The First Song

firstpeople.us

Bird woman,

dressed in skins, and pelts,

comes out of her cave,

sits by the fire,

looks up at the stars.

In her heart is a wordless longing,

that she has not yet language for.

Beside her, 

her wolf-pup

lifts his muzzle to the sky

and howls mournfully

at the moon.

The human begins to thump

a steady beat

against her knee.

It grows in intensity and rhythm

until she, too,

tilts her head far back 

and makes guttural keening sounds 

in her throat

that have no interpretation,

yet describe her longing

perfectly.

The first song.

for Susan's prompt at Mid Week Motif: Song

Joy, and a Bag of Rice

Little Kenyan nomad, 
running home through the fields, 
so happy.
It is Christmas, and on Christmas,
that one special day of the year, 
his mother always makes rice.
He bursts in the door.
His mother is cooking vegetables,
as on any other day.
He starts to cry.
"Mama, where is the rice?"

His mother's heart must cry, too,
but outwardly she is calm, serene.
"My son, you know this year
your father has died, 
and so this Christmas there is no rice.
But we are together, 
and we have vegetables, 
and each other."

"Mama, when I grow big, 
I will buy you a whole sack of rice."

"Thank you, my son. I know you will.
With a son such as you, I am already 
a very rich woman."

That little boy studied hard, so hard,
he shone so brightly, 
he was sponsored to go to college.
He struggled long to persevere, 
without money, but without giving up.
Across the miles, I asked him,
"How do you stay motivated to work so hard? 
In my country, kids who have every opportunity,
often have no motivation at all."

He replied, "Escaping Poverty is my motivation. 
There is no other way, and my family has lived 
in the shadows for so long.
I dream big dreams, Koko."

And now it is Christmas once again. 
This year he has the job of his dreams,
where he will make the world a better place.
His light shines so brightly,
his superiors have their eyes on him.
They know this young man
will do big things,
yet keep a humble heart.

This time he goes home carrying 
new shoes for his younger siblings,
a dress for his mama, and a whole sack of rice.
The ululations and tears and celebrating 
will go on for  a long time.
"My siblings' eyes are shining, Koko.
My mother and I were laughing about 
the time I cried because there was no rice."

This year the sun shines brightly.
Younger siblings are in school.
Elder Brother and Younger Brother 
are now working.
Life has finally, after so many years,
begun to ease.

This year, there is rice.
But every Christmas,
there has always been
joy.

for the prompt at Poetry Jam: to write a poem that shares joy. This is a true story or, rather, part of an on-going story that it has been my privilege to watch unfold since 2010.

Bread

My mother, in the final years of her life,

finally in the small farmhouse 

she had dreamed of her whole life,

with a flock of chickens to feed, 

and an old, shabby farmhouse kitchen,

spent a glorious year or two 

kneading dough and baking bread

and cinnamon buns,

that rose on the wings 

of her satisfied dreams

and fed her family.

"How I love it when you roll 

into the driveway!" she'd exclaim.

"You think everything is funny!"

(Everything is!)

She had given up on her dream,

but here it was, unexpectedly:

little hobby farm, with a pond,

a horse in the pasture, 

and deer wandering through.

She cooked up a storm till that last year, 

when her eyesight and her health 

began fading fast 

and she took to her bed.

I found her bread recipe the other day,

written in her by-then huge but still flowing script: Bread. 

And it's a funny thing.

I can measure and mix and knead 

till the chickens come home to roost,

but I can't get that darned bread 

to rise as it did for her,

in that white and brown kitchen on Plested Road,

where dream and reality merged 

for a few too-short, precious, golden years.

for Grace's prompt at dVerse: Bread

We Walk in Wonder

The Alberni Valley after storm
by The Heart of Vancouver Island

Through the blue skies and the grey
we walk in wonder.
In the valley, on the peaks,
by the sea, along the creeks,
by the river, on its shore
is only wonder.

