night made an extended stay up there an uncomfortable idea.
We were rescued by the whines of my little brother, Evan, who was only about four years old at the time. Thus we headed back to the motor home, back down the trail to the unreality of reality as we sat at the Formica table in the motor home to eat.
A sudden rush to leave gripped my dad as things often do for him, and we hurried then to finish and clean up.
We were on our way again, heading west through Indian lands and Indian ways. We stopped off on our way at a rest stop and encountered the hostile stares of the locals for our intrusion, I felt it keenly.
The road side boutiques were interesting affairs, made up of plywood and two by fours. They were attended by mothers sitting behind square tables, fanning themselves in the heat their black hair glistened in their braids.
Hushed children peeked out at us from behind the tables and chairs, unconfined curiosity burned on their dusty faces, as we examined hand wrought silver and turquoise jewelery, leather purses and feathers cunningly hanging from dream catchers tied with leather and sinew.
If anything, I should have spent my money there, yet I was foolish in my judgement and shy as well. I wasn't quite certain if these beautiful pieces of living history could speak the same language as I, and so I said nothing to them as I stood there at a distance, letting my dad converse in his energetic way.
At last we turned again to our reality, and drove along observing the domed adobe houses and dusty arid desert, each absorbed in their own thoughts until we came out of the past and into the future of gas stationed splendor and shopping carts clanging together, full of thoroughly modern food.
We stopped off at a little lake on the way, not sure exactly where, it was there that we were to spend a few days to rest before we reached our destination. It was there where immaturity and maturity blossomed together in our youthful hearts.
The chance to get out and walk was appealing to Shannie and I, though we were forced to stay and help with dinner. Our feet were itching to explore as we ate and we set off as soon as we had finished to wander about.
I had taken to wearing Shannies clothes as my own didn't seem as appealing at the moment. So I had on her green shirt, the fashion of which was to leave untied at the top, laces left loose and her shorts which were a dark denim blue.
She had on her usual favorite one piece jumper, shirt and shorts made of light denim, with a red shirt underneath. She always looked assured, no matter what she was wearing. I was uncomfortable with myself at most times.
On this night we happened upon two boys, sitting on the dock by the lake, working on their fishing boat and cursing.
They looked us up and down as we stood there eyeing them back, and Shannie asked them about what they were doing.
As it turned out, they were fixing the motor on their boat. After a few minutes of conversation they invited us out with them the following morning to go for a ride.
So the next day, we packed a cooler of pop and snacks, nothing substantial, and headed out with them. Heaven only knows why my parents agreed.
We sat out there legs tanning in the sun, bare toes kissed by the wind as we conversed with these strange boys who apparently lived around there. Luckily for me my earlier shyness had burned off with the peek of the morning sun so I didn't feel awkward.
They tried fishing, yet kept reeling in lake bottom and weeds so eventually we called it good and went back.
We decided to swim after this, so we changed and met again. We mostly floated in the shallows of the lake as hands brushed together under murky waters and meaningful glances passed (and chaste little kisses as well).
Eventually we got cold and we all agreed to change then to go for a walk after dinner. So we changed back into our original clothing and ate, mulling things over as we sat, Shannie and I secretly communing with our thoughts.
We went out for our walk and met up, soon we found ourselves sitting, paired off, on a picnic bench gazing off to the purple mountains in the distance. We had been hyper, running off of sugar, and chatting about the moon, the stars, and our "shroom" garden at home. We told them to avoid the dotted red ones because they could make you high, we were giddy from sleepiness and hormones, secretly enjoying running our imaginations wild.
The night grew late, probably eleven or twelve and we had been sitting out there for a while until we were yawning and snoozing as we leaned against each other. We said our good nights, as Shannie and I walked, a bit subdued, to the motor home to rest.
We said goodbye in the morning. They waved to us from the dock, where they sat working at their motor again, and we grinned as we explained my dads rush to leave.
There was a glance that passed from boy to girl, and we left pondering what it meant, that look.
It was only a short time before I was hugging Shannie to say goodbye, another summer had passed. Yet there were summers to come, and memories that would last.
On hot summer days, there was nothing like climbing up to the old tree house and swinging out over the snake pit, so called because we were imaginative youth. Though all the snakes we ever found were harmless garter snakes, and never more than one or so at a time.
Everything was blooming, gardens full of fresh vegetables, bushes brimming with roses, full blossomed roses and spicy hot pink ones. We were blooming along with it all, awakening each day to the newness of life as young women.
Shannie and I liked to walk downtown, wandering in and out of the deserted shops just to get out of the sun which had tanned our skin and bleached our hair. Each air conditioned oasis was a chance to find someone to tease.
Our usual attire, cut offs and t-shirts adorned with natural bead anklets and bracelets, and as many rings as we could fit onto our fingers.
We talked of life, as we walked in the oppressive heat, we talked of becoming fishermen up in Alaska, a lark of an idea we got out of a newspaper ad.
Our favorite place to visit was Ako Ako which we called "The Blue Door" because the name was not conspicuous above it. We socialised with the owners, hippies lost from the 70's still apparently smoking weed and breathing incense as the air. The shop stunk, smoke filled, and perfumed.
It was full of hemp fiber purses, jewelery made from mood stones and crystals, American Indian things such as feathers and pipes, posters of Bob Marley and Jimmy Hendricks, it was eclectic.
The music that wafted down over their large speakers was usually something by "The Doors," "Jimmy Hendricks," "Bob Marley" at times, at times "The Grateful Dead."
It was always a fascinating venture to visit Ako Ako, but they were not always open, so often we found ourselves sitting in a little Chinese place called "The Four Winds Restaurant."
There we would order egg drop soup and some pop because it was cheap. Then as we were waiting we would sit around writing ridiculous songs or singing something from "The Beatles," our favorite group.
We had a favorite waitress, "Jenna," she treated us well though we were just silly kids, we asked her about herself, her life. She wanted to be an accountant, she was only working there during the summers, it was a family business.
Hot summer days often led to cool nights, nights spent out sleeping on the lawn, in the front yard to be conspicuous.
Our neighbors often came over to chat as we sat in our sleeping bags, snuggled up cross legged. We would all gaze up at the stars and discuss music, art, school, philosophy and religion, anything that came to mind.
Shannie and I had our opinions of who we thought was cute out of the neighbor boys, my crush was my best friends brother, he called himself S. He barely seemed to know that I was alive, much to my consternation, yet we were friends, we were all friends.
Friendship oddly defined at this time, friendship newly being explored, trials of adult relationships on innocent flirtations.
One of the wildest celebrations that I ever went to was a church social at the lake, Polynesians really know how to celebrate.
It was a camp out that lasted a week. We were there one night, rather late, the sky held an odd orange glow, everyone was walking around talking to everyone.
Shannie went for a walk with S around the lake, he said he had something to talk about with her, it drove me crazy.
I was sitting there drumming my fingers on the metal top of the park service picnic tables when a Tongan guy came up, short, dressed in baggy clothes, with a knitted Jamaican style hat that reached his knees.
I could tell he liked me, though he didn't speak much English, he was trying to talk to me but I was distracted. Finally Shannie returned without S. I asked her what they were talking about but she wouldn't tell me.
So I said goodbye to my new friend and linked my arm through Shannies and we went off in search of something to do. Something presented itself as the kids had all gotten up a game of rolling down a hill around the bend of the lake away from the eyes of our parents.
It was exhilarating, rolling down the hill in the dark, linking our arms together and running down the hill as a chain. It was an atmosphere charged with electricity, bumping up against the boys in the dark, you never knew who you would run into.
The only regret that I had over this was that I lost my hemp and bead anklet, part of a set of anklet, bracelet and necklace, this distressed me but I let it slide as we took off on a midnight walk with S and his brother, teasing them all the way.
We would poke at them, they would hold our wrists and make us squirm, we would jump up on their backs and make them carry us. We all had fun walking around in the dark, the smell of the lake full bodied in the summer air and the stars brilliant overhead the sky darkening after the long drawn out sunset. It was a night of senses, and senselessness.
Our time spent with the neighbors was cut short that year though, we were going to the Grand Canyon for vacation and Shannie was coming with us. The only sadness about that was the fact that we would drop her off in Phoenix after we were through.
We prepared for our trip in usual teenage fashion, packing our clothing and accessories, not to mention toiletries, perfumes, art supplies and of course our extensive CD collection and our journals.
We dreamed, as we sat in the back of the motor home, of meeting some cute guys on the trip, fickle girls. I moaned about my little outbreaks of acne and bought some witch hazel astringent at a gas station to try and get rid of it, but it made it worse.
We stopped off at a little campground on the way, perfect opportunity to get out and meet the locals. Shannie and I got out to explore and found a small stream running through the trees nearby.
Everyone seemed to have one thing on their mind, cooling off, so the crazed campers were all sitting down in the water and scooting along the stream. Shannie and I were no exception, we hopped right in.
After this distraction we got out our cameras and took pictures of the trees and chipmunks.
We moved on reaching the Grand Canyon after many dizzying miles of road and there found ourselves standing in the gift shop, kids in a candy store as we both had money from our parents. Shannie had a hundred dollars, I had a hundred, we thought we were rich!
I shortly found out though that a hundred dollars didn't go far in a gift shop, I bought some sandstone earrings set in gold that set me back a cool twenty. I put the change back into my flat wallet, made of a soft brown leather that I had adorned with scribbles and doodles of flowers and a peace sign.
I felt a little sick at losing part of the hundred, though I liked my earrings, because I knew how long it usually took me to save that much.
Shannie was smart, didn't buy anything there, we went back to the camper to wait together for the others to show up. It was getting rather late, and we were tired from the long drive so we lay down in the bed above the driver seat and read a bit.
