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Friday, December 25, 2009

Fables and Fairy Land

The details were not important to Millie, she loved being alive and so no matter where she lived, she was a fairy or an undiscovered genuine princess. She lived and breathed the world, the lady bugs delight, friend of the fuzzy caterpillars, sister of the tree's.

So naturally when she had finished stretching out on the ugly green carpet, moss covered forest lichen to you and me, she skipped outside to say hello to her sister fairies and to find her own little home to curl up in for a while. She was dismayed to find that there must be ogres running around, because who else would leave so much litter here and there? She vowed to come back with her sister fairy Emily, when the matter of the little dwelling was solved, to clean it up.

All around her was forest magic, large bushes of intimidating size shut the way to the enchanted valley and prickly thorn bushes with their bright red berries guarded the path to the calm forest stream. No matter, who cares about bushes and their business anyway.

She turned into the arms of the welcoming tree's. She spied it! Her little home! She knew it would be there, young Chinese elm trees, which grow tall with branches extended towards the sky, were intertwined in a little circular gathering.

There were lovely places to sit, stumps and fallen trees. Someone had prepared the kitchen, the leaves had been strewn rather nicely on the floor and there were two level tree stumps, just the right height for a forest stove top. Tomorrow she would come with some eggs to cook on the stump burner with the circular element.

She felt so happy in her little home, that she hugged the nearest tree with endearing emphasis and knelt on the beautiful brown and white leaves to inspect the ground. She found herself laying on her stomach watching the ants when it suddenly occurred to her that she might not be able to recall the way out again.

Sudden terror gripped her young heart as she remembered the princess who was lost in the woods, surrounded by foreign sounds and creatures. Her friends the tree's looked down on her in their tall way and she shivered a little. Feeling the way that you might if you found yourself surrounded by tall strangers who don't understand skipping princesses.

She edged herself nearer to the little tree friend she had just hugged, she felt this little tree must be near her own age since she too was so very small. As she stood, afraid to move, she heard the call from her sister Emily. "Millie, where are you?" "Millie, dinner is almost ready. I'm hungry and mum said we can't eat without you!"

Suddenly Millie grew angry with her sister, walking in here, bringing the outside world with no respect for tree's and magical pathway's. So she kept silent, her sister grew nearer and nearer. Millie shrunk back into her little home, still silent, until Emily walked past her hiding place and she could hear her walking huffily back towards the house.

She dashed out of her hiding place, afraid that she would be left alone again and grabbed Emily's hand, startling her. "Oh Emily, I am so glad you came for me, I was lost." Emily gave her a look and rolled her eye's. "Come on, let's hurry, I am starving!" She tugged Millie along, unmercifully ignoring the forest, and Millie's tripping little feet until they were back to their home again.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Snow

The chill of the damp earth

Oblivious as the snow gently lands and dissolves on its' surface

a gentle landing, after a gentle fall

Still, it piles up after a time,

after a time the frozen earth cannot be penetrated

Such little flakes,

such seemingly simple weight,

innocuous

yet when piled high

can crush

Listening For Your Words

Gently the air moves

a caress

I am standing by the river, and my soul

you feel it

My soul, is yours

Yet frustration, I cannot speak the words which escape as an imitation of the truth

and you cannot speak when you run away

footfalls on the pavement

where your frustrations meet the ground

empty

into pools of water

flowing towards the river

where I stand, listening for your words

Monday, December 21, 2009

Haunted

Because reality stung too much, I tried to escape

I tried to face it
I tried to run

but I ended up screaming that the miserable little problems created from neglect would leave me alone like I left

Left alone

and I tried to fight, I tried

but I slipped

On the path of redemption, on the path of pretension can I see clear enough to focus?

Can I?

