Wild Woman on Human Nature

[image from google]

After observing

human nature

all Saturday morning

at her yard sale,

Wild Woman observes

that some people

might benefit

from a nice, tidy

little brain-tuck.

When You Love a Wild Thing

This is for a prompt at Real Toads: to take a quotation from Breakfast at Tiffany's:
I chose this one, (of course)!

"...you can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That's how you'll end up, ...[i]f you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky."


— Truman Capote (Breakfast at Tiffany's: A Short Novel and Three Stories)
 
When you love
a wild thing,
you're rekindling
your kinship
with the wild.
 
Every cell
in your body
remembers
when you once
lived free
upon the land,
when you
lived
the Old Ways
we once
used to
understand.
 
Part of you
remembers
when you
hunted the deer,
and part remembers
when you were
the deer
being hunted.
Both sides
know fear.
 
The part of you
that catches
your breath
while your heart
quickens,
when that
old gray whale
turns her
ancient eye
on you,
is the part
that recognizes,
but can't
put words to,
the message
in her
mournful song,
about this
planetary home
where we all
belong.
 
I gave my heart
to a wolf-pup,
his eyes
intelligent
and true.
He loved
me more
than anyone
I ever knew.
 
He remained
wild,
but left
both
wilderness
and sea.
In order
to be with me
he relinquished
being free.
 
And when
it came
his time
to leave,
he tried
so hard
to stay.
Since he's
been gone,
it's like
the wilderness
itself
has gone
away.
 
Now
when I walk,
yes,
I'm looking
at the sky.
I'm listening
at each full moon
for his lonely
cry.
 
I walk
the length
of his favorite river
with tears
that we're apart.
But I'm glad
I loved a wild thing
because he
fortified
my heart.

Mystical Swimmer

[gray whale image from marineecotours.com]

Mystical swimmer

in the timeless sea,

you travel

in the

amniotic sac

that carries

the DNA

of our entire

history.

You have watched

our evolution

from sea to shore,

from crawling

to standing upright,

but we're living

interconnected

with the land

no more.

Slowly,

we changed.

The Earth 

became "Resource"

and we have strayed

too far
from The Way

to even feel

remorse.

We have

destroyed

the fragile balance

of our

shared home,

stripping it bare,

while 

screams

and bombs

and warring

fill the air.

Your ancient eye

has watched it all.

This is why

your mournful song

is so full

of sorrow.

Your intelligence

is so vast

shamans and seers say

you have access to

the collective

unconscious

and can even see

our tomorrow.

Please don't tell us.

We can surmise

from flooding rivers,

melting ice floes,

forest fires,

earthquakes,

tsunamis,

drought and famine,

a story

far too terrible,

a harvest

we have

sown.

Sister Whale,

what have we done

to our planetary home?

We have forgotten

basic truths

that once

were known.

Sing your mournful song.

Swim through

the murky sea.

Together

we share

a heartbreaking

history.

Let's leave

the future,

while we still can,

shrouded in

mystery.



Wild Woman on Flying

[First Day of Flying by Shelly S. Cannady

-from Google]

Wild Woman

knows more

than any

mother

wants to

ever

have to

learn,

about watching

her child

teeter

on the edge

of the

precipice,

fearful

that the

slightest breeze

will topple

him off.

But she also

has experienced

more joy

and pride

than any

mother

could ever

have

imagined,

at watching

her fledgling

step courageously

to the edge,

spread his wings-

and fly!!

Jeff's latest poem for me

My son, Jeff, is such a blessing in my life. We have walked a long journey together, through his years of suffering, when words flew between us like birds, and we learned the meaning of acceptance, and unconditional love, and Being There. And through his treatment for lymphoma, when I hobbled to the city to sit with him in the oncology ward.

We have always been able to talk about anything. Including death. Conscious living, conscious dying. Being Present.

I remember his huge blue eyes, looking up at me when he was three, the eyes of an angel, an unclouded innocent. We share the gift of knowing what the gifts of living are: the beauty of the natural world, the possibility of transcendance in humankind. He has the Family Cackle. [When our family gets together, it sounds like a fox is in the henhouse:) ]

He continues to humble me, leaving me in awe of being such a gifted soul's mother. His latest poem seems to be his acknowledgment of my aging. It actually is a song, set to music. He creates incredible music, including classical pieces that sound like Bach and Mozart. I havent heard this set to music yet, but no doubt I will soon:)

I Fly Through a River of Dreams

by Jeffrey Siddhartha Crazy Horse Marr


I was a child but I have grown
Your quiet house is all I've known
The crooked peach-tree in the yard
The killing rain we took too hard


And now I must cry
And embrace you
And wave good-bye...


Chorus.


I Fly Through a River of Dreams
Where love is like a summer breeze
I Fly Through a River of Dreams
That carries me toward the Sea

I see you on the bright-green bank
You are the one that I must thank
I see your face and sky-blue dress
Come, let us touch our last caress


And now I must cry
And embrace you
And wave good-bye...


Repeat Chorus.


We'll meet again just you and I
Beneath a peach-tree in the yard
The two of us will never die
And rain becomes a little sigh


And now I must cry
And embrace you
And say good-bye...


Siddhartha Marr.

A True Source

[image from sacredfire.org]

When someone

who is tuned in

to a higher

frequency

than the

rest of us

can hear

speaks

his truths,

I listen

very

carefully.

Because his words

come from

a true Source.

Oncology 101

[This is my son Jeff with his friend, Patches, the little pony that died of cancer soon after my son went through his first round of chemo for non-Hodgkins lymphoma. So far he is doing well, and is being maintained on an every-three months single dose of chemo. Jeff is an incredible being, who graces our lives beyond the telling. I wrote this poem a year ago, sitting in the oncology ward with him. But I was looking for something to post today and this popped up.]

June 4, 2010


"I feel like an angel,
burning up
from the inside,"
my son tells me.


We're in the
oncology ward.


Chemo is
drip
drip
dripping
into his arm.


His hair is wisps now,
across his bald head,
like when he was a baby.


His eyes are still
as blue and true.


"I view reality
with perfect clarity,
but I've become aware
of another dimension,"
he tells me.


"When I look into a flower,
I see the whole universe.
I can hear the earth
groaning in ecstasy
and, in my body,
I can feel, with my heart
of compassion,
myself groaning along with it.


It's a good thing,"
he smiles,
reassuringly -
always,
his unchanging
smile.


The chemo
drips
drips
drips
into his arm.

My son is an angel,
burning up from the inside.