Finally we were off, dad found a campground and we set up camp in the twilight, and ate convenience foods like hot dogs and chips since it was too late to set up a camp fire. Though Daniel, my little brother certainly felt like setting one up, he came in blackened from lighting a fire with fire starter and he stunk.
Shannie and I made a fuss about it and dad made him wash up and change his clothes outside, it was very late when we finally got to sleep that night and we planned to go and watch the sunrise over the canyon in the morning so Daniels stunt really irritated me.
We got to sleep and it seemed the next moment that dad was fussing about, waking us up. He has a particularly annoying way of doing this, turning on the light and singing. We got up grumpy and stayed grumpy until we were seated in front of plate sized pancakes and orange juice which tasted horrible together!
We ate what we could, the pancakes were so big, then we left what was left and headed out to the terrace where people were gathering to watch the sunrise.
There, over canyons of unimaginable depth, the sun rose in gradating splendor and we were met standing in front of the hot glory of the bright morning sun.
We had certainly awoken during this moment, standing blinking before it, yet still we yawned from lethargy over the late night. I had a headache to boot. We would have been glad to go back to the motor home to sleep, but dad had other ideas, he marched us out to the trail head and told us we were going to climb up for a few miles.
This elicited groans of protest from all of us, but nevertheless we were there to see the canyon, so the canyon is what we were going to see. We walked past high sandstone walls, beautiful red rock.
Shannie and I found a crevice on the way up that looked like it would be interesting to explore. As the others walked past, we started to climb up into the crevice, but were soon confronted by an angry German guy who told us off for our temerity.
Thus chagrined from our rebellious venture we climbed back down and joined the others as quickly as we could, giggling to ourselves over the incident.
We finally reached the top of the hike and looked out over the canyon, it was impressive, but we were tired. So we took pictures, Shannie and I mocking a fall into the abyss.
We stood with our arms around each other, trying to appreciate what we knew was one of the great wonders of the world. The climb up the trail, had made us hungry, that, combined with the late night made an extended stay up there an uncomfortable idea.
We were rescued by the whines of my little brother, Evan, who was only about four years old at the time. Thus we headed back to the motor home, back down the trail to the unreality of reality as we sat at the Formica table in the motor home to eat.
A sudden rush to leave gripped my dad as things often do for him, and we hurried then to finish and clean up.
We were on our way again, heading west through Indian lands and Indian ways. We stopped off on our way at a rest stop and encountered the hostile stares of the locals for our intrusion, I felt it keenly.
The road side boutiques were interesting affairs, made up of plywood and two by fours. They were attended by mothers sitting behind square tables, fanning themselves in the heat their black hair glistened in their braids.
Hushed children peeked out at us from behind the tables and chairs, unconfined curiosity burned on their dusty faces, as we examined hand wrought silver and turquoise jewelery, leather purses and feathers cunningly hanging from dream catchers tied with leather and sinew.
If anything, I should have spent my money there, yet I was foolish in my judgement and shy as well. I wasn't quite certain if these beautiful pieces of living history could speak the same language as I, and so I said nothing to them as I stood there at a distance, letting my dad converse in his energetic way.
At last we turned again to our reality, and drove along observing the domed adobe houses and dusty arid desert, each absorbed in their own thoughts until we came out of the past and into the future of gas stationed splendor and shopping carts clanging together, full of thoroughly modern food.
We stopped off at a little lake on the way, not sure exactly where, it was there that we were to spend a few days to rest before we reached our destination. It was there where immaturity and maturity blossomed together in our youthful hearts.
The chance to get out and walk was appealing to Shannie and I, though we were forced to stay and help with dinner. Our feet were itching to explore as we ate and we set off as soon as we had finished to wander about.
I had taken to wearing Shannies clothes as my own didn't seem as appealing at the moment. So I had on her green shirt, the fashion of which was to leave untied at the top, laces left loose and her shorts which were a dark denim blue.
She had on her usual favorite one piece jumper, shirt and shorts made of light denim, with a red shirt underneath. She always looked assured, no matter what she was wearing. I was uncomfortable with myself at most times.
On this night we happened upon two boys, sitting on the dock by the lake, working on their fishing boat and cursing.
They looked us up and down as we stood there eyeing them back, and Shannie asked them about what they were doing.
As it turned out, they were fixing the motor on their boat. After a few minutes of conversation they invited us out with them the following morning to go for a ride.
So the next day, we packed a cooler of pop and snacks, nothing substantial, and headed out with them. Heaven only knows why my parents agreed.
We sat out there legs tanning in the sun, bare toes kissed by the wind as we conversed with these strange boys who apparently lived around there. Luckily for me my earlier shyness had burned off with the peek of the morning sun so I didn't feel awkward.
They tried fishing, yet kept reeling in lake bottom and weeds so eventually we called it good and went back.
We decided to swim after this, so we changed and met again. We mostly floated in the shallows of the lake as hands brushed together under murky waters and meaningful glances passed (and chaste little kisses as well).
Eventually we got cold and we all agreed to change then to go for a walk after dinner. So we changed back into our original clothing and ate, mulling things over as we sat, Shannie and I secretly communing with our thoughts.
We went out for our walk and met up, soon we found ourselves sitting, paired off, on a picnic bench gazing off to the purple mountains in the distance. We had been hyper, running off of sugar, and chatting about the moon, the stars, and our "shroom" garden at home. We told them to avoid the dotted red ones because they could make you high, we were giddy from sleepiness and hormones, secretly enjoying running our imaginations wild.
The night grew late, probably eleven or twelve and we had been sitting out there for a while until we were yawning and snoozing as we leaned against each other. We said our good nights, as Shannie and I walked, a bit subdued, to the motor home to rest.
We said goodbye in the morning. They waved to us from the dock, where they sat working at their motor again, and we grinned as we explained my dads rush to leave.
There was a glance that passed from boy to girl, and we left pondering what it meant, that look.
It was only a short time before I was hugging Shannie to say goodbye, another summer had passed. Yet there were summers to come, and memories that would last.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Timidity
I know no other way,
no truth,
no life.
Except your beating heart, solid against my own,
pulsing throughout my being,
causing blood to course through my veins
I am helpless before you
All this an illusion,
as you walk past.
For exposing my foolish heart,
would be to free the dove of mourning,
forever searching for its mate
or would it mean wholeness?
no truth,
no life.
Except your beating heart, solid against my own,
pulsing throughout my being,
causing blood to course through my veins
I am helpless before you
All this an illusion,
as you walk past.
For exposing my foolish heart,
would be to free the dove of mourning,
forever searching for its mate
or would it mean wholeness?
Thursday, July 23, 2009
The Drought
Kohana walked through the dusty scrub oak, panting slightly from the heat as he went. It had been unseasonably mild, earlier in the year, so the sudden onslaught of heat left him and everyone else surprised.
He scratched his fur against a pine tree trunk, that was conveniently exposed,hoping to get some of the under layers off that had built up over winter and that he had neglected to pull at during the cooler summer months.
Feeling some relief, he set off towards the cool stream that came down from the high mountain peaks. The area was oddly quiet as he approached, there was something wrong. The waters that had flowed as an unbidden torrent just a few short months ago had been slowly fading into a calm steady flow, he expected less water to be running, this he didn't expect.
The dry raised mud of the creek bottom was cracking in the sun, flies hovering just above the surface and thick dark mud showing where only a trickle of water still flowed.
He surveyed his surroundings, taking in the fresh droppings of black bear who liked to roam these parts and the fresh paw prints of Enola who liked to keep to herself in her old age.
He lowered his head and licked from the trickle, frustrated because his tongue kept picking up creek mud. Mud that while good for the creek, was not so pleasant in taste to the tongue.
He eyed upstream to see if there were any obvious reasons that the waters were so low. Then he turned to head back towards his burrow under some large fallen trees to get out of the sun, slightly dissatisfied with the tepid water.
He thought of following the creek upstream, but decided against any lengthy travel during the heat of the day, and buried himself as close to the rock face near the back of his burrow as he could.
At nightfall he emerged and headed back to the stream for another drink of the tepid water. Disgusted with the state of his water supply he set out, following the chirping crickets who always seemed to find their way to water and the soft sounds of the stream trickling past.
He had walked for several minutes in near silence when he heard a hoot from the grey owl. He heard her take flight, wings swooshing through the air, then the sudden eerie sound of her descending body, rustling leaves and shush of wings again. He knew she had caught her dinner, or breakfast, which ever you prefer.
This distraction almost made him miss the sound of twigs breaking nearby, he readied himself and smelled the air, his heart raced until Enola emerged from the thick underbrush.
"Something's wrong," she began without preamble. "It has not rained for many months now and the stream is almost dry." Her image became more clear to him as she approached.
"I know Enola, I feel instinctively that all creatures including wolves have not seen the likes of this for many generations." He said this in earnestness, remembering a lesson that she had once taught him about impertinence. With anyone else he would have made a sarcastic reply, her forceful manner irritated him, he wondered what she wanted with him.
She sensed his mood despite the respectful cover, her tone of voice raised a little "Kohana, wolves are dying out there! I have run across them myself!"
This news startled him, he had always been a careful hunter, burying thick bones full of marrow for leaner times. He had assumed that all wolves did this, or that things were not as bad as the great heat indicated.
"Enola, let us continue on, standing here is doing no good." She conceded this with a nod of her head in the full moon light and they set off each keeping a pace from the other.
They had walked for many miles, drinking from the tepid water at intervals, not finding any clues as the waters decrease.
Each kept to their own thoughts, until they heard a sudden crack and there was black bear, blinking. They had no desire to meet up with him so they crouched where they were and slowly backed into the forest.
The dark had been dissipating away, by unspoken agreement they headed deeper into the forest to find a place to rest. Kohana found a place to burrow and headed in, missing the feel of the cool stone against his hide at home.