When blind reason leaves me, when following the light and passion a fleeting dance in the night

Consumes me, caresses

entombs me, undresses

and I am left lying, solemn

crying on the floor

The sound of the whistle

a haunting sound

reminds me that I'm alive

I shiver

It is time to decide

Sunday, December 20, 2009

I Cry For You

I am my fathers daughter

as I walk I see your pain

emptiness

Loneliness

Break my heart, I will cry for you

for I cannot touch that which is meant to be hidden

You nurture it slowly

the slow burning within

to purge it you must let it out

yet your tears are held in a jar

on a shelf

up high

and even when you desperately want to

you cannot cry

I am my fathers daughter

I can see your pain

and I cry for you

I cry

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

A Trickle

Upon the mountain top lay a pool of sparkling water

the rains came

thunder roared

life was torn asunder.

The water lay stagnant the pool muddied,

dark

until the tear

a tear

Let loose the dam,

let loose the broken debris of a life

let the waters flow

flow

Starting slow, slow, slow

building, churning

a clap of thunder reveals the turmoil

the lightning strikes!

and the trickle

the trickle builds

builds momentum

down the mountain, down

DOWN!

Into the valley, ever gaining, ever widening

filling an immense space

the space between two oceans

and two hearts

Monday, November 30, 2009

Faceless

I have written so few words to the one I love, for the one I love, for I have not loved like I might have

Alice chased the white rabbit, I chase the illusion of

Happiness, happiness, happiness

it exists, so I've been told, the bundle of mature emotion, immature impulsiveness, the words which are

spoken as the anthem of the living, the silence of the dead

How can I long for the world to reorder, to turn back the clock, to disappear into the endlessness of

selfishness the point of no return

and you just can't stay away, walk away

the river keeps flowing, divergent paths intertwining, folding, churning, caught in the current, drifting away as

the exits begin to fly away, away from the grasp of the desperate tips, the lips pursed in confusion

So says the mad hatter as they take him away

the beveling peckers are laughing, are laughing at nothing,

are laughing at fate

Feel nothing, know nothing

you monkeys, awake

MAD, mad

A pile of rubbish,

endless misogyny

fateless, trajectory

Still the point,

point out the crystal guide, shakily shift it in the sands

           Why, why did you treat me this way?

I thought that marriage meant happiness, forever, someone to be there

Did I leave or did I stay? Will you ever go away?

I thought, I had, I have

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

What is it?

You've got a moment, use it, before it slips away

yet the indecision, the indirection

haunt

slip past

slip fast

grasp

What is it that I must do...

Asks the young to the old

to make my life full, wonderful, to live?

Tumbling frailness, aching emptiness, a hollow void of direction echo from the chambers of the fading heart, beating frantically, snatching terribly at the last rays of the sun on the horizon. The ship is sailing away, taking along the fits of starts and stops which have lain broken on the shore.

The child

left

confused

As the stick tossed in the stream travels swiftly to the ocean, or moored along the bank, a fascinating demonstration of time passing. Can we freeze time to grasp hold of life again?

Childhood

slips

the wonder of it is

that we used to think that adults knew the answers

As I stand here watching it all, I wonder

can I plunge my hand into the stream of knowledge, and pull out a direction, the script of understanding?

or is it a fathomless void, from which no one can return?

Friday, October 30, 2009

For love of Fall

The wind, a breeze

Filtering

Through the hazy afternoon

Carrying

The scent of autumnal bonfires.

Awake soul!

The dying embers of the summer sun

Radiate

Warming the top of your head

Soothing caress

you sigh

becoming

a part of the dancing leaves

colorful decorations

of fall.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Pricks

Minutes, hours


Each moment agony

Ticks

Small pricks

Restless misery

Burning guilty

Little flames

Fagots eat at my heart

Tell me you forgive me

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Why?

