Freedom

I was thinking of freedom today, and how it seems to be what the world as a whole and individuals everywhere are seeking.  I have thought and written about how the finest freedom is found within barriers..good barriers. 

Maya Angelou writes that the caged bird sings for it, and our own USA allows it to ring.  I, however, think it is something we will never have.  Our need to be caged is far greater than our love of freedom.  We are caged in jobs, homes, relationships, family; and by the simple fact that we have no feathers or fur, and we need to eat.  We are foremostly caged by love.  The single bond that is both elastic and solid steel.  It sends us soaring to great heights and spinning out of control to the lowest depths.  We might try to escape bravely or stealthy, but in the end it "will gettcha gettcha gettcha."


Gadding About

Footsteps echo force down the hall. Assumed
Gentleness irate, presumes its time to rear Ugly
Heads in childish tests the bonds of love.

We run naked and have no names. 
The Elves pinch us until nothing remains. 
We hide in the Toadstools under the trees. 
Lichen formed mice tickle our knees and
dissolve in the laughter of the Elves as they tease.

They tease and they vex, they jest and they laugh
atop Sponge Pillows, at Moss tables, mischievous
spats.  They sip Dewdrops, and Teardrops jabbering
a lot as eerie music surrounding  fades in and out.

Circling this concert Tangled Fungus and Mold
drawing from heat transform and unfold
Fear, Sniveling Tears, Who done it? 
You did it!  He told! 
In Algae Robes invading, winding below
and above not releasing or holding....
the illusive bonds of love.

May, 2003

Fathers Day

I am not a fan of "Hallmark" holidays, but Mothers and Fathers have my appreciation. It isn't only the biological parent that should receive an ovation, but any responsible adult who takes on the role and extends a hand to a young person. Perhaps the name of both days should be changed to "Caregiver Day" - much more appropriate.


Father's Day


Strong arms lift you from
turbulent waves, water lapping
at your knees misbehaves.
Cracker Jacks and Red Hots,
Gimme Some and Thank You Nots.

Send you off in a black sleek car,
quick sip of water from a jelly jar.
In the back seat, a pretty blond smile.
Treaded underneath, fragrant Chamomile.

June, 1995

Elizabeth Blakely Hall Elkins

My niece died this week much too young. I was privileged to be able to visit with her extended family. I think we all had a hard time balancing the joy of reunion with the sadness of the situation.

I couldn't stay because of family issues of my own, but I was impressed with the support everyone was giving to Elizabeth's husband, children parents, and siblings. How I wanted to know each one; but the time was short, and I was an outsider bowing out to their time with their wife, mother, daughter, and sister.

I watched a squirrel while I was visiting. I wondered how the animal world deals with death and family in general. Does anyone know how to respond to this kind of loss? I guess we all do our best, and trust that each person will grieve in their own way as a part of the deceased becomes part of us.


Lizzy

Gray Squirrel has no trouble
flitting down the evergreen tree.
His whisking tail behind him trails.
He is unaware of me. He has no
concern it seems of our loss today,
or perhaps he too is off to mourn
where our sweet Lizzy lay.

May, 2010

Reclaiming Glory

Once I watched a public television history of an Irish poet. I would love to remember his name because he was amazing. His poems were long and rich. They fell off the tongue smoothly; and I could tell he was like Mozart, a born genius.

The story, however was very tragic. He was a soldier and had done something wrong. He had either committed treason or had been captured. Whichever, he was going to be executed. I don't know if I felt worse for the loss of the man, his art, or his potential. I just know that even though I saw this story over twenty years ago, I still remember the image.

This poet's experience has taken on a deeper meaning for me. It is the loss of art in all of us due to the social rat race, not only the work-a-day race, but the personal one. The sharp jabs from those closest to us even if unintentional can leave us feeling vacant and emotionally slain.


.....a lass

the distant moon so wan...
so what?  What can they do
with your irregular honesty?
Walk you up, hand held a hill
of poetry?  Allow you visions
of meaning until meaning
is gone?  Then shoot you and
your accomplice at dawn.

December, 2002

Unsettled Times

Many years ago I read a book entitled "The Mists of Avalon" by Marion Zimmer Bradley. It was recommended by my "librarian" friend, Va. I loved the book. It was fascinating to follow the fictitious characters that were associated with King Arther and the knights of the Round Table. I loved the concept of the Goddess, and felt sadness as she slowly disappeared into the mists to be replaced by the ever encroaching Judeo-Christian God led by the Crusaders searching for the "Holy Grail." A search, which metaphorically was an obsessive quest for near impossible attainment and ironically an excuse to battle and plunder while forcing the Celtic faith into the darkness of the mist.

My search, however, has been for "Indra" and "The Shawl of Tears". A character somewhere created by someone who represents to me the step we take after disappointment or rejection. It is perhaps the chasm between need and want which a good friend of mine explained so beautifully; and I, in my muddled way, have forgotten.


Bayview Court


Carefully now take it to part this frailty that nobody loves.
I like orange juice better than apple juice does.
Somersaulting through keyholes, leaps lighter than air,
add a purl to Indra's shawl of tears with a flair,
accept your disapproval with hardly a care.

Oh Morgain, mistress of mysteries, to your barge I'll moor.
Hold your staff and raise the mist, I'll see Avalon once more.
I've bathed their feet, prepared their feasts, sewn their robes and
gowns. I've served concede and smile despite their wails and frowns.
I've saved the morning's twilight stretching, dancing until dawn.
And when awakened from relinquished sleep cuddling my little
fawns, I drink in their baby breath with each delightful yawn.

August,1986

Beginning Where I Am

I find that youth is alive with rush. I was there always looking ahead, really unable to be where I was. Now that I am slowing down, I marvel as others zoom around me with anxiety that leaves me speechless.

One evening I put my three year old daughter in the bath and left to attend to the other children and tasks. When I returned my friend, Ukiah, was sitting on the edge of the tub washing behind my daughter's ears. Had I been too busy to attend to these details, or had I carelessly trusted in her toddler independence? Which ever, I was humbled; and that moment has remained with me as a reminder of haste.

One of my favorite children's books was about a carousel horse named Arab, who had escaped from his carousel to have many adventures in the world of real people and horses. One of his adventures took him to a boy in Arabia, who for penance, was told to wash between his toes forty times a day. Forty times!? Wow! That struck me as strange, until I realized that people in that time and place walking in the desert sandaled or barefoot needed to pay close attention to the hygiene of their feet. I have adopted the practice, not the forty times part, but I wonder if everybody knows about this.


I simply didn’t have the time


to scrub behind your ears.
I was much too pressed
to wash between your toes.
I was in a ridiculous rush
to go nowhere and grow old.
Nervously checking the time,
there must be something
scheduled somewhere;
a class, a meeting, a fire.
I knew I couldn’t wait.
I was in a hurry to expire.

August, 2007