A Dizzy Paradelle

dreamstime.com

Who is the poet writing the poem?

Who is the poet writing the poem?

Who is the dreamer, who never wakes?

Who is the dreamer who never wakes?

The poet who is writing the poem

never wakes the dreamer.

Who is the watcher, the one who knows

Who is the watcher, the one who knows

who lives behind the purple prose?

who lives behind the purple prose?

The watcher is the one who knows

who lives behind the purple prose.

The poet who is writing the poem

is the dreamer, who never wakes,

is the watcher, the one who knows

who lives behind the purple prose.

a paradelle for Brian at dVerse. I am just about dizzy enough today to manage this form, a poem that goes in circles. It was kinda fun. Check out the links. Pub opens at 3 p.m.

In Memory of Iqbal

from the "Me to We" files

Picture one small boy, 

sold by his parents 

at age four for $16,

chained to a loom
fourteen hours a day

from age four to ten,

in order to "repay the debt".

Picture him escaping, 

being recaptured,

hung upside down for punishment,

then chained back to his loom.

Iqbal was heroic.
He escaped again,

his activism and speaking out

saving thousands of other children 

from his fate.

He lost his life at twelve,

they say for

speaking about the rights of children

to have a childhood.

Iqbal's life and death

sparked the heart of a boy his age

across the sea,

who began the movement called
From Me to We.

And we'll remember you, Iqbal,
for eternity.

Free the Children was begun by young Canadian Craig Kielburger when he was twelve, after reading about Iqbal in the newspaper. Craig began a movement against child slavery called Free the Children with eleven of his middle school friends. Craig is a young man now, and he and his brother run the international organization and continue their work, which includes hosting an annual televised marathon to inspire other young people to join the movement. It is called From "Me" to "We".

The story of Iqbal can be read here.

for Susan's prompt at Mid Week Motif: Boycott

Ordinary Is as Ordinary Does

The Bread Making Bowl , 

round and tan colored,

sits on top of the fridge.

No one bakes bread here any more,

so instead it gathers odds and ends of miscellany

that cant find another spot to live.

I remember my mother's hands,

forming the dough into a round,

then plopping it onto the bread board, covered with flour,

kneading, shaping, working the dough,

smiling with satisfaction,

then back into the bowl it went, 

covered with a cloth, to rise.

An ordinary weekly event,

one that gave her great pleasure

in her later years.

***

I wonder how old

the Palestinian is

who remembers a time

when he last spent

an ordinary day.

***

I wonder is there is
an Israeli Jew alive
who remembers a time
before war and death and sorrow.

***

In my world,

an ordinary day

is one of my

greatest pleasures.

To the suffering of the world,
my prayer:
may the bombs cease.
May you learn 
the extraordinary joys 
of an ordinary day.

***

for Poetry Jam, where the prompt is Something Ordinary. Which puts me in mind of the quote by  Einstein:   There are two ways to live. One, as if nothing is a miracle. The other, as if everything is a miracle. I favor the latter view. 

DOG DAYS OF SUMMER

Ms Jasmine, praying for a breeze,

in my old front yard. Pup lurks behind the bush,

which is now quite huge and lush.

Jas is nine today. Those nine years went fast.

***

The grass, crisp and brown, dreams of rain.
Trees, bees, birds, frogs, wait,
suspended in a miasma of wavery, hot, 
swooning parched-ness.
Dogs lie upside-down,
hoping for a stray breeze,
but the air is unmoving, unmotivated,
has taken up residence in the hammock
and cannot be budged.

The day is loathe to quicken; 
the hands on the clock
tick desultorily; minutes later, 
you hear a faint, fatigued tock.

Everything that lives is exhausted
and hiding in whatever shade it can find.
I actually saw someone fry an egg 
on a sidewalk once.
He didn't eat it.

Once, when I was five, we traveled 
down the coast  to San Francisco.
Stopped for ice cream at a wayside store 
and I was mortified because my parents 
had stripped me to my underpants for coolness 
and made me go inside the store that way.
Even ice cream was not worth the shame.