Westward the wind blows
Heaven lies shaking in repose
Yet all was well at day break

Wisdom cannot speak
Heathen ever weep
Yesterday is gone

Wishes lies were true
Hasten send forth the pew
Yaweh will judge you now

I shudder as I scream, can I forget
do you regret

Silence now reigns, ask not why

please,

don't lie

Rainbow Lenses

You need me, reconsider you say
oh restlessly the wind blows
when your faced with eternity

Give time her due, she passes
in nursery rhymes
in troubled times

she passes away

Yet

I remember that day,
the day we first kissed

Fire fell from the sky
and I viewed it from a distance
through rainbow lenses

Don't know where those lenses are now




Monday, October 5, 2009

Rays Upon the Mountains

Sitting upon the mountain tops,

a ray of light, so fair.

Never am I giving up,

forever will I dare.

Roses

The young bud a tender bloom,

a full rose bud of sweet perfume,

a rose who's seen a better day,

imparted beauty on its way.

Sacred Kisses

Sacred, kisses given

Stretching on tiptoe, to hug you around the middle.

My first love

Infinitely sweet, sacred,

little kisses.

Young love

Trusting, timid kisses

stretching my heart, hoping that I am held sacred.

Mature love

Heart Attack

Order me a heart attack,

heart healthy,

watch the labels.

Care must be taken, shaken,

not stirred.

Into the deep blue bliss,

the extreme sport of,

watching lines on the monitor.

Sure we can talk,

over easy.

Hand me a cup,

of silence, when you

leave.

Building Anticipation

Scorching heat, dry weeds.

Tall, sparse weeds, some cockle burs that stick to your socks.

A lonely desolate place, though somehow it is a place that speaks softly of expectation, as though at any moment "something" exciting will happen.

Languishing in the sun, following the lines down, further and further as the anticipation builds.

Almost giving up, when...

A low rumbling starts, so faint only vibrations and expectation is felt at first.

In the distance, clickity clack, tickity tack, clickity, tickity, clickity, tickity.

Growing louder and louder, the rumbling as well.

Suddenly a long slow whistle, like a lost soul cries out.

Wooo wooooo

Bursting onto the scene is the rattling train, clickity, tickity, clickity, tickity.

The weeds shiver and the smell of coal dust and steel emanates from the shuttering beast.

Clickity, tickity, clickity, tickity, clickity, tickity on and on it goes.

Until suddenly,

Scorching heat, and dry weeds,

are the only thing you can see.

Short lived fulfillment,

as the anticipation begins to build again.

Secrets


(Inspired in part by this picture by AC)

Gossamer threads, a shroud.

Gone is the wisdom earned through toil.

Pull from beyond the veil,

threads connecting, binding, pulling, informing,

a face formed from many generations

the manifestation of many nations

formed together, a battle between inclinations.

eyes that hold secrets

secrets yet revealed,

a call

who am I?

Solidness

A presence like a storm, or the ancient woods,

I am held diminutive, within your grasp.

Solid as the mountains, you calm me,

my sweet breath caressing your spirit.

Contentment fills me as I breathe,

your essence, musk, cedar, your freshly bathed body.

Tingling, my fingers reach for yours,

to grasp the magnetic tremors between us.

You fill the aching emptiness within me.

Vulnerable Love

I am in love with you,

the very essence of my heart you hold in your hands.

I gave it to you as a whisper, a gift,

in torrential release from the prison, which held it.

I walk in vulnerability,

my heart aches for the caress of your words.

Words dear to me as jewels,

jewels formed from the elements.

Gathered from the sunlight, star bursts and clouds.

Without you all is cold and the sunlight is gone.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Grains of Sand

Standing in one place the eternities stare,

an eternity, as sand pulling away from the dune,

over time.

Slowly,

slowly,

pulling away from the dune.

How indifferent the wind that plays with the shifting sand,

asking more and more

until the sand is blown away.

away

piled behind a wall

sturdy

as indifferent as the wind once was

blow as it may

the wind cannot pass, but is turned aside.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Evocative Sound

Hauntingly beautiful sound,

a train whistle.

Evoking a yearning

unexplainable.

Clatter, clatter,

moving forward.

A call to decide.