The next day they set off again, following the stream, upwards climbing the rocky outcroppings of the cliff face where a tiny waterfall trickled downward. They walked more desperately as the days grew hotter, and the forest animals which were so easy to catch became treats when they caught them, for they too seemed to be disappearing with the water.
Enola had been visibly worsening, her once lustrous fur had lost its sheen and she stepped more clumsily now. Kohana urged her to burrow in and rest, he was swift and sure footed, he would continue on.
Each day grew hotter, and the stream continued to decrease in volume, even the nights were hot, mocking Kohana with thoughts of his home burrow.
He gazed up at the clear blue sky, as the sun brightened in the morning. He searched for thick clouds, clouds that would end his walk and aching thirst. There was no help there, only the tiniest of clouds mocking his longing with its insignificant mass.
He lowered his head to drink, but found no water. NO! It couldn't be! There had always been something, but now the thick mud lay drying in the rising sun. How quickly the stream had gone!
He turned and retreated into the forest to lay, day he grew weaker each day that he lay there. He had even pawed at the stream digging a hole which filled with water he lapped at it hastily, aware of the sun, no longer caring of the taste.
He lay down beside the creek bed, weary, the sun beating on him. He knew if it didn't rain soon that he would perish, he dimly thought of Enola.
Suddenly, he heard the crack of thunder, he smelled moisture gathering in the air. He lifted his head hopefully as thick clouds rolled in, and it started to rain.
It rained in torrents, drenching his weary body and bringing it back to life again, he lapped greedily at the rushing water.
The sound of swiftly moving water caught his attention and the multitude of logs rushing down the stream, near where he lay. Called to action, he leaped from his place onto a nearby rock as sticks and mud were washed away.
He stood there, reflecting for a moment, then turned and headed home.
He scratched his fur against a pine tree trunk, that was conveniently exposed,hoping to get some of the under layers off that had built up over winter and that he had neglected to pull at during the cooler summer months.
Feeling some relief, he set off towards the cool stream that came down from the high mountain peaks. The area was oddly quiet as he approached, there was something wrong. The waters that had flowed as an unbidden torrent just a few short months ago had been slowly fading into a calm steady flow, he expected less water to be running, this he didn't expect.
The dry raised mud of the creek bottom was cracking in the sun, flies hovering just above the surface and thick dark mud showing where only a trickle of water still flowed.
He surveyed his surroundings, taking in the fresh droppings of black bear who liked to roam these parts and the fresh paw prints of Enola who liked to keep to herself in her old age.
He lowered his head and licked from the trickle, frustrated because his tongue kept picking up creek mud. Mud that while good for the creek, was not so pleasant in taste to the tongue.
He eyed upstream to see if there were any obvious reasons that the waters were so low. Then he turned to head back towards his burrow under some large fallen trees to get out of the sun, slightly dissatisfied with the tepid water.
He thought of following the creek upstream, but decided against any lengthy travel during the heat of the day, and buried himself as close to the rock face near the back of his burrow as he could.
At nightfall he emerged and headed back to the stream for another drink of the tepid water. Disgusted with the state of his water supply he set out, following the chirping crickets who always seemed to find their way to water and the soft sounds of the stream trickling past.
He had walked for several minutes in near silence when he heard a hoot from the grey owl. He heard her take flight, wings swooshing through the air, then the sudden eerie sound of her descending body, rustling leaves and shush of wings again. He knew she had caught her dinner, or breakfast, which ever you prefer.
This distraction almost made him miss the sound of twigs breaking nearby, he readied himself and smelled the air, his heart raced until Enola emerged from the thick underbrush.
"Something's wrong," she began without preamble. "It has not rained for many months now and the stream is almost dry." Her image became more clear to him as she approached.
"I know Enola, I feel instinctively that all creatures including wolves have not seen the likes of this for many generations." He said this in earnestness, remembering a lesson that she had once taught him about impertinence. With anyone else he would have made a sarcastic reply, her forceful manner irritated him, he wondered what she wanted with him.
She sensed his mood despite the respectful cover, her tone of voice raised a little "Kohana, wolves are dying out there! I have run across them myself!"
This news startled him, he had always been a careful hunter, burying thick bones full of marrow for leaner times. He had assumed that all wolves did this, or that things were not as bad as the great heat indicated.
"Enola, let us continue on, standing here is doing no good." She conceded this with a nod of her head in the full moon light and they set off each keeping a pace from the other.
They had walked for many miles, drinking from the tepid water at intervals, not finding any clues as the waters decrease.
Each kept to their own thoughts, until they heard a sudden crack and there was black bear, blinking. They had no desire to meet up with him so they crouched where they were and slowly backed into the forest.
The dark had been dissipating away, by unspoken agreement they headed deeper into the forest to find a place to rest. Kohana found a place to burrow and headed in, missing the feel of the cool stone against his hide at home.
The next day they set off again, following the stream, upwards climbing the rocky outcroppings of the cliff face where a tiny waterfall trickled downward. They walked more desperately as the days grew hotter, and the forest animals which were so easy to catch became treats when they caught them, for they too seemed to be disappearing with the water.
Enola had been visibly worsening, her once lustrous fur had lost its sheen and she stepped more clumsily now. Kohana urged her to burrow in and rest, he was swift and sure footed, he would continue on.
Each day grew hotter, and the stream continued to decrease in volume, even the nights were hot, mocking Kohana with thoughts of his home burrow.
He gazed up at the clear blue sky, as the sun brightened in the morning. He searched for thick clouds, clouds that would end his walk and aching thirst. There was no help there, only the tiniest of clouds mocking his longing with its insignificant mass.
He lowered his head to drink, but found no water. NO! It couldn't be! There had always been something, but now the thick mud lay drying in the rising sun. How quickly the stream had gone!
He turned and retreated into the forest to lay, day he grew weaker each day that he lay there. He had even pawed at the stream digging a hole which filled with water he lapped at it hastily, aware of the sun, no longer caring of the taste.
He lay down beside the creek bed, weary, the sun beating on him. He knew if it didn't rain soon that he would perish, he dimly thought of Enola.
Suddenly, he heard the crack of thunder, he smelled moisture gathering in the air. He lifted his head hopefully as thick clouds rolled in, and it started to rain.
It rained in torrents, drenching his weary body and bringing it back to life again, he lapped greedily at the rushing water.
The sound of swiftly moving water caught his attention and the multitude of logs rushing down the stream, near where he lay. Called to action, he leaped from his place onto a nearby rock as sticks and mud were washed away.
He stood there, reflecting for a moment, then turned and headed home.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Where Earth and Heaven Meet
Cherubim guard the gate where earth and heaven meet,
there is no return.
She has left the garden,
searching where her head my lay.
It is the hour,
solitary in purpose, magnificent, radiant, a hush descends.
The scent is strong here,
the scent of divinity.
Divine breath,
she surrenders to Yahweh.
The forces of heaven gather,
the consecration of power shudders through her body.
she gasps,
she cries,
behold the manifestation of destiny.
there is no return.
She has left the garden,
searching where her head my lay.
It is the hour,
solitary in purpose, magnificent, radiant, a hush descends.
The scent is strong here,
the scent of divinity.
Divine breath,
she surrenders to Yahweh.
The forces of heaven gather,
the consecration of power shudders through her body.
she gasps,
she cries,
behold the manifestation of destiny.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Give me Life
I want to drink the sweet nectar of life.
I am a seeker of thrills, yet I am no fool.
Lay in the emerald grasses, breath in the scent of radiant wildflowers, reds, blues, pink and purple hues.
Run up the hill, to feel my heart beating, the adrenaline pumping, endorphin seeking.
Plunge myself headlong into the cold stream to come up gasping for air.
Crescendo's, staccato, mystical flutes, battles of sound, reverberation all around.
Calypso, voices, pounding on drums
Beautiful cords, harmonica hums.
Rhythm and blues, rock and roll, anything that has some soul.
Vibrant, resonating, beautiful taste.
Strawberries ripened in the sun,
Fresh cool watermelon on my tongue.
Peaches, plums, tangerines, sweet peas, sweet corn, sweet, fresh, devour in haste.
Anything that is full of life and harmony, undiluted, a simple melody.
Life
Come on and feel it, come on and taste it, embrace it. Soak in the sounds, the sights, the textures.
Run your hand over everything, bushes and vines, mosses and twine, rose petals, snails, pick up intricate shells.
Shells with their ridges, ever turning into eternity.
Give me fresh food to eat, give me life so sweet, words and song, humanities throng.
I want to live
I am a seeker of thrills, yet I am no fool.
Lay in the emerald grasses, breath in the scent of radiant wildflowers, reds, blues, pink and purple hues.
Run up the hill, to feel my heart beating, the adrenaline pumping, endorphin seeking.
Plunge myself headlong into the cold stream to come up gasping for air.
Crescendo's, staccato, mystical flutes, battles of sound, reverberation all around.
Calypso, voices, pounding on drums
Beautiful cords, harmonica hums.
Rhythm and blues, rock and roll, anything that has some soul.
Vibrant, resonating, beautiful taste.
Strawberries ripened in the sun,
Fresh cool watermelon on my tongue.
Peaches, plums, tangerines, sweet peas, sweet corn, sweet, fresh, devour in haste.
Anything that is full of life and harmony, undiluted, a simple melody.
Life
Come on and feel it, come on and taste it, embrace it. Soak in the sounds, the sights, the textures.
Run your hand over everything, bushes and vines, mosses and twine, rose petals, snails, pick up intricate shells.
Shells with their ridges, ever turning into eternity.
Give me fresh food to eat, give me life so sweet, words and song, humanities throng.