As the clouds drape  shawls

around the mountains' shoulders,

as the winter morning grey

grows ever colder,

as the slowly drifting clouds

dreamily spin this planet 'round,

within our sight is only wonder

to be found.

When your heart grows faint and weary

in December,

when there is pain in everything

that you remember,

when all that you loved is gone,

and all of life is moving on,

nature's beauty is both solace

and source of wonder.

When your heart is too heavy
with tears to carry,

and the Christmas songs are sounding

just too merry,

lift your eyes up to the hills.

The beauty there is magic, still.

In every instance, if we but look,

we walk in wonder.

Just Before Dawn

The dawn is peeping a red and ribald eye

over the mountain.

No one is awake.

The morning birds will not yet sing.

The sleepy valley is still nestled

in the arms of night.

But out in the meadow,

in the mist rising up from the icy fields,

a young doe is dancing lightly

on her tiny hooves.

An elven chorus, murmurous,

is chanting in the veld,

and the skybirds awaken, 

all a-flutter.

In a feathered heap,

they tumble out of the trees.

To witness this magic,

you must arise

just before dawn,

and disguise yourself

as a shrub.

My attempt to write a poem somewhat in the style of James Wright's poem, Beginning, for Grace's prompt at Real Toads.

Fairy Tales Unglued

Cinderella by 

http://joanamosi.deviantart.com/art/Cinderella-269875907

I so enjoyed Bjorn's response to the Dverse prompt to have a story character come alive in an unexpected place. He had Cinderella encountering Pinnochio. And then Mary responded to that poem, by reporting an overheard drunken conversation, and Gabriella escalated it by having Snow White attempt to blackmail the Fairy Godmother. Here is my furtherance of the fun and games..........

Dear Fairy Godmother,

That Snow White is a total cow.
She is SO not cool
reporting my tryst with the swoony Pinnochio,
who is my True Love 
(forget about the glass slippers)
and who has the best profile in Storyland,
(especially since he shaved his nose).
Plus he has that whole Bad Boy thing going on.
(I overlook his wooden heart.)

At my age, given the crows-feet,
a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do
and Snow White may have ruined
my One Last Chance. 

I am  totally P.O.'ed!
Just sayin'.

Cinderella

Mystical Voyager

worldwildlife.org

Strange beastie,

mystical voyager,

part myth, part corporeal,

creature-between-two-worlds,

both wonderful and strange

you ply the icy perilous waters,

which are about to change

because of human folly,

avaricious and deranged.

Interconnected with your human neighbors,

you swim in total trust.

It is the only home you know,

so swim you must.

The silent watery reaches of your habitat

will soon reverberate

with deafening blasts.

I can envision your terror,

before the first bomb is cast,

can see your pain,

bewilderment, your agonizing death.

No corner of this earth is safe.

Greed stalks our every breath.

I woke this morning

striving for wonder,

and encountered woe.

Beloved species,

I hesitate to say the words,

and yet I feel I am already

watching you go.

A report from SumOfUs.org states: A tiny Arctic community is fighting Big Oil.

Off the coast of Clyde River, Nunavut, unspoiled Arctic waters are home to 90% of the world's narwhals. These unique tusked whales play a crucial role in the aquatic ecosystem, and for thousands of years have been a staple of the local Inuit community. But now their very survival is in danger. 

The Canadian government just granted oil corporations the right to search for drilling sites in the ocean near Clyde River. Offshore drilling is bad enough, but the search is worse – these oil companies will use "seismic testing," setting off huge explosions underwater to try and find oil. 

Like all whales, narwhals use their hearing to communicate and to find their way safely beneath the Arctic ice. The search for oil will deafen, disorient, and kill any narwhals caught in its path. It's up to us to speak up now, and stop this while we still can.

Save the narwhals! Sign the petition to stop Big Oil from destroying Arctic habitats.

Source: SumOfUs.org