On Writing

Nothing like the purity of writing

clarity found,

a simple sound.

communication

Words distilled,

truths revealed,

friendships sealed,

and hearts healed.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Spinning in the Dark

In the silent sacred corridor, footfall after footfall down the pitch black hall

walking blindly, walking forward towards the neon sign, says "exit," illumination in

the dark. Breath is held in the air of suspense, still, silent night as I reach for

living waters. Renewal at the spigot of faith, renewal in the silence.

Dusk till dawn in the dessert I roam, wandering barefoot in the cool sands.

Silence is eminent, silence surrounds, silence on earth and in heaven abounds.

Brilliant darkness, radiant dark, interspersed with pinpoints of light,

unsteady on the top of the world, I reach for a hand that is not there and stand

spinning, thirsting for still waters.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Silver Lies

Breathe life into me, for your arms I have ached

my lips have parted for the sweet taste of your silver tongue.

Insanity,

as i tell myself that all is right,

as I hope for things which I haven't seen.

Silent as I lay here in this eerie world of darkness

as I lay awaiting the hope of a new beginning.

The light, how dim it has grown as I walk down the hungry streets.

I have breathed in the air of bitter recourse

after the elation of our love has crashed after these many years.

How could I have known what the silence meant,

the desperation hidden behind veiled eyes.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

The Snare

OH Woman, though ancient goddess of love,

Oh woman, woman, woman

how grief and sorrow meets within your breast,

how joy and pain intertwine.

Oh woman, how thou sufferest for the sake of others sorrows revealed,

servant, healer called forth from the primordial wisdom of reconciliation,

woman thou art an angel, a self effacing saint,

how little you believe such praise,

when you do and have done as women,

through all time and eternity have done,

you have been caught in the net of idealism,

turmoil the vision of glimmering freedom seems a mirage upon the sand.

Numb

Numb

Numb

Numb, another one

No really, another one?

It has just begun, just begun, it cannot really be another one.

NO, NO, NO

It cannot happen, I will not let it, what can work,

can anything work to stop this? Can it?

I will try It , anything, anything

Bring me herbs, doctors, voodoo magic

Stop, stop, stop this please

Please

Please

Naïve girl

This one

This one

This

Can still happen

Even if

You are numb

*This piece is connected with this piece

http://creativelywritten.blogspot.com/2009/06/missing-angel.html

Monday, September 7, 2009

Life hangs in the balance, how teneuous the thread.

We live and breathe and die in the waters of life,

swimming blindly we grope for the truth,

into and out of the push and the pull of thought,

confusion, growth, clarity.

The air,

contains the electricity of emotion,

living breath,

breath between souls,

immediate fabled electricity

between man and woman?

Sunday, September 6, 2009

A light in the Darkness

I have been dead

Dead, so long, a product of neglect

burdens unshared

burdens heaped

smothering burdens

a pile of disappointment,

shoved willingly upon my head.

I have been dead

A ray of light shone

shone upon the shadows

illuminating my mind

illuminating my heart

glorious illumination!

The weight has been lifted

from my soul, where

A ray of light shone

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Extinguished

In love, love with the way that you looked at me, how you spoke, the contours of your face, I traced them, memorized them cherished them,

I was so infatuated, the very idea of you, thrills, shivers, fluttering.

How could I have known, how?

Complications, hesitations, reservations, pressure would end things in a heap of flames... silence now reigns?

Love was a spark,

an ember burning in my heart.

Pressure,

pressure, suffocation.

Coal to ashes, fires burned,

fires extinguished.

Flames to dark pitch,

now a silent stone.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Awareness of God

Can we rely on how we feel at the moment?

All that we have really are vague impressions, sacred hope.

Hope for equality in a better world,

hope that someone, somewhere understands.

That you and I will be seen in the whole and judged accordingly,

each salient breath brings us closer to the end, the unknown.

How ironic that we all eat of death daily; what was once living, breathing, turning towards the sun to grow, is the substance of our lives.