We drove a short ways till people passed us,
shouting and pointing:
"your car is on fire!"
and we all got out. 
Dad poured the iced lemonade on it
to douse the flames.

When we hit the city, dad was flummoxed 
by the rushing eight lane traffic, 
zooming in every possible direction.
Opening the map, stopped at an off-ramp, 
stressed, impeding traffic,
he was chagrined when someone shouted
"why dont you build a garage around it?"
He never got over that.

Dog days of summer. 
Early mornings smelling
just as they did in childhood.
I remember the smell 
of Grandma's canvas hammock,
and how I'd curl up in it and read and read,
the smell and feel of bathing suits,
plucked, still-damp,
off the line,
for the next swim.

I remember
the time I swam during a thunderstorm,
the sky gunmetal gray,
the waves all mine,
lake-scent and willow-whisper
engraved on my heart.

for Victoria's prompt at dVerse : the dog days of summer.

Poems from the Past

July 22, 1999

Graceful heron,

swooping across

the evening sky

like a pterodactyl,

Prehistoric bird

perched on a treetop,

my heart swoops with you,

then stills,

standing by the silent pond,

waiting for the night to settle

around us both

softly as feathers.

*** *** *** ***

SONG OF THE FROGS

July 9, 1999

Song of the frogs

in the fading light

soft fade the hills

in the falling night

God touching earth

with a gentle might

and all is beauty

within my sight

soft falls the light

on garden walls

a rose-hued mountain

as day's curtain falls

a froggy symphony

serenades the night sky

and grateful, grateful, grateful

I.

Two poems from my last summer on the West Coast - Port Albion, a small community in a tucked-away, undeveloped area, half an hour from Tofino. I lived in a teeny basement "suite", on a pond, and Pup spent his days blissfully roaming. He even gave loud backtalk to a black bear, who swatted its paws at him, which didnt deter him from getting right in the bear's face with Attitude. Pup never backed down. Alpha to the last moment of his life.

Every late afternoon the sky, the mountain I lived beside, and the pond below, turned this most glorious shade of rose.  One night I was standing by the pond when a heron flew right above my head. And every night, the frogs sang to me. It was heaven. Late that same fall, I moved here to Port. Sigh. Pup mourned, as did I, the loss of our wilderness Eden. He would sit at the window, looking out at the city streets. Anyone who thinks dogs dont grieve, check out these photos:

"Where did my wilderness go?"

I felt - and feel - the same way.

This is posted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry. Happy Weekend to all!

Son of Heaven

The Tianzi Mountains (Son of Heaven)

photo credit: astonishingplaces.com

Mist curls on the Tianzi Mountains.

In the siheyuan,

Rice Mother gives First Son

the choicest morsels.

Son of Heaven.

The Tianzi Mountains were named after a farmer who led a farmers' revolt and named himself Tianzi, a name for Emperor, (Son of Heaven).

A siheyuan is a courtyard surrounded by buildings on all four sides. The doorway above indicates this siheyuan belongs to a lower middle class family.
source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siheyuan by SnowyOwls

Zhangjiajie in Spring

Zhangjiajie in Autumn

Zhangjiajie in Winter

photo credit: http://www.tour-beijing.com/blog/hunan-travel/zhangjiajie-travel/

for Hannah's prompt at Real Toads for Transforming Fridays : the Tianzi Mountains

SKY FIRE

flickr.com

This poem is white lightning

in a gunmetal sky, 

striking a lone twisted pine

on cracked parched earth,

the tree briefly aflame, 

then ashes.

This poem is a small autistic boy

with no speech, a big will,

an aging grandmother,

and Tomorrow looming.

This poem is an old woman

pondering two unrelated thoughts,

primed at a faltering pump, 

and glistening with life's tears,

because the story 

in all three stanzas 

is the same.

for dverse where Claudia  encourages us to use strong metaphors without employing "like" or "as". I chose Hannah's boomerang metaphor form as the easiest way to do this.