I want to live
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Of Dark Matter
Gaze out over the night sky, as dark as a fathomless pit, yet with a different quality about it. I believe they call it "dark matter."
Not realizing that what they mean is that even in places where darkness reigns, is a matter, so powerful as to let its presence be known.
We all have those dark places, holes left after the brilliant star that was shinning there has burnt out. It may seem like there is nothing there, but the observant know what is left, no insignificant emptiness, no.
A space that will fill with tears as you walk down familiar paths, a memory of something that is no more.
Yet brilliant stars can leave diamonds of memory also, cold after the warmth of the sun, yet no less beautiful.
Do we wish these fragments of memory to be gone? We may, yet without them the brilliance of the star will be forgotten. Without them we cannot feel as deeply as we do now and the joy's in the future would not mean as much to us.
Even matter that is dark is a reflection of something beautiful, made up of brilliant memories.
Not realizing that what they mean is that even in places where darkness reigns, is a matter, so powerful as to let its presence be known.
We all have those dark places, holes left after the brilliant star that was shinning there has burnt out. It may seem like there is nothing there, but the observant know what is left, no insignificant emptiness, no.
A space that will fill with tears as you walk down familiar paths, a memory of something that is no more.
Yet brilliant stars can leave diamonds of memory also, cold after the warmth of the sun, yet no less beautiful.
Do we wish these fragments of memory to be gone? We may, yet without them the brilliance of the star will be forgotten. Without them we cannot feel as deeply as we do now and the joy's in the future would not mean as much to us.
Even matter that is dark is a reflection of something beautiful, made up of brilliant memories.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Odd Celiac Duck
I am the odd duck
Ugly squawking thing
I ask for help but no one understands because I look fine.
I see that I will have to fend for myself, I am normal after all
So I sift all the messages, yet always seem to be lacking something
I want to but I cannot run
Everything irritates me I am dizzy and uncertain, there are always tears
I feel as though the swirling darkness will swallow me whole, I wish it would
So I borrow the ideals of others to be thin
Success is heady
Yet with each healthy muffin that I eat I find myself disappearing
Healthy?
Then why can I not lift this weight?
Each step becoming heavier than the last, and my tongue feels leaden in my throat.
Yet what could be wrong? I am doing everything right.
I lay down and close my aching eyes.
I am being swallowed up in nothingness, weak light, weak breath
I feel nothing, no pain, nothing
Slipping away I reach for a pen to write a last note to my sister.
I cannot eat, so I don’t
In the morning I awaken
I don’t eat what I usually do, only fruit
Then fruit and vegetables
Fruit, vegetables and meat
Steamed veggies, seared meat, raw milk, and rice
I can breath, I can think, I can feel
I can feel!! I can run!!
The sky is so blue, the mountains so green, it is beautiful
I feel vibrancy, I feel life flowing through me and in me from my head to my feet.
Joy! I am alive!
Ugly squawking thing
I ask for help but no one understands because I look fine.
I see that I will have to fend for myself, I am normal after all
So I sift all the messages, yet always seem to be lacking something
I want to but I cannot run
Everything irritates me I am dizzy and uncertain, there are always tears
I feel as though the swirling darkness will swallow me whole, I wish it would
So I borrow the ideals of others to be thin
Success is heady
Yet with each healthy muffin that I eat I find myself disappearing
Healthy?
Then why can I not lift this weight?
Each step becoming heavier than the last, and my tongue feels leaden in my throat.
Yet what could be wrong? I am doing everything right.
I lay down and close my aching eyes.
I am being swallowed up in nothingness, weak light, weak breath
I feel nothing, no pain, nothing
Slipping away I reach for a pen to write a last note to my sister.
I cannot eat, so I don’t
In the morning I awaken
I don’t eat what I usually do, only fruit
Then fruit and vegetables
Fruit, vegetables and meat
Steamed veggies, seared meat, raw milk, and rice
I can breath, I can think, I can feel
I can feel!! I can run!!
The sky is so blue, the mountains so green, it is beautiful
I feel vibrancy, I feel life flowing through me and in me from my head to my feet.
Joy! I am alive!
Secret Longings
Secret longings
For shadows filtered, resplendent over high peak, emerald hills and azure sky.
Awakening to breathe in the air of humanity, to taste the sweetness of baby’s head on my shoulder, gentle whispers, and the outstretched hand of long ago laughter, now come to drive me home again.
Joy in the flit of the butterfly’s wings, winds over sweet blossoms, a veiled smile upon my face as I remember the invisible drafts that I would float upon in fantasy.
These wide open spaces, wondrous sanity found among evergreen boughs and scented wind.
A silence pregnant with expectation, the possibilities found in the reverberation of strings seeking fingers, whilst this dreamer plays upon the full atmosphere of spirit found amongst the crevices of broken hearts and lonely ears.
To reach out and stroke the soft fur of kittens, an image of sweetness as they have yet to be born, their friendly mother my noonday companion.
Sweet water fresh from the filtered stream, through rugged mountain peaks. A taste left on my tongue, ephemeral sweetness, a reminder that there is soul in everything. Still waters in my cup, somehow missing that wildness.
Longing for friendly darkness, soft grasses to lay upon and gaze out at the stars in wonderment as the fresh wind blows through my hair and the silence of crickets in their hidden hollows reminds me of sweet dreams to find.
For shadows filtered, resplendent over high peak, emerald hills and azure sky.
Awakening to breathe in the air of humanity, to taste the sweetness of baby’s head on my shoulder, gentle whispers, and the outstretched hand of long ago laughter, now come to drive me home again.
Joy in the flit of the butterfly’s wings, winds over sweet blossoms, a veiled smile upon my face as I remember the invisible drafts that I would float upon in fantasy.
These wide open spaces, wondrous sanity found among evergreen boughs and scented wind.
A silence pregnant with expectation, the possibilities found in the reverberation of strings seeking fingers, whilst this dreamer plays upon the full atmosphere of spirit found amongst the crevices of broken hearts and lonely ears.
To reach out and stroke the soft fur of kittens, an image of sweetness as they have yet to be born, their friendly mother my noonday companion.
Sweet water fresh from the filtered stream, through rugged mountain peaks. A taste left on my tongue, ephemeral sweetness, a reminder that there is soul in everything. Still waters in my cup, somehow missing that wildness.
Longing for friendly darkness, soft grasses to lay upon and gaze out at the stars in wonderment as the fresh wind blows through my hair and the silence of crickets in their hidden hollows reminds me of sweet dreams to find.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Fire and Freedom
Playing with fire yes, envelope it into you, hold it close, ignore the burn.
Burn of passion, burn like the furnace, bright blazing fireworks across the sky.
You and me, we hold the fire between us and breath, but where does it go, it is leaking like lava from the cracks of my skin, out through the tears that I cry and it hurts.
Whispering shivers, taken into your spine up and down, release of crazy chemical reactions that feed off of my sanity leaving me a shell of idiocy.
Me and you, like a coal in my heart, once burned so brightly, once parked in the dark.
Up from the ashes, up from despair, I walk, I fight and I search for sanity, sanity, sanity.
No force of false freedom can get me to release what I once had lost but now found.
I am a woman, a woman who knows,
and I write.
Burn of passion, burn like the furnace, bright blazing fireworks across the sky.
You and me, we hold the fire between us and breath, but where does it go, it is leaking like lava from the cracks of my skin, out through the tears that I cry and it hurts.
Whispering shivers, taken into your spine up and down, release of crazy chemical reactions that feed off of my sanity leaving me a shell of idiocy.
Me and you, like a coal in my heart, once burned so brightly, once parked in the dark.
Up from the ashes, up from despair, I walk, I fight and I search for sanity, sanity, sanity.
No force of false freedom can get me to release what I once had lost but now found.
I am a woman, a woman who knows,
and I write.
A Bit of a Strange Dream
Somehow it is all out of place up here on this balcony, I have been waiting, and I continue to wait.
The wind blows and I am carried away, looking down at myself from above. I am sitting on decorative iron, in front of a decorative table, which has been laid with a small square of white linen.
The breeze rushes through my hair and I slap the tablecloth to keep it from flying away. In the next instant I am snatching my napkin and placing my foot on my purse and the balcony shudders.
The night is so dark, there are no clouds in the sky, each pinpoint of light from the stars shines down clearly. A glow from the restaurant lights up my face, partial shadows pervade, and I wait.
Thirsty I lift up my glass to find that it is full of wriggling creatures, I gasp but drink anyway then ask the waiter for more.
I am above it all, exclusive, privileged to be here, then why does the balcony feel as though it will shudder and fall.
Creaking and swaying, wood rotting away, yet I wait. Then it suddenly becomes clear to me, I am in the wrong place.
Am I really up there in that balcony, why would I be as I walk past I can see that it wouldn't fit a table at all.
I contemplate this as images move past my view, the ocean, stark blue vivid colored fish on the wall. The overhanging shades of the stores on Center St., I ponder these things as I get in my car to drive home.
The wind blows and I am carried away, looking down at myself from above. I am sitting on decorative iron, in front of a decorative table, which has been laid with a small square of white linen.
The breeze rushes through my hair and I slap the tablecloth to keep it from flying away. In the next instant I am snatching my napkin and placing my foot on my purse and the balcony shudders.
The night is so dark, there are no clouds in the sky, each pinpoint of light from the stars shines down clearly. A glow from the restaurant lights up my face, partial shadows pervade, and I wait.
Thirsty I lift up my glass to find that it is full of wriggling creatures, I gasp but drink anyway then ask the waiter for more.
I am above it all, exclusive, privileged to be here, then why does the balcony feel as though it will shudder and fall.
Creaking and swaying, wood rotting away, yet I wait. Then it suddenly becomes clear to me, I am in the wrong place.
Am I really up there in that balcony, why would I be as I walk past I can see that it wouldn't fit a table at all.