What magic the elements make on our bodies, transforming each thing from its former state into a new state, or the old state, the simple product of chemical reactions.

Dragonfly, leaves, rotting fish, to dust. Dust which in turn blows about, mixed in good measure with rain and the process of photosynthesis to become new again.

All that being said; Where comes the spirit? Where is faith?

It comes from the unexplainable awareness of you,

your thoughts, turned messages in my heart.

Awareness of your presence in my darkest hour.

Awareness as the hushed silence is filled with a new cry.

Awareness that my dear grandmother would die, I knew, though I don't know how I knew.

A deep aching sadness felt at the passing of a loved one, hidden connections between you and the ones that you love.

Tears that come as solemn hymns are sung and truth is spoken.

All evidence to me of the living, breathing reality of God.

Friday, August 28, 2009

Illusion

There is no reason,
it just happened to begin that way,
a shivering of fantasies up my spine and down again.

So sly, a glance between moments
eyes that linger, savour, caress.

Pinpoint the attraction, I cannot
fill in the meaning between the lines,
is it there?

Brush against me, scent of sanity,
taste the sweetness upon my lips.

Insane

Flowing freedom of silence,
does it mean anything to you?

The darkness and the moon,
snuff out the meaning, an illusion.

Risk everything upon the vision,
you, shimmering in the night.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Practice - Emotions

There was no stopping her, no reasoning, the clothes had to be washed and hung, baths taken, all before she could quit for the day.

Everyone sat, a pallor on their faces, avoiding the eyes of the others.

Not Hanna, she had scrubbed the floor with a will, beaten the rugs, swept the back porch and was now doing the washing. There was a glint in her unfocused eyes, she blinked, she must focus on the washing.

They couldn't understand her obsession, no one felt up to anything just then.

Minutes ticked away in a slow procession, each one holding up the others, until Ginny May ran through, irreverent. They tried to stop her, Minerva and Uncle Wes, but she was too quick to be caught.

'Charlie, out in the back, was digging up flowers, he had to be stopped or she was gonna hav to take grief again bout bringing home a stray. Oh lordie how she hated to hear them.'

Ginny May was a flash of sunshine, the others looked at each other when she had passed. But Hanna, she kept on working, Jim would need his shirt pressed.

Out the window, she could see Ginny, as she turned each shovel full of dirt. Hanna burned the shirt as she watched each spade full of dirt, filling the hole.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Sleeping

At this late hour, darkness, like a silent friend awaits, awaits each flip of the switch, each click of the mouse, to turn off the distractions of the universe, to get reacquainted with eternity.

Eternal sleep, silence awaits, as your eyes close in circadian wonder and you are surrounded by the figments of thought that flicker through your mind, sometimes leaving you more confused than peaceful, a world where the sense of sense is senseless and your impassioned speeches are heard, or disregarded as the masses walk or your loved ones flit silently through your mind; each falling victim to your fears or your hopes in the wee small hours in your deepest sleep, remember that your impassioned speech may bring you to tears, but was never heard.

Friday, August 21, 2009

First Stanza From Keats Endymion

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

~Keats

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Ambiguity

Can things ever be normal, with all this ambiguity?

ambiguous

thought, silence

ask

Please identify!

please

can you feel the distance in my manner

can you?

restlessness

At least explain the...

silence

(I cannot live with this)

Even after I...

fine

ambiguity

A note about my piece...

When I first wrote it, about a month ago, I felt uneasy posting it. I wrote it after reading Charles Dickens "A Tale of Two Cities" and wanted to capture a bit of his writing style in a piece.

The French Revolution was very dramatic, Dickens book about it is very vivid and telling. It is fast paced and the events move the book along rather than the plot.

So why feel uneasy posting my piece? Because it is a vivid, telling, and slightly unnerving piece. I think the feelings here in America are of frustration, I am certainly frustrated, yet we are far better off than the people of France leading up to the French revolution. Their injustices were many, they were a repressed people, at their breaking point.

