Sunday, December 12, 2010

Oppression

I saw a course offered today at the local Community College titled "Dealing with difficult people".  I couldn't help but notice because I have long felt that truly contented people are those who aren't affected by the behavior of others.  A few of those "others" are often difficult.  They are difficult because there is some insensitive part of them that intentionally or unintentionally keeps those around them in a lower state, or is it that the people in the lower state in their humility and shaky self-esteem are too easily fooled by the puffed up illusion projected by those feigning superiority?  I admire the insubordinate who "tells it like it is"  in such a way that no action can be taken.  Their subtle comment is slightly below the insult mark and made in teasing humor, so that the arrogance of the "superior" is knocked down a notch.

I am reminded along this subject of a poem by Emily Dickinson, which makes me think that the dilemma of "psychological brow-beating" is timeless.

#288 

I'm Nobody!  Who are you?
Are you - Nobody - Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise - you know!

How dreary - to be - Somebody!
How public - like a Frog -
To tell one's name - the livelong June -
To an admiring Bog!

So, returning to the subject of "Difficult People" and their ability to oppress those around them.  I am inclined to think there is a therapy for the oppressed.  A "being on one's toes" sort of therapy, a constant vigilance and alarm system put in place so that when the moment of degradation is near an army of defense is called to arms ready to strike the perpetrator before he/she speaks or even dares to glance in an offensive manner.  I suppose it is a "snap back" therapy; and believe me, that even though I am well armed and ready, there are still those who catch me off guard and leave me in a charged muddle, agonizingly plotting my revenge!

Christmas

Bubbly bouncy guys with blood shot eyes.
Don't understand the axioms,
point their fingers at my sins.
I am an old Indian, and I don't understand;
years and years in the clay mines,
and on our bodies not one spot of red sand!

Your God is a Material God.
He swallows you on Christmas.
Your God is a Sugar God,
He nibbles at you on Easter.
Your God is a Familial God.
He teaches you lessons through your children.
Your God is a Benevolent God.
He gives them to those who have none.

1986

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Acceptance of persons, events and time

I have found myself in the throes of regret and blame these last four months.  I want to return to a difficult time and remake the decision that placed me here.  My mind traces each detail of my decision and we both nod in agreement that it was the best thing to do.  Yet, I know now that I was mistaken, and somehow the possibilities of the other decision are floating away as my limited time teases me and mocks my very existence.  "Damn the recession and the baby boomers!" 

The part of me that wasn't consulted remains quiet and reminds me that the road not taken is just that, not taken.  It quotes the Tao and waits.  "When it blows, there is only wind; when it rains, there is only rain; when the clouds pass, the sun shines through."



Friant


Onion compresses, when
Clay or Comfrey are not
around wounds so deep.
Stairs climb shadows
unable to descend.
An interested friend lays
treasures at my feet.

Hoist an infant, chastise
a child, hold fast.   Your
Grit will determine at birth,
your Pitfalls bleed blame.
A new face causes eyes to
squint. Nothing is the same.


02-1-09

Friday, September 17, 2010

Misconceptions

Everyone knows that "you can't tell a book by its cover", and that "familiarity breeds contempt." But does anyone understand why, or what causes us to fall repeatedly into the "misconception trap".

I guess the worst victims are young virginal girls trusting seed sowing wolves to love and honor. However, we all to some extent want to believe that first impression when what you see is what you get. How boring, really, would it be if that jovial person you meet were to always be that two dimensional character. The unfolding of a person can also be the intrigue that leads to love and beyond.

Nevertheless, spending a life time with the Jekyll and Hyde under my skin, I am warned to look carefully and deeply before casting judgment on another.  Before entrusting my soul: study the facets and surprises of familiarity.


The Moon's Paladin


Saturn kissed the Moon last night.
I watched him through the window.
He snuck up close and held her tight.
What a daring fellow!

Saturn traveled far last night.
He is a far and distant traveler.
I wondered as he held her tight,
"Does he really love her?"

"Saturn, May I speak to you.
You many ringed romancer.
I question as you set to woo
your wondrous pale moon lover."

Saturn turns and looks at me
his enormous green eyes smiling.
"Oh Earthling, I can't help but laugh
at your presumptuous implying.

It is true I am a roguish sort,
quite alone and drifting; and
the Moon she tells a luring
story with her lovely singing.

But I am not the one of whom
she sings, although I envy his
attractive splendor. She is
instead one of my flock, for
I am the Moon's proud tender."

December, 1972

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Dreams

There was a period in my life, kind of like now, where much of my time was spent waiting for others.  I strengthened patience and cultivated a love for aloneness.  Keeping busy swallowed much of the time; but dreams, daydreams really; devoured my attention, greedy for past memories and future fantasies.

I remember at one point watching the poplar trees in my front yard for what seemed like hours, day after day.  I felt like a prisoner locked in a tower only to be released when the little guards would wake from their naps, and I could escape to the store to buy them some milk.



Poplars in the Wind

Gentle wind claim my soul,
shimmering leaves sway to and fro.
I want to feel the touch of a dream, 
Sense its mist, sense serene.
Shimmering leaves gold and green. 
I want to touch the heart of a dream.
Strange as it seems, I just can't win.
I want to reach through and
touch the heart of a dream, 
Entwine close within.

How cleverly he plays the fool
I hear the royal subjects say.
How he makes them feel superior
with his clumsy movements stumbling play. 
Then when in a drunken stupor the idle braggarts lay;
The fool with richness overflowing quietly steals away.

I am a Ronin Samurai---
I swear to God this leotard is twenty years old,
and I have been dancing all of their lives. 
Children with nondescript eyes
are so sweet they bring tears to mine.
This servitude from some other time.

I guess I was just a little to open with you.
I accepted your invitation, then away your flew.
Well, I don't think of you much anymore --
Only when my eyes haze
as a present conversation fades.
A scowling face chastises  my distraction
while something you said rattles in my brain ,
and I fear you think, "God, she's insane."

Gentle wind claim my soul,
raging fierce now, out of control.
There are many things a man can do
that make him feel dark and mean.
But raging wind you're no fool,
and it ain't a crime to have a dream.

May, 1986

Saturday, July 31, 2010

Paranoia

Paranoia....one word to describe so many feelings of insecurity and projection..hmmmm..what would I do if the door I tried were unlocked? 

Untried or unsuspected:  If we are ever to trust others, we need to first trust ourselves.

When Every Word

I hear echos the very words
I scream,and the enemies that
surround me hide in my pillow seam.
The desire for understanding falls
like the fluff of a waking dream. 

As I sift through the rubble
clutching this, rejecting that; 
I see yet another rubble where
I sat scrutinizing what was
said, and how I answered back.

August, 2002

Sunday, June 20, 2010

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

Thursday, June 10, 2010

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

Monday, May 31, 2010

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

Sunday, May 23, 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

Sunday, May 9, 2010

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

Thursday, May 6, 2010

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