I contemplate this as images move past my view, the ocean, stark blue vivid colored fish on the wall. The overhanging shades of the stores on Center St., I ponder these things as I get in my car to drive home.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Dreams
Speak words so softly, the night has not yet passed,
my dream a reality that I have yet to grasp.
I walk among the mountain peaks, the mists and the sun rays through the clouds. I walk and the silence speaks, speaks to my heart, drawing the venom out, and I am left with conclusions.
The internal battle fought and I am aching, yearning for something, for joy and happiness to flow like milk and honey, to be filled from your presence, not drained.
I walk in silence, through the valley of eternal twilight where the crickets chirp all the day long, they search too for something that cannot be found on the grounds parched surface.
I am yours, you growl, desperately you seek to keep me. I cannot be understood with your eyes, for I am a creature of light, a creature of words.
Happiness and true fidelity will only flow from me as the give and take of life is mediated through shared confidences and understanding.
If you want me you must speak sincere words of beauty and life, or else I die, shrivelled up from neglect in a corner of your prized possessions.
I will lay down my downy dreamers head, to hide from you the tears that are caused by the stinging burn of a fire that takes and does not give.
I have stayed and I stay because you are ignorant and innocent, yet fire in love with water cannot be sustained.
My well is going dry
my dream a reality that I have yet to grasp.
I walk among the mountain peaks, the mists and the sun rays through the clouds. I walk and the silence speaks, speaks to my heart, drawing the venom out, and I am left with conclusions.
The internal battle fought and I am aching, yearning for something, for joy and happiness to flow like milk and honey, to be filled from your presence, not drained.
I walk in silence, through the valley of eternal twilight where the crickets chirp all the day long, they search too for something that cannot be found on the grounds parched surface.
I am yours, you growl, desperately you seek to keep me. I cannot be understood with your eyes, for I am a creature of light, a creature of words.
Happiness and true fidelity will only flow from me as the give and take of life is mediated through shared confidences and understanding.
If you want me you must speak sincere words of beauty and life, or else I die, shrivelled up from neglect in a corner of your prized possessions.
I will lay down my downy dreamers head, to hide from you the tears that are caused by the stinging burn of a fire that takes and does not give.
I have stayed and I stay because you are ignorant and innocent, yet fire in love with water cannot be sustained.
My well is going dry
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Dry
Eternity, a vision of you and me the circular symbol of fidelity.
In endless visions I fight, to understand what my dreams mean at night.
What bit of heart belongs to you,
what will I do, will I ever do?
I stand here empty,
words,
empty hands.
A vessel run dry,
no tears to cry.
*That's a lie
In endless visions I fight, to understand what my dreams mean at night.
What bit of heart belongs to you,
what will I do, will I ever do?
I stand here empty,
words,
empty hands.
A vessel run dry,
no tears to cry.
*That's a lie
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Fall of Man
The truth, the moment I held you,
though you tried to hide it.
Sweet perfume, an earring,
clues hiding in your kiss,
the truth on your lips.
Suspicion
Nothing, nothing was so powerful,
as the electricity in your embrace,
negative ions, repulsion.
I knew
The truth, eternally fought for and found.
The truth revealed, can it be hid?
Call forth the wisdom of the gods, call forth the idols, ashamed.
Bow down and worship, for I cannot be found amongst your possessions.
I see you in blurry eyed visions of the night, I see you as you leave
Give my heart back to me, give me back my soul, for this I plead.
I fell
In the dark hour, is the fall of man,
not alone fell he,
over the edge, into the sea
the fall of man, was the fall of me!
though you tried to hide it.
Sweet perfume, an earring,
clues hiding in your kiss,
the truth on your lips.
Suspicion
Nothing, nothing was so powerful,
as the electricity in your embrace,
negative ions, repulsion.
I knew
The truth, eternally fought for and found.
The truth revealed, can it be hid?
Call forth the wisdom of the gods, call forth the idols, ashamed.
Bow down and worship, for I cannot be found amongst your possessions.
I see you in blurry eyed visions of the night, I see you as you leave
Give my heart back to me, give me back my soul, for this I plead.
I fell
In the dark hour, is the fall of man,
not alone fell he,
over the edge, into the sea
the fall of man, was the fall of me!
The Lull Before the Storm
It is the rolling thunder,
it is coming over me.
The waves rise, imperceptibly, they rise, and rise, not a threat or so it seems. It is like looking on in fascination as your hopes and dreams are washed away, washed persistently away.
You hold no more power than the wooden fence cracking along it's beams, the great whirlwind traverses its trail, shattering once sturdy dreams.
The calm before the storm, deceptive silence, eerie light. Stray breezes play with the leaves and somehow you know its not right.
Silence, anticipation, nervous fascination
a storm is coming
I calmly clean the kitchen, aware of the threat, I understand
Yet all I can do is look on in fascination as the waves rise.
I hold no more power than the twisted gnarled tree that met its fate in its battle with the whirlwind.
I am tied to the railroad tracks, the train is moving slowly but I know it is coming.
In a daze, a slow kind of apathy I walk out to meet the storm.
The breezes dance along the ground, carrying leaves and garbage, no animals are in sight.
The winds are increasing I am watching from my front porch as the sky is darkened and the thunder rolls. Branches slap against the house, and pop cans rattle down the street, mother natures angry defiance against the scars upon her face.
Awake, finally, awake I rush about closing the windows new energy ensues.
Would that I could rush like this during the lull.
Have you ever stared into the future and known what was coming, yet stood, powerless to prevent it?
it is coming over me.
The waves rise, imperceptibly, they rise, and rise, not a threat or so it seems. It is like looking on in fascination as your hopes and dreams are washed away, washed persistently away.
You hold no more power than the wooden fence cracking along it's beams, the great whirlwind traverses its trail, shattering once sturdy dreams.
The calm before the storm, deceptive silence, eerie light. Stray breezes play with the leaves and somehow you know its not right.
Silence, anticipation, nervous fascination
a storm is coming
I calmly clean the kitchen, aware of the threat, I understand
Yet all I can do is look on in fascination as the waves rise.
I hold no more power than the twisted gnarled tree that met its fate in its battle with the whirlwind.
I am tied to the railroad tracks, the train is moving slowly but I know it is coming.
In a daze, a slow kind of apathy I walk out to meet the storm.
The breezes dance along the ground, carrying leaves and garbage, no animals are in sight.
The winds are increasing I am watching from my front porch as the sky is darkened and the thunder rolls. Branches slap against the house, and pop cans rattle down the street, mother natures angry defiance against the scars upon her face.
Awake, finally, awake I rush about closing the windows new energy ensues.
Would that I could rush like this during the lull.
Have you ever stared into the future and known what was coming, yet stood, powerless to prevent it?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Lost Childhood
Once precious child, once newly minted life. Fresh ideals and outlook. How bright things seem as you dance among your dreams, precious flowers and buttons, fascination at life.
How delight can change to dismay, as those around you don't seem to understand. How wearing, how draining, as life is sucked away as the dismal clouds of gloom surround to smother your dreams.
Odd, I find that I am an impassionate observer of tinsel and ribbons, laughter and singing, odd that it is so.
Under the surface lingers a memory, a memory of magic, a memory of life. Longing ever present longing to gather jewels again.
I have folded my dreams, and put them in my pocket. I did it on purpose, a young girl trying to grow up and I have. My dolls sit silent in a closet, away from the stares of ignorance at the magic they once held.
Fairies and phantoms, Santa Claus, shivers of fear in the dark. I would trade this cynicism for another chance, I would give away all my grown up idiocy in an instant.
Yet I am always running, trying to catch the train I have missed. I fall to my knees in a prayer, exhausted, I try to conjure my innocent belief. Remember how it once felt to believe.
How delight can change to dismay, as those around you don't seem to understand. How wearing, how draining, as life is sucked away as the dismal clouds of gloom surround to smother your dreams.
Odd, I find that I am an impassionate observer of tinsel and ribbons, laughter and singing, odd that it is so.
Under the surface lingers a memory, a memory of magic, a memory of life. Longing ever present longing to gather jewels again.
I have folded my dreams, and put them in my pocket. I did it on purpose, a young girl trying to grow up and I have. My dolls sit silent in a closet, away from the stares of ignorance at the magic they once held.
Fairies and phantoms, Santa Claus, shivers of fear in the dark. I would trade this cynicism for another chance, I would give away all my grown up idiocy in an instant.
Yet I am always running, trying to catch the train I have missed. I fall to my knees in a prayer, exhausted, I try to conjure my innocent belief. Remember how it once felt to believe.
Your Eyes
(I wanted to share this piece again, a story of life)
The first awe filled look out of newborn eyes, blinking, staring in wonder into my own. Trusting wide eyes that close in gratitude as a little body is wrapped and held close, sheltered and warm.
Baby’s sweet breath on my chest, even, deep, soft slumber. Labor is over, or, is it just beginning? Your eyes filled with those first sanguine moments, the calm before the storm.
The anguish of adjustment, I pace with you, back and forth. During a breathless pause I see in your eyes, the innocence, the discomfort, pleading with me to understand.
You would sleep if you could. So I close my own eyes, swallow tears of frustration and continue to carry you. Patting your back until I feel like my arms will fall off from fatigue.
So it goes until a certain moment, when a new light appears in your eyes, each day subtle changes come. Eyes filled with the wonder of discovering new things. With amazement as you learn to walk, unsteady so I hold your hand. Occasionally you let go then grasp for my fingers, to steady your step.
Each day your eyes are changing, brightening at the funny bird hopping along, laughing as you dump water on my head, or the whole box of sunflower seeds, which I try to grasp, but the seeds slip from my fingers cascading down as your peals of laughter fill my ears.