So with that said, I liked the way that the piece helped me bring out a dramatic style, but still, it is a bit unnerving to read (ever spook yourself while telling ghost stories?) ;D

SG

(and Ajey, I don't know how I managed to post a draft and the finished piece but I did... so you all get to see the draft below the "finished" piece.)

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Hunger (draft)

She was fair, had a certain air, walked every where, strove to care,

yet the hunger lay in the streets, yes the hunger lay in the streets.

New faces, new places, they travel each day, searching for redemption, revival, anything. They have left the land of no hope, for the American dream so fair, a sure thing you bet, they have left, they have left with a hope and a dare.

yet the hunger lay in the strees, yes the hunger lay in the streets.

Onward citizens, onward, search for the elusive medal, nugget, hope, hope!

Faces of gaunt children, hair receeding hope retreating. Down at the bank, down at the store, there is hunger.

hunger in the streets, yes the hunger that lay in the streets.

Then a cry, faint in its beginning faint who would have guessed the ignomity that they suffer, as their hopes fail them. Stark reality, freedoms tossed as they do what they must to survive.

Ho then congressman! Ho then tax man! We have no bread to tax, take pity!

They lay, corpses in their chairs, their lives have ceased as they stare out the window, glossy eyed. Who will give them breath again? Their children cry, yet words and tears fall deaf on hearts, frozen in the fray.

Yearning rising, yearning boom, fought for and paid from aching backs of laborers, searching, searching for newer and better. Onward upward bless this house. Stretch forth and cry, enemies of my heart, I will fight for the freedom of singing in the streets.

Many generations have passed, they knew and took for granted upward progression. Ignomity is in the past, all deserve 15 min. of fame, so they say.

Nameless faceless masses stand
crying hallelujah let us live!

How do you carry forward the waters of life, when it is slowly leaking away? Your shelter was built, your life was planned, yet now you have no place to stay.

You wander in hunger, for heaven to send, redeption for what you have done, your fears, your tears and all of the years, you have worked and you've bled on the throne.

The throne of deception, the throne of desire you added more to it and your hopes they rose higher. So you worked and you planned and all of your dreams, they were dashed in the sand on the streets.

the hunger lay in the streets, yes the hunger lay there.

Hearts have stilled with the news,

In the streets there is a hunger, a preponderance of insanity as lies are told and swallowed, there is nothing to fear.

No one has listened, who knows what the silence means yet it lingers.

A presence is felt the grim reaper himself, charon awaits, there is hunger in the streets it is there.

With each stone that falls from the foundations, from the walls as you walk down the streets of desertion. Your grasping for something, grasping, grasping...

and the children they cry in the streets, yes their children they cry in the streets.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Beautiful Fabric

Beautiful Fabric
As children we make tenuous connections friendships based on a glance from a friendly face.

Giving trust wholeheartedly, willing to kiss and hug one another with no reserve.

How shortly this lasts as other desires come into our little hearts, to have more than the other, to be stronger, or smarter. So kids pinch and they pull, surprised when their little friendships are hurt.

and how deep that hurt can be, innocent hearts, trusting hearts, hearts that thrummed together in friendship can be easily broken.

Hopefully we learn respect.

How innocent is the interest of childish desires. Desires awakening in the breast of young girls, and young boys.

Holding hands, trusting, claiming each other, how short lived is this little bond. As young hearts, growing still, bump up against each other, mixed with the messages that they have received from the adult world around them.

This adulthood bond, what does it mean? Holding hands, a kiss on the lips, a look, laying in bed?

Awakening children reach out to each other, hiding in the van by the house to touch lips together and wonder at the meaning of the sparks that fly.

Holding each other close, as they lay in the grass, Edens bed, innocent still.

and innocently hurt each other as well. There is so much more to understand than children know.