Tofino Time

My beloved Pup at Wickaninnish

One looks back, down all those shambling, lost,

 bewildered, laughing, hilarious years,

at a kaleidoscope of memories, 

shining more golden, now,

for being past,

all jumbled and amazing,

the journey we took before we realized

we were following songlines laid down

in the long-ago.

We walked in wonder through it all,

visited by angels and by demons.

In time, we understood the demons 

were angels in disguise

for all we learned, how much we grew,

because of them.

Time now moves, sometimes, like a beautiful dream,

memories close, the years 
all the more dear for being gone.

I just learned I now belong to a demographic

called the Grey Tsunami, not the first time

I have been called a force of nature.

Boomers all, we sandbag the shore before us
pushing it  out, out and away, 
trying to avoid the inevitable,

the fact one day it will swoop back in

and carry us away.

The kaleidoscope turns and turns,
memories pop out,
I laugh, I cry.

Shining brightest are the years

when I lived my dream
on Tofino Time.

for Mary's prompt at dVerse where she is tending bar today, our topic: time or clocks. Of which, mine is ticking far too fast for comfort.

Fallen Heroes

google image

When heroes raised so high

fall off their pedestals,

the disappointment

runs deep.

When one barters his soul

to keep the glory,

the price is too high

to be paid.

-for Susan's prompt at Mid Week Motif: the Tour de France which, to me, for so many years, always meant Lance Armstrong. Sigh.

WEEP, LIKE A PALESTINIAN

child of an anti-war activist in Palestine

aol.com

Weep like a Palestinian, 

as the bombs rain down

and the structure crumbles.

Weep like the small child 

sitting beside his wounded mother,

his two years having been spent in terror,

knowing no safe place,

all life in peril.

Weep for the displaced and the hated

who, when they find a homeland,

hate and displace their neighbors, in turn.

Weep because Otherness is all that is seen,

and not our shared humanity,

our shared longing for peace,
for life.

Weep, for the turning of the centuries, 

hate upon hate,war upon war,

as humans, unawakened, 

come from fear and hate and power,

and never seem to find another way

to live on this land together.

Weep, because this earth was given to us

as a gift, to live on in harmony,

nature and every living creature,

and look what humanity has wrought:

a fallen, clamoring, toxic, warring  Eden.

Weep for the angels that fall 

from the sky in planes,

in a world where geniuses 

discovered how to fly,

then other minds 

devised their deadly rockets.

Weep for the beauty of this world,

for hearts yearning for peace

in the midst of war,

and for the proven folly

of ever thinking

anything but further hatred 

can ever be won

with bombs. 

Weep because,

wherever God lives,

He must be weeping too,

at the slaughtering of his children

of every color, race and faith.

This Poem Travels in a Circle

This poem is a cool gray summer morning 
in the country.

This poem is a wish, a wistfulness,  and a wondering.

This poem will not travel far from its doorway today.

In this poem, the grass has not yet burned away, 

and the horses are grazing peacefully,

whickering from time to time, and swishing their tails.

On the porch, the chimes sound like Tibetan singing bowls,

transporting the poet to the Himalayas,

right out of this dusty little mill town 

where somehow she has become stranded.

Still, there is much to be said

for a cool gray summer morning in the country.

In this poem, the poet's heart is trembling on the brink

of accepting a compromise she does not wish to make,

whose cost is too dear.

She longs for what is not, struggles with the  acceptance of what is.

She wonders what the lesson is, and is puzzled: 

haven't there already been enough lessons?

This poem is doing a lot of wondering.

Today, the poet will stay home.

She may even stay in her pajamas.

She will make her way between her desk

and her couch, as she so loves to do.

She will connect with her online friends,

and then disconnect by plugging in a movie,

and escape to someone else's reality.

This poem will travel full circuit

from worldview to living room and back again.

This poem will writhe and complain and mutter

and, in the end, find its way home.

