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.

UFO's

This is a google image, close to what we saw,

but it was closer to us than this one-

maybe two  to three yard-lengths away,
above some low trees.

Out back, it is bare brown desert, rolling for miles,

sheltering beside low, rounded brown hills.

The landscape is unmarred by buildings, 

a few scattered small houses, sky wide and clear.

It is dusk when the neighbors come knocking,

excited, urging us, "Quick! Come and see!

There's something out back, something weird, a UFO!"

The kids and I line up, beside the neighbors.

Off a little ways, hovering over the field,
just above some trees,

emitting no noise, to indicate engines
or whatever is keeping it there,

is a round craft of some sort,

looking like something out of Star Trek.

It hovers there in one spot for some 40 minutes,

making no sound, apparently observing.

I call the police, who say 

they have received many calls from people

seeing the same thing.

They have no idea what it is.

My son, age ten,  is frantically setting up his telescope,

muttering like the Absent Minded Professor:

"Ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, it's a UFO,

I cant believe it. Wait!  I can see something!

It's the ring around Saturn!

Oh! No....it's the reflection 

of my eyeball in the lens cap."

We all crack up,
standing on the porch.

Six humans, lined up on the porch,

we observe the aliens.

Presumably, from inside the spacecraft,

the aliens, hovering,  observe us.

After 40 minutes, still without sound,

the craft drifts slowly off, 
sideways and away.

Our first and only UFO.

For Susan's prompt at MidWeek Motif - halfway point of the year or World UFO Day. 

Since our family saw a UFO in the late 1970's, I chose that topic. For anyone who believes, the most riveting movie I ever saw about UFO's is The Fourth Kind, a true story, which includes some actual footage of UFO  visitations and abductions in Alaska, in the 1980's. Yikes.

This is more prose than poetry, but am running out the door....may try a more poetic offering later.

Moon Raven

Blue Raven by Kathryn Dyche Dechairo, with permission

available from Dyche Designs

Moon Raven,

lift me up on your bent wing.

Swoop me away

through the misty night

into the forest.

There we will commune

with wolf-ghosts and ancient trees.

We will sing with the spirits

ululate with owls

keen with all beings 
over our Losses

and send out blessings

and gratitude

for All That Remains.

Towards dawn,
 having divested myself 
of my tears,
and having rekindled my hope,
let me curl up in the roots
of Grandfather Cedar,
pillow my head with moss,
pull pine boughs over my shoulders,
and escape to my haven of forgetfulness:
a dream.