As they grow, so does the curiosity. So does the intensity of the flame, they test this flame, to find that it can burn. That with the give and take between them that immaturity can mean more take than give and intense encounters can leave a heart broken and empty.

As adults we find that there are threads, they reach between two separate hearts connecting each to the other. These threads are formed by the trust that is given, one heart to another. Hearts that have faced the reality of imperfection, hearts that know each other.

These threads are woven each time we choose each other, woven and made stronger with the experiences that we share. Forming a fabric, creating something beautiful to wrap new little babies in. Forming a fabric to insulate each other from the harshness of continual judgement, the judgement of the world.

With the trust comes true inhibition. The flames formed from intertwined hearts can be strong and beautiful.

That is, unless... you break a little thread here or there, little hurts, little disrespects. Little things that tell me that I am not all that you dreamed of.

Little words said, mistrust, abuse, judgement of the other.

Pulling away, snipping at, cutting at the threads you believe bind you. Not willing to give your trust, not believing in the theory of intertwined hearts. Never reaching that climax, because of dissatisfaction.

and it hurts, it really does.

I believe in the theory of intertwined hearts. I have woven beautiful fabric, and I have sipped at threads. Then I have sewn them again, and refused to let the threads be cut, they sometimes are cut. I have felt that hurt.

It is hard to trust.

Yet, weaving beautiful fabric together is worth it.

Owen

Owen
This is a little story my Dad told me about this guy, Owen... I typed it up pretty much as he told it, I want to change it around sometime, it is a neat little story.

(A good excuse to get my Dad talking about the past, not like he needs any excuse and all...)

Owen walked everywhere, he didn't have much in the way of worldly possessions. In fact he only ever wore tattered overalls and he lived in a little trailer on the edge of his brothers property. Owen would walk past our house every day, on his way to the store. Sometimes Todd and I would see him, walking along the railroad tracks, his beard hanging down, colored yellow by the "Prince Albert" tabacco that he chewed. We would stop and talk to him every once in a while, he liked to talk. He would tell us about World War I and even speak a bit of French for us. Todd and I noticed that he had piles and piles of tuna fish cans piled outside his door, we told dad about it and dad started to give him deer meat from the freezer whenever he passed. After that we noticed that Owen started to walk on the other side of the street, guess he didn't like deer meat all that much. One day Owen was walking by our house, he was wearing a new pair of overalls. My old dog rebel took off after him, tore a chunk of fabric right out of the leg, I still feel bad about that. That was Owen, his family still lives in our neighborhood.

the one

Probe this sadness, probe it with me
in hidden hollows, achiness, release.

Hollows hidden in my heart, sadness
I know not whence it came, whence it will go.

together

Touch upon hidden places,
into and out of the corners.

Achy, pent up reserves of tears,
release them, explore them, taste them on your tongue.

Mourning, weeping, wailing.

Enter Thalia daughter of the goddess,
restore happiness unto me.

Thalia, restore happiness to my breast,
thou deity of old.

Restore my heart, return to me,
limbs torn asunder in the wind, through the storm.

Fresh, life, renew, eternity

The aching building dam of sadness,
awaken, awoken fresh fears.

Dead, you have gone and I am left empty
as though you had died, have you not?

Mourn with me, upon the mount,
thou living God, are you not the one?

I confess to have felt you,
for your arms I have sought.

Explore the depths of my mourning,
probe my heart, we join together,
harmoniously seeking the depths, despair.

Thou hast abandoned me, I am,
alone.

Explore this sadness, probe the depths
enter in, kiss my tears away.

Gasping I release the anger, the pent up tears,
hidden ecstasy, relieve my agony.

Together

Can I live, breath, through you?
Release, relieve, mourning, weeping, wailing.

Fears, deep fears, narrowly escape,
realization denied, Thalia cried

she had died.

Tread lightly, in the shadows
relieve the burden, upon my soul.

and on the third day was restored.

he is the one

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Imperfectly Perfect

The rigours, the means, the might and emotion of being normal.