This poem is willing to find the contentment

of a cool gray summer morning in the country.

This poem does a lot of wondering, but has enough philosophy 

to come to grips with What Is and find the good in it.

This poem thinks it is staying home,

but has actually traveled a very long way

without ever walking through the door.

Hannah's challenge at Real Toads is to try out her new Boomerang Metaphor form which I love to bits! This time i just played with it a little, and enjoyed its possibilities. I love this form, Hannah, and especially love the poems you have written in it.

Another I, Another You

It's Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads and Shay has devised the most intriguing prompt: looking back, at possible parallel paths one might have taken, what might your life have looked like if you had made one different choice? There was one definitive moment in my life, with the one man I truly loved, where I walked away instead of staying. That is my biggest What If.........I put my children first, which felt like the choice I had to make. But I have been mostly alone since then, never found another I felt the same about.

What if, Brother Dreamer,

I had followed my heart and stayed,

instead of leaving?

Might we have made it 

through those years

of clamoring teens,

who turned our tables upside down

with their restive and resistant spirits,

that blew apart our dreams?

I walk back through that door

on Richter Street,

and find you in the greenhouse,

where we would always meet.

A small bird flies across the room 

and lights in perfect trust

upon your hand,

you turn that slow smile on me,

without words, 

we understand.

Our hair is silvery now,

and our eyes meet

with that deep recognition,

soul to soul,

that I felt the first time

 I ever saw 

your face,

as if I knew you from

another time, another place,

and finding you again

was this life's grace.

We two are loners

and, when loners love,

the love goes deep.

You had awoken me

from my long sleep,

but happiness, this life,

has never long been mine

to keep.

You opened the door 

of the dove's cage 

on that last day.

Out she flew, 

upwards and away.

Out I flew, too,

though I longed for you

to say the only words

that could make me stay.

And while my heart, 

all these long years,

stayed true,

I had to learn the route

of the lonelier path,

of living

without you.

Poets - This Way

Poem of Love by blogbucket.org

The fountain of creativity

slows to a trickle

without community.

Poems lay fallow in neglected notebooks.

The pen was capped,

until the blogosphere curtains parted

and a sign indicated

"Poets - This Way".

Up and down the blogroll I galloped,

famished, delighted,

gobbling morsels of wit and wonder

that made me smile,

then sent me back to the barn

to ponder, and put pen to paper

once again.

Tentatively, I offered two or three

and, amazingly, some of you came to read,

and leave encouraging comments.

Whoa!

Instead of sitting in a book, unread,

my words were being absorbed and understood

by new close friends from far away,

who came back the next day

just to see what I might say.

The fountain was replenished.

The poems queue in my brain.

And 'thank you' is not nearly big enough to say

for the gift of writing you all have given me

simply from knowing

that you are reading

on any given day. 

-for the three year celebration of dVerse, a poets pub staffed by poets with big hearts, who speak with encouraging words. And to thank all of my readers, who gift me more than you will ever know, simply by reading, and appreciating, sharing and understanding.

Snake in the Grass

factzoo.com

Snake, slithering greenly through the grass,

keep to your route and let me pass.

Slithering makes my hackles rise.

You've snuck a wee mouse as your prize.

Into the deadened pond you go,

your journey calculated, slow.

I fear that some dark night we'll meet,

and you'll slither over my bare feet.

for Susan's Mid-Week Motif: celebrating world snake day

Not Time Yet

Stamp Falls in spring

We were traveling together

when you took the turning

where the Disappeared go,

and are seen no more.

I could not follow. The way was barred.

Still, I continued walking,

carrying your soul with me

in a small wooden box,

hidden under my cape,

held close to my heart.

When I tire, and falter, 

am tempted to turn back,

I can hear you thumping inside your box.

You will not let me 

abandon the journey.

(Asleep, she found herself 

crossing a barren desert.

There was a river ahead,

and she could hear voices, singing,

coming around the bend.