As you grow, I try to catch the moments, those sudden unexpected turnings from one stage of life to another. At times as you sleep I slip into your room, gathering you up for a moment, breathing in the essence of your spirit. Because I know that when you awaken you will be different, a little bit older, and a new you will emerge.
Each day comes in like the tide and retreats just as swiftly. At moments we suddenly notice this and rush after the water trying to catch a bit of what was once there. But days like the tide don’t tend to stick around and with each retreating tide a change is so suddenly made.
Thus it is that I find myself staring into the eyes of a teenager. Where did my little friend go? Your eyes are guarded, guarded against the pricks of the world, begging for acceptance.
Sometimes I see you, the real you, hiding behind those eyes of yours. Those are sacred moments, jewels I like to treasure because at the first your little soul was a diamond, now sullied and roughed up by the careless acts of harsh eyes.
If I could I would polish it again to revel in the joy of your laughter. Laughter which too often now is shared with others, others who are your friends, I am not there to see your eyes shine.
I take all of this into account as I continue to care for you, looking after your needs until one day, your eyes stare into mine with understanding again. That accusing teenage look has finally slipped away. Though I have still lost you, to the alluring call of the world.
You go out on your own and are so often gone. Then suddenly you are here again, your eyes filled with the exciting joy of love, and I share in your joy, glad to see the old spark again.
Just as suddenly, I find that your eyes hold the remnants of a shattered soul, and I watch as you try to put the pieces back together again.
More guarded now your eyes meet many more people who fill them with happiness. You find one pair that shares your sacred soul connection and you marry, bringing new little eyes into my life.
I revel in their innocence, finding that I can savor their spicy little spirits, more so because I am not the one patting and carrying their little backs throughout the night.
My eyes now are often filled with the touch of a friend, looking into other eyes, seeking to bless other souls. Things are turning again, again I see less and less of your eyes.
Until one day, my expectations about life begin to change. Where I once held you strong against my breast, I find that my arms ache. Not from the constant care bestowed on another, but from the strain of living.
I look out of eyes, grown wiser with age, but weaker as well. I wonder over the rising and setting of the sun, the stars as they rotate through the sky and I look into your eyes again.
Searching for the understanding that was between us at the first. You hold me close to your chest, and hold my hand to steady me as I try to walk. To me, I feel safe and secure, wrapped in a blanket, sheltered and warm.
The first awe filled look out of newborn eyes, blinking, staring in wonder into my own. Trusting wide eyes that close in gratitude as a little body is wrapped and held close, sheltered and warm.
Baby’s sweet breath on my chest, even, deep, soft slumber. Labor is over, or, is it just beginning? Your eyes filled with those first sanguine moments, the calm before the storm.
The anguish of adjustment, I pace with you, back and forth. During a breathless pause I see in your eyes, the innocence, the discomfort, pleading with me to understand.
You would sleep if you could. So I close my own eyes, swallow tears of frustration and continue to carry you. Patting your back until I feel like my arms will fall off from fatigue.
So it goes until a certain moment, when a new light appears in your eyes, each day subtle changes come. Eyes filled with the wonder of discovering new things. With amazement as you learn to walk, unsteady so I hold your hand. Occasionally you let go then grasp for my fingers, to steady your step.
Each day your eyes are changing, brightening at the funny bird hopping along, laughing as you dump water on my head, or the whole box of sunflower seeds, which I try to grasp, but the seeds slip from my fingers cascading down as your peals of laughter fill my ears.
As you grow, I try to catch the moments, those sudden unexpected turnings from one stage of life to another. At times as you sleep I slip into your room, gathering you up for a moment, breathing in the essence of your spirit. Because I know that when you awaken you will be different, a little bit older, and a new you will emerge.
Each day comes in like the tide and retreats just as swiftly. At moments we suddenly notice this and rush after the water trying to catch a bit of what was once there. But days like the tide don’t tend to stick around and with each retreating tide a change is so suddenly made.
Thus it is that I find myself staring into the eyes of a teenager. Where did my little friend go? Your eyes are guarded, guarded against the pricks of the world, begging for acceptance.
Sometimes I see you, the real you, hiding behind those eyes of yours. Those are sacred moments, jewels I like to treasure because at the first your little soul was a diamond, now sullied and roughed up by the careless acts of harsh eyes.
If I could I would polish it again to revel in the joy of your laughter. Laughter which too often now is shared with others, others who are your friends, I am not there to see your eyes shine.
I take all of this into account as I continue to care for you, looking after your needs until one day, your eyes stare into mine with understanding again. That accusing teenage look has finally slipped away. Though I have still lost you, to the alluring call of the world.
You go out on your own and are so often gone. Then suddenly you are here again, your eyes filled with the exciting joy of love, and I share in your joy, glad to see the old spark again.
Just as suddenly, I find that your eyes hold the remnants of a shattered soul, and I watch as you try to put the pieces back together again.
More guarded now your eyes meet many more people who fill them with happiness. You find one pair that shares your sacred soul connection and you marry, bringing new little eyes into my life.
I revel in their innocence, finding that I can savor their spicy little spirits, more so because I am not the one patting and carrying their little backs throughout the night.
My eyes now are often filled with the touch of a friend, looking into other eyes, seeking to bless other souls. Things are turning again, again I see less and less of your eyes.
Until one day, my expectations about life begin to change. Where I once held you strong against my breast, I find that my arms ache. Not from the constant care bestowed on another, but from the strain of living.
I look out of eyes, grown wiser with age, but weaker as well. I wonder over the rising and setting of the sun, the stars as they rotate through the sky and I look into your eyes again.
Searching for the understanding that was between us at the first. You hold me close to your chest, and hold my hand to steady me as I try to walk. To me, I feel safe and secure, wrapped in a blanket, sheltered and warm.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Consuming
I thought when I saw you, that you liked me, intriguing, I continue as though you're not there.
Introductions, "nice to meet you," I smile, a grin, my hand you grasp with a stare.
Beginnings
Chance encounters, chance? Ah yes we both know, the excuses.
"How are you?" You ask me, "Fine, fine, can't complain" and we rush off again, we both know, ah yes.
Excuses, excuses
Then we talk, more and a bit more, until the habit is there I'm aware.
Fresh soap, pressed linen, scents that linger, I remember.
Your voice fills my head, fills my head.
Full of you, full, I cannot escape and I wonder.
Am I rash? Am I foolish? To let you in so.
Yet you grip me, you grip and control and I know that I'm falling, falling away.
From sanity, sane, what's happened to me?
You, you
Where am I?
I don't know
Give me breath, give me air, give me time
You cannot
So trembling, I'll try to let go.
(Take it slow)
*Pout, this is not romantic, but it is how the poem came out. I'll have to try again. ;D
Introductions, "nice to meet you," I smile, a grin, my hand you grasp with a stare.
Beginnings
Chance encounters, chance? Ah yes we both know, the excuses.
"How are you?" You ask me, "Fine, fine, can't complain" and we rush off again, we both know, ah yes.
Excuses, excuses
Then we talk, more and a bit more, until the habit is there I'm aware.
Fresh soap, pressed linen, scents that linger, I remember.
Your voice fills my head, fills my head.
Full of you, full, I cannot escape and I wonder.
Am I rash? Am I foolish? To let you in so.
Yet you grip me, you grip and control and I know that I'm falling, falling away.
From sanity, sane, what's happened to me?
You, you
Where am I?
I don't know
Give me breath, give me air, give me time
You cannot
So trembling, I'll try to let go.
(Take it slow)
*Pout, this is not romantic, but it is how the poem came out. I'll have to try again. ;D
When I am a Saint
Here I stand, a saint, a martyr, either a stalwart or a fool.
The ultimate question, is there a God? I ask this to myself every day.
I have believed, I have believed and yes I have found thee before.
Limitations, and power, wielding desire. Silent battles of will, silent authorship of my soul.
What talents, what blessings, what sacrifices for me? I am blind yet I walk, and I cannot see.
Yes the answers are there, they are. Yet each day I wonder is this trial deep enough? has the bottom been hit? How foolish I am Lord, I am, I am.
Talisman, holy water, sacred sachets of old, if I hold them tight enough I may break through the barriers to luck and prosperity. Find those hidden wells of knowledge and become the un-bendable saint.
Play by the rules, yet the rules are often wrong, how foolish to be strict in that way.
Yet the straight and the narrow way, lead to thee. Straight and narrow, not turning to one side nor the other.
Tell me then, when my reason is not foolishness, when my understanding is complete, when I, I am a saint.
The ultimate question, is there a God? I ask this to myself every day.
I have believed, I have believed and yes I have found thee before.
Limitations, and power, wielding desire. Silent battles of will, silent authorship of my soul.
What talents, what blessings, what sacrifices for me? I am blind yet I walk, and I cannot see.
Yes the answers are there, they are. Yet each day I wonder is this trial deep enough? has the bottom been hit? How foolish I am Lord, I am, I am.
Talisman, holy water, sacred sachets of old, if I hold them tight enough I may break through the barriers to luck and prosperity. Find those hidden wells of knowledge and become the un-bendable saint.
Play by the rules, yet the rules are often wrong, how foolish to be strict in that way.
Yet the straight and the narrow way, lead to thee. Straight and narrow, not turning to one side nor the other.
Tell me then, when my reason is not foolishness, when my understanding is complete, when I, I am a saint.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Gone
Such power you wield
Mesmerized
Hypnotized
Murmur in my ear, fleeting words
I cannot hold them
Ghosts in my head
I try to run, escape
Desperate for the honeyed tones
I call
Touching briefly the place where our lips lingered
You are gone
I know
So am I
Mesmerized
Hypnotized
Murmur in my ear, fleeting words
I cannot hold them
Ghosts in my head
I try to run, escape
Desperate for the honeyed tones
I call
Touching briefly the place where our lips lingered
You are gone
I know
So am I
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Sunday Storm
(Rick's piece reminded me of this piece) ;D
Gathering wind, a smattering of rain,
fierce elemental forces seeking entrance, shaking the windows, rushing past the door,
taking control,
of the pines and the aspens, sturdy fences shattering.