Normal in a world of flawless beauty,

the chipped vase on the counter,

the dent in the new car,

the flaw that is hidden, yet still there.

Imperfect in proportion, crooked, lopsided,

yet wonder

that I and you together can combine

to create

the tiny fingers that we marvel at in wonder,

the sigh of a new infant

a perfect soul in an imperfect world,

who will grow to become imperfectly perfect.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Kurena

The dark solemn night, a gentle gust of wind blew, glimmering radiant wings shone, fluttering in the gentle breeze.

Butterfly's in hues of blue, green, bright monarchs, rising upward towards the moon.

A solemn procession of beauty heralding the hopes of a lost world, words uttered in prayer, echoing over the high mountain peaks and concentrated onto the spot where the dawning of a new day had begun.

A child fresh from the womb emerged, her tears cried out to be heard. She was carried by her grandmother, to be hid from the world for three days, a world in which the colors of life had faded, faded like flowers carried many hours.

Sipapu the place of emergence.

Her aunts gathered, braiding the new mothers hair, cleansing her body, restoring her to wholeness. Brightly colored beads were woven into it, signifying her triumph over death.

The baby was bathed and wrapped in a soft doe skin blanket gently nursed at her mothers breast, the life force flowed between them.

On the third day, a meal was prepared, prayers were uttered, and mother emerged with her daughter, stepping out into the hues of the early sunrise, they name her kurena.

Sunrise!
We come at sunrise
to greet you.
We call you
at sunrise.
Father of the clouds
you are beautiful
at sunrise.
Sunrise!


(Native American poetry and some artistic elements found here https://facultystaff.richmond.edu/~rnelson/sunrise.html)




Saturday, August 8, 2009

Israel Restored

Silence, like death in the valley of Israel
awake, restore my strength.

renew, reveal

Silence, from the depths of a broken heart
broken in ignorance, innocence.

promises, hope

The gentle cadence of thy lips upon my own
swallows the lies of my fears.

empty, ignorance

Your voice like a light upon the high mountain
dawn breaking over the horizon.

wise, tears

Lightly I touch my lips in remembrance
of thy sweetness.

heaven, restored

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Free the life Within you

Fresh, new, feral, an instinct for preservation, new life, freedom, being, wholeness, fidelity. life. love. happiness.

Reinvent, make new, become who you have always wanted to be in your wildest dreams, the achingly beautiful specter of freedom, cling to the harmonious bows of the trees as you sway and give way to the breeze.

Laugh, love, dance and become, become, become you have won. It matters not what fickle fate has dealt if you ache for it, reach for it, pull and tug at the hand of destiny.

Where ere you may go, seek for the snow, pure driven beautiful illusion of an image, mirage, focus only on becoming a saint, a martyr. Empty your pockets of delusions of grander, become a swaying goddess in the early morning hours become a temple of beauty to flock unto.

Appoint the place that you dwell with palatial beauty and friendliness. Ache, ache, let your heart be released, let your fears fade away let life and harmony flow through your slender typing hands as you tenderly stroke the soft baby's cheek.

Throbbing with life, growing with life, in tune with the universe, become an angel of deliverance. Hold the precious gift in your hands, tiny, perfect beautiful gift. Womanhood revealed.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep (Classic)

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush.
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

By Mary Elizabeth Frye

Monday, August 3, 2009

Self

It isn't, it couldn't be, that is me?

No, I refuse to accept that

it is an illusion.

Mud spattered image, a heap on the floor,

the last groveling bit of humanity

Unworthy.

It makes me angry to see that heap,

I would pile it up and kick it,

grab a hold of the mass of ugliness and throw.

I would look in the mirror

to see something else.

A shining bit of polished person,

a bit of worthy matter

to walk around in.

Friday, July 31, 2009

Mists

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)

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Summers with Shannie

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.

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?

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.

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.

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

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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!

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?

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.