They were coming to get her,

but then she came back into her body.

Not time, yet.)

Death is a river, turbulent, roaring

through time-worn rock-walled chasms

green with weeping.

It dashes our brains out on the rocks

so the eagles may feed,

then settles us, lighter and relieved 

of our earthly burden,

in rippled ponds along the shore,

where beaver and wolves

may find us.

I will meet you there

at twilight

on the last day.

At midnight, a ghostly specter

glides mistily along the shore.

She is beckoning,

but I pretend that I am blind.

She is calling.

I pantomime that I am deaf

and cannot hear.

Not time, yet.

These words are a pathway

between the time when you were here

and now.

They are as full of your absence

as my heart. 

I am still traveling.

You always did go before me on the path.

I am getting just a little closer.

Not time, yet. Not yet.

for Grace's prompt at Real Toads:  to take inspiration from the work of El Salvador poet Claribel Alegria, who was planning a trip with her husband when he died. She still made the journey, "traveling with his soul". I took that as my jumping off point. 

Big Black Dog

He was  Goofypup 

when he was little,

Mr Dog, and venerable,

in his old age.

And all the years between

he kept me laughing,

companioned me 

through the best

and the worst years of my life,

loved me well and truly,

and left a huge

hole in the world

when he left,

that beautiful

big black dog.

Solitary Heart

free stock image from dreamtime.com

I wandered half my life asleep

dreaming of one whose love would sweep
me off my feet,

though the key to my heart was buried 
plenty deep.

He never came. I never made

the leap.
Instead,
I learned to reap
the joy of solitude
so sweet.
The key to my heart,
now,
forevermore,
to myself
I'll keep.

Has been a day of Trauma by Dentists, so just this quick snippet in response to Susan's post at Mid-Week Motiff: The Key.

FLIGHT

123rf.com

Severely disabled, bed-bound, 
with no eyes, non-verbal,
locked in his silent inner world,
he is rolled on his wheeled cart,
by his caregiver, 
down to the quay, by the water.
As the wind off the water, salted and tangy,
kicks up a gust and whooshes across his face,
his expression turns blissful.

I have read that eagles, too injured to return to the wild,
kept in cages and compounds in a wildlife refuge,
respond similarly when the winds blow strong.
When the winds off the desert gust and billow,
in their pens and cages 
the eagles all close their eyes. 
They face into the wind
and, together, lift their wings
to ride the currents,
in those moments 
remembering freedom.

So with us, when the temptress wind
blows across the landlocked desert of our hearts,
we close our eyes,
along with the eagles,
and long to fly.

RAINBOW WARRIORS

one-vibration.com

Spirit Walkers

lovers of the land

walking on Mother Earth with reverence

in harmony with all that is

wisdom-keepers, holding the ancient ways

of those who lived in harmony with nature

for ten thousand years

incomprehensible to them

when the ghost-walkers arrived

taking life from the earth without regard

giving nothing back,

no limits to greed and destruction,

banning prayer, prohibiting language,

trying to eradicate a culture

the word we  are  too guilty to speak: genocide

the social structure we are 

too embarrassed to recognize: apartheid

driven from the beloved homeland

they watered the Trail of Tears

with their sorrow, their blood, their bones

Those who survived bequeathed a strong spirit

to those who followed after,

though it took a hundred years for despair to abate

enough for the warrior spirit

to arise

Now watch those Rainbow Warriors, rising

strong in spirit, in culture

listen to the beating of the drums

rallying, vibrating across this land

hear their songs, see their dances

hear them speaking, strong in their message:

We are awake.

We are Idle No More.

The spirits from the ancestors

who walked that Trail of Tears

are standing with the warriors

and are clamoring to be heard:

You have lived wantonly on Mother Earth,

reaping destruction, without thought

for the seven generations ahead.

Awaken! Bring your souls out of hiding.

Ready your hands and hearts to till and replant,

mend and restore the Earth Mother.

Repair the devastation,

before we all are lost.