My soul awakens.
The wind dashes against me as I step out,
A raw dash of rain hits my face,
and I gaze at the nodding pines and aspens shivering in the wind.
Aware
of broken glass and tattered tarp flapping in the wind.
I walk against the elements, appreciating the smell of rain,
the scent of wet cedar wood and pavement, co-mingling, a subtle scent.
Puddles gather in the cracked pavement, the grass of the lawn a wet dark green.
I step over worms, and hear bird seed crunch as I walk,
walk away,
the earths spirit speaks to my own.
A fitting backdrop I think,
to life's storms.
(Or if you will, the original version)
Gathering wind, a smattering of rain, fierce elemental forces seeking entrance. Shaking the windows, rushing past the door, taking control of the pines and the aspens, sturdy fences shuttering.
My soul awakens.
The wind dashes against me as I step out onto the back porch. I feel the raw tingle of rain against my face and am drawn to watch the nodding pine tree as a dozen little aspens quake, their leaves dancing about, above the old garage.
The windows wink at me through the broken glass and the blue tarp that my father has tied on the front is drawn and dashed by the wind.
I walk against the elements, appreciating the smell of the rain, as well as the scent of wet cedar wood and pavement, co-mingling, a subtle mixture that reminds me of my parents home.
Puddles gather in the cracked pavement, the grass of the lawn a darker wet green. Worms make there way up to escape their muddy prisons, I avoid them as I step and hear the bird seed crunching beneath my feet.
I feel the fellowship of the earths spirit, speaking to my own as I walk through the storm, a fitting backdrop for tumultuous feelings. I gaze fearless about me, somehow finding my mind to be clearer, my determination more sure.
Storms come, life is like a storm. Things that seemed sturdy can be shaken and tossed, sometimes shattered. Yet the earth and I have one great goal, renewal and regrowth.
A wiping away of the old and the ugly, sewing new seeds, seeds of beauty.
Gathering wind, a smattering of rain,
fierce elemental forces seeking entrance, shaking the windows, rushing past the door,
taking control,
of the pines and the aspens, sturdy fences shattering.
My soul awakens.
The wind dashes against me as I step out,
A raw dash of rain hits my face,
and I gaze at the nodding pines and aspens shivering in the wind.
Aware
of broken glass and tattered tarp flapping in the wind.
I walk against the elements, appreciating the smell of rain,
the scent of wet cedar wood and pavement, co-mingling, a subtle scent.
Puddles gather in the cracked pavement, the grass of the lawn a wet dark green.
I step over worms, and hear bird seed crunch as I walk,
walk away,
the earths spirit speaks to my own.
A fitting backdrop I think,
to life's storms.
(Or if you will, the original version)
Gathering wind, a smattering of rain, fierce elemental forces seeking entrance. Shaking the windows, rushing past the door, taking control of the pines and the aspens, sturdy fences shuttering.
My soul awakens.
The wind dashes against me as I step out onto the back porch. I feel the raw tingle of rain against my face and am drawn to watch the nodding pine tree as a dozen little aspens quake, their leaves dancing about, above the old garage.
The windows wink at me through the broken glass and the blue tarp that my father has tied on the front is drawn and dashed by the wind.
I walk against the elements, appreciating the smell of the rain, as well as the scent of wet cedar wood and pavement, co-mingling, a subtle mixture that reminds me of my parents home.
Puddles gather in the cracked pavement, the grass of the lawn a darker wet green. Worms make there way up to escape their muddy prisons, I avoid them as I step and hear the bird seed crunching beneath my feet.
I feel the fellowship of the earths spirit, speaking to my own as I walk through the storm, a fitting backdrop for tumultuous feelings. I gaze fearless about me, somehow finding my mind to be clearer, my determination more sure.
Storms come, life is like a storm. Things that seemed sturdy can be shaken and tossed, sometimes shattered. Yet the earth and I have one great goal, renewal and regrowth.
A wiping away of the old and the ugly, sewing new seeds, seeds of beauty.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Dream Snatchers
Dream snatchers are insidious creatures,
They are lurking
waiting
to get at your dreams, so fair,
beware
How foolish to dare, how foolish to share.
(For dream snatchers are everywhere)
beware
You must have dreams, like the air,
just be careful, my friends,
beware
(For dream snatchers are everywhere!)
beware
They are lurking
waiting
to get at your dreams, so fair,
beware
How foolish to dare, how foolish to share.
(For dream snatchers are everywhere)
beware
You must have dreams, like the air,
just be careful, my friends,
beware
(For dream snatchers are everywhere!)
beware
Friday, July 3, 2009
Free Summer Days
The day outside has started off grey and chilly but that doesn't deter us because we love the extra intrigue that it adds to the air.
It is as though someone has added a filter to the sun, the greens of the garden, the pink of the spicy miniature roses on their bush stand out as if colored as an afterthought on a black and white painting.
We zip up our jackets and wear an extra shirt as well, then we run around the house looking for magnets, flashlights, and a camera. We also fill baggies with cereal to take along with us and dig out the stale bread from the bread cupboard to feed to the ducks.
We hop on our bikes, a bit awkward with our stash of stuff, yet eager as well. We peddle down the road, stopping occasionally to adjust things, and going slow because we keep letting go of the handle bars to grab a bag here or a flashlight there.
When we get to the river trail we park our bikes by the rusty metal bridge and put our stuff down while we lock them up.
First of all we decide to get rid of the stale bread by feeding the ducks. They know what we are there for so they all gather around us quacking, and a few geese nip at them and honk at us.
We can't break the bread up fast enough, the ducks are voracious eaters. They are so jumpy and noisy that it is amusing. I get mad because the little green headed mallard keeps pushing a little grey girl out of the way to get at the bread. So I devise a strategy to throw a piece out behind the girl and away from the boy.
This almost works but a large matronly female snatches it, defeated the little girl duck sits patiently while the others get there fill. So I hold off a minute until the others lose interest, then I carefully throw a bit out for the little grey.
We throw the bags away in the near by trash containers and head out to the park. Passing up the slides and the swings we slip quietly into the tangled trees and bushes. The light becomes even more filtered and interesting.
Here we find scattered leaves and tree branches. Intertwined vines, climbing overgrown trees. Tall grasses, weeds and a bit of junk here and there. We follow the foot path for a bit, then step into the overgrowth to pick our way through it, as if we were exploring some foreign jungle.
Occasionally we over turn matted piles of leaves and the essential oils of the earth rise up to hit our noses, we breath this in deeply.
Daniel heads off to the left, I call out to him "don't climb any tree's, cause' I don't want to go and get Dad if you get stuck." He calls back "don't worry, don't worry." In a sarcastic, teasing tone of voice.
Finding myself alone, I turn on the flashlight to help me pick my way through the tilting branches, grown over by morning glory and climbing ivy. I reach out to move a branch out of the way and push gently at first, but find that it is sturdier than I thought so I press against it firmly and it presses firmly back.
I am a bit unsteady as I carefully step over a log on the ground, and hold the tree limb back while I pass. The trees here grow in a circle, and I feel as though I have entered into the middle of a circle of female friends who have linked their arms together.
I sit down here, where the grass and moss combine and lean back on my hands, gazing at the criss cross pattern of tree limbs competing and climbing together towards the sun.
Here I curl up, to breath in the scent of the earth, the smell of new grass mixed with the scent of the old. I close my eyes for a while, dreaming my forest dreams, then hear the birds chasing each other off in the distance.
Their chattering disturbs my solitude so I open my eyes and stretch, yawning. Crouching I turn on my flashlight to discover what I can among the secret places.
Gaps between vines, spaces between the earth and fallen trees, under bushes, and out over the meadow grasses. I feel as though the hidden magical creatures are spying on me, just out of sight and that if I am fast enough I can catch them.
Alas I find sticks and twigs, rocks and dirt, and bits of garbage, which always makes me mad. I snatch a stray plastic bag off of the nearest branch and start picking up garbage furiously, miffed at other peoples thoughtlessness.
After a while I get tired of this and decide to go find my brother. I find him climbing, back and forth between the interspersed trees. He jumps from one tree, and clings to another, having a glorious time.
"Daniel, come on!! Get down!" He ignores me and climbs higher. "Well fine! I am going to go throw this garbage away then I'm going to go walk along the river to catch some water skeeters."
So I head off towards the clearing and I hear Daniel crashing around in the underbrush to catch up. I throw away the garbage, then run, zipping past Daniel on his way to catch me, off to the river.
There I slowly descend the bank, over the rocks and chunks of concrete that someone had decided to throw there. In the dappled light of the river, near the slow moving edges of the riverbank, we find the little skeeters skittering about on their four tiny legs.
Their feet make concentric circles, ever widening and interspersing together as they dash along. We decide to leave them alone today, because we didn't bring a container for them, though we contemplate our empty sandwich baggies for the job. Fortunately for the skeeters we can imagine them being squished in the baggies, so we don't use them and head back up the riverbank again.
The sun had come out so we headed down the asphalt trail by the river towards the underpasses, where the cars and then trains passed, the first underpass being for cars and the second for trains.
The sun soaked asphalt was starting to get hot, so we took off our jackets and swung them around as we walked. We passed up the first underpass for the alluring possibilities that awaited us under the train pass.
First of all it was cool to look up at the tracks from underneath, to see the rail ties all lined up like fence posts. Secondly when we hopped up on the cement barrier, which kept out the river on the other side, we could find black metal filings to play with.
We would take out our magnets and run them through the dirt picking up the filings. Then we gathered them up in our baggies to bring them home. Then we would sit on the cement, because nothing grew in the dirt under the bridge, and we put our feet up in front of us. Laying back to watch for trains, thrilling a little at the idea of a train passing right over us.
After a while, when no train came, we got up. Being chilled from the cool river breezes and dark underpass air, we put our jackets back on and emerged from our dark hideaway. We walked slowly back to where our bikes were parked, letting the sun soak into us, warming us again. Then we hopped on our bikes and slowly peddled home again, feeling free, unburdened from care.
It is as though someone has added a filter to the sun, the greens of the garden, the pink of the spicy miniature roses on their bush stand out as if colored as an afterthought on a black and white painting.
We zip up our jackets and wear an extra shirt as well, then we run around the house looking for magnets, flashlights, and a camera. We also fill baggies with cereal to take along with us and dig out the stale bread from the bread cupboard to feed to the ducks.
We hop on our bikes, a bit awkward with our stash of stuff, yet eager as well. We peddle down the road, stopping occasionally to adjust things, and going slow because we keep letting go of the handle bars to grab a bag here or a flashlight there.
When we get to the river trail we park our bikes by the rusty metal bridge and put our stuff down while we lock them up.
First of all we decide to get rid of the stale bread by feeding the ducks. They know what we are there for so they all gather around us quacking, and a few geese nip at them and honk at us.
We can't break the bread up fast enough, the ducks are voracious eaters. They are so jumpy and noisy that it is amusing. I get mad because the little green headed mallard keeps pushing a little grey girl out of the way to get at the bread. So I devise a strategy to throw a piece out behind the girl and away from the boy.
This almost works but a large matronly female snatches it, defeated the little girl duck sits patiently while the others get there fill. So I hold off a minute until the others lose interest, then I carefully throw a bit out for the little grey.
We throw the bags away in the near by trash containers and head out to the park. Passing up the slides and the swings we slip quietly into the tangled trees and bushes. The light becomes even more filtered and interesting.
Here we find scattered leaves and tree branches. Intertwined vines, climbing overgrown trees. Tall grasses, weeds and a bit of junk here and there. We follow the foot path for a bit, then step into the overgrowth to pick our way through it, as if we were exploring some foreign jungle.
Occasionally we over turn matted piles of leaves and the essential oils of the earth rise up to hit our noses, we breath this in deeply.
Daniel heads off to the left, I call out to him "don't climb any tree's, cause' I don't want to go and get Dad if you get stuck." He calls back "don't worry, don't worry." In a sarcastic, teasing tone of voice.
Finding myself alone, I turn on the flashlight to help me pick my way through the tilting branches, grown over by morning glory and climbing ivy. I reach out to move a branch out of the way and push gently at first, but find that it is sturdier than I thought so I press against it firmly and it presses firmly back.
I am a bit unsteady as I carefully step over a log on the ground, and hold the tree limb back while I pass. The trees here grow in a circle, and I feel as though I have entered into the middle of a circle of female friends who have linked their arms together.
I sit down here, where the grass and moss combine and lean back on my hands, gazing at the criss cross pattern of tree limbs competing and climbing together towards the sun.
Here I curl up, to breath in the scent of the earth, the smell of new grass mixed with the scent of the old. I close my eyes for a while, dreaming my forest dreams, then hear the birds chasing each other off in the distance.
Their chattering disturbs my solitude so I open my eyes and stretch, yawning. Crouching I turn on my flashlight to discover what I can among the secret places.
Gaps between vines, spaces between the earth and fallen trees, under bushes, and out over the meadow grasses. I feel as though the hidden magical creatures are spying on me, just out of sight and that if I am fast enough I can catch them.
Alas I find sticks and twigs, rocks and dirt, and bits of garbage, which always makes me mad. I snatch a stray plastic bag off of the nearest branch and start picking up garbage furiously, miffed at other peoples thoughtlessness.
After a while I get tired of this and decide to go find my brother. I find him climbing, back and forth between the interspersed trees. He jumps from one tree, and clings to another, having a glorious time.
"Daniel, come on!! Get down!" He ignores me and climbs higher. "Well fine! I am going to go throw this garbage away then I'm going to go walk along the river to catch some water skeeters."
So I head off towards the clearing and I hear Daniel crashing around in the underbrush to catch up. I throw away the garbage, then run, zipping past Daniel on his way to catch me, off to the river.
There I slowly descend the bank, over the rocks and chunks of concrete that someone had decided to throw there. In the dappled light of the river, near the slow moving edges of the riverbank, we find the little skeeters skittering about on their four tiny legs.
Their feet make concentric circles, ever widening and interspersing together as they dash along. We decide to leave them alone today, because we didn't bring a container for them, though we contemplate our empty sandwich baggies for the job. Fortunately for the skeeters we can imagine them being squished in the baggies, so we don't use them and head back up the riverbank again.
The sun had come out so we headed down the asphalt trail by the river towards the underpasses, where the cars and then trains passed, the first underpass being for cars and the second for trains.
The sun soaked asphalt was starting to get hot, so we took off our jackets and swung them around as we walked. We passed up the first underpass for the alluring possibilities that awaited us under the train pass.
First of all it was cool to look up at the tracks from underneath, to see the rail ties all lined up like fence posts. Secondly when we hopped up on the cement barrier, which kept out the river on the other side, we could find black metal filings to play with.
We would take out our magnets and run them through the dirt picking up the filings. Then we gathered them up in our baggies to bring them home. Then we would sit on the cement, because nothing grew in the dirt under the bridge, and we put our feet up in front of us. Laying back to watch for trains, thrilling a little at the idea of a train passing right over us.
After a while, when no train came, we got up. Being chilled from the cool river breezes and dark underpass air, we put our jackets back on and emerged from our dark hideaway. We walked slowly back to where our bikes were parked, letting the sun soak into us, warming us again. Then we hopped on our bikes and slowly peddled home again, feeling free, unburdened from care.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Becoming
Out of silence, a cry, oh beautiful sound a new life is born.
Feel the beat deep down in your soul, the pulsing realness of life, the throbbing of the earth moving through celestial lights. Gaze up into the atmosphere at the blues and reds, the undulating waves of the universe.
Taste the sweetness of fresh vibrant food, of strawberries picked from the sun warmed earth, of an apple just off the tree. Can you taste it, it is the living energy of the earth.
Dance!! Pulsating beats awakening the spirit in you, the spirit that has been crying out for release. Your body moves, you close your eyes and feel.
Remember the most sincere hug that you have ever received, the spirit of another reaching your heart, taking some of the ache away and sharing it as their own.
Remember caring, remember a good cry, remember feeling so angry that you wanted to scream and hit your pillows and bed in frustration, remember laughing until your sides hurt.
Dance, sing, scream with passion, become!!
Feel the beat deep down in your soul, the pulsing realness of life, the throbbing of the earth moving through celestial lights. Gaze up into the atmosphere at the blues and reds, the undulating waves of the universe.
Taste the sweetness of fresh vibrant food, of strawberries picked from the sun warmed earth, of an apple just off the tree. Can you taste it, it is the living energy of the earth.
Dance!! Pulsating beats awakening the spirit in you, the spirit that has been crying out for release. Your body moves, you close your eyes and feel.
Remember the most sincere hug that you have ever received, the spirit of another reaching your heart, taking some of the ache away and sharing it as their own.
Remember caring, remember a good cry, remember feeling so angry that you wanted to scream and hit your pillows and bed in frustration, remember laughing until your sides hurt.
Dance, sing, scream with passion, become!!
Ephemeral Peace
Ascending higher and higher, expectations climb as you face the unknown. How numb you feel after so long. There are tears residing in a sore little spot in your chest. You don't even know why they are there; they just are. So, your bafflement is complete as you step out into the real world, and you find an eerie silence, silence as deep as the great stone canyons that rise above you.
Feel the peace of the mountains; somehow, the air is richer, and the stifled breath that you unconsciously held is released as you walk around. The only thoughts in your head are of greenery and the gravel crunching beneath your feet.
There are pungent smells of growth and decay—fresh woodsy lichen and moss. Water becomes a melodious companion to the birds flittering in the trees, calling for their lovers.
Contemplate that; contemplate reality. There are busy creatures here, building homes, finding food. We are the foolish ones.
Here, there is a deep peace; here is the real world. Descending the mountains is heading back into insanity.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Am I Real?
Each act a new line, and I hold my head so well.
Power, force, heartfelt words you would almost believe that I was real.
Oh fight, battle, blood pricked from my arm.
A profuse spilling of bitter words from my lips, which have no meaning because I am just a part.
Do they even need me at all? and the play goes on...
Act 9 Scene 2, the endless strain of hidden emotion as I bend over my veiled dreams,
protecting them from the audiences view.
With no where else to turn I take the stage again,
and sing, hoping my voice holds true.
Trembling I stand, dignity intact,
an act, an act, it is all an act!
Photo Credit: www.flickr.com/photos/guatemalaholla/102424237/
(Hmmm, still think this poem needs something...)
Power, force, heartfelt words you would almost believe that I was real.
Oh fight, battle, blood pricked from my arm.
A profuse spilling of bitter words from my lips, which have no meaning because I am just a part.
Do they even need me at all? and the play goes on...
Act 9 Scene 2, the endless strain of hidden emotion as I bend over my veiled dreams,
protecting them from the audiences view.
With no where else to turn I take the stage again,
and sing, hoping my voice holds true.
Trembling I stand, dignity intact,
an act, an act, it is all an act!
Photo Credit: www.flickr.com/photos/guatemalaholla/102424237/
(Hmmm, still think this poem needs something...)
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