Enabler

I am reading about this word because I am in conflict about my own inadvertent involvement in the aid of someone hell-bent on self destruction.  I have the desire to be an empowering enabler (one who encourages another to achieve their goals and become self-sufficient), but I have been manipulated into becoming a destructive enabler (one who actually speeds the demise of a person who is self destructing).  This is, undoubtedly, further complicated by the self destructive person who distorts the intentions of those who love them (the enablers) by seeing their efforts to boost them over the wall of chaos as evil attacks, thus dragging all concerned to the lower depths of existence.

I have furthered my studies to include co-dependence and am going quite mad trying to reach clarification.  I find solace in Melody Beatie's comment "It is everywhere and everyone.  Of course she has to burst my bubble by defining it simply, "A codependent person is one who has let another person's behavior affect him or her, and who is obsessed with controlling that person's behavior."  This could relate to everyone everywhere if the key word weren't  "obsessed".

                                                           Homeless 

                    Your choices and my guilt
                    keep us in a crib of decadence.
                    My life time of moderation   
                    masked addiction insidious -
                    justified Contagion -
                    left us all in the desert
                    awaiting intervention.

                                                                              07-25-13




 

Children

She yelled at me in CAPITAL letters..belligerent, incoherent.  My usual armor gave way, and I left... immune at last to her extortion. I was an Innocent...still lost in the illusion of my children's childhood.  I had never experienced this harmonic of a four year old's resentment and confusion about the bonds of dependency and the pre-mature strife for independence.  I was in the "mambie pambie" world of fairy godmothers, mothers and grandmothers..What's the difference, really?

My childhood, enchanted.. rich in education, imagination and total ignorance of the tribulations of my parents; who like many couples with children were sacrificing their passions and goals for the beings who would be cast to sink or swim, maybe never fulfilling anyone's dreams...not their own or the ones imposed by their parents.

My children were free to play.  I loved the chaos and collaboration.  If only they never had to face the reality of life that I sadly did not completely prepare them for, and have so so suffered the consequences of.

Bazook

The mornings are cranky wiley and weird.
Slingshot's dart just whizzed past my ear.
Twinkling Toes is shrieking again
as Baby Bazook takes off in the wind.
The ba-bas are lined up
The TV's full blast
The laundry is piled up
The kitchen's aghast!

I'm thinking of Spock
and child expert, Ginott.
Motherhood is something
they will never ever know!

1985


Greyhound

I accompanied a few rhymes
in my zooming - appreciated
their presence however void
of prosaic due.

I started composing a title, "I Believed You"
and trusted my stupid intuition, religious
contradiction, ancient babble's new rendition.

Now look at the mess I created.
Lao Tsu, your lofty ideals.
How could I expect that a guilt ridden teen
could grasp what scholars question?
And inmates, alas, as the last light flickers
waiting in cells with cravings for snickers.

And I remain searching for Buddha's
mention of  "ethics" trying to comprehend
"renunciation" the rigors of denial and a
mother's inclination to spoil a child.

10/31/09

Sabotage

Interesting word...Sabotage..  "A weakening of;  most usually, a workplace, by slowing production either by lowering energy or committing a physical insult i.e. loosening an important screw or sugar in the fuel tank etc." 

How about sabotage of the heart?  Matters so personal, yet completely relevant and of the utmost importance for heart survival.  How does sabotage enter here?  Subtle ignoring, not being direct, suffering in silence, or complete rejection...a slow unacknowledged numbing until only solace remains.    . 



Not an Archive


I think with cobwebs in my brain,
huge bubble gum motors...smiling
yakking nurses keeping the spotlight
on trivial matters while tears back
up behind my eyelids squeezed by
the webs (no room for the spiders)
and the nurse just keeps yakking.
So damn happy cause she escaped
with her job; and now I'm desperately
searching for commuter positions,
government, education, administrative,
or whatever. While my friend, forsaken,
is courting a Parisian Artist wearing a
beret for sure; and soon he will be
gone, I employed, and we will both
shake our heads because we left the
hourglass turning with no supervision...
turning with small chance of revision.
Sand sifting through a narrow cross
determining our founds and our loss.


October 3, 2010


I suppose self sabotage is the worst because, after all, it does come down to "self". 
No one to blame but..........  etc.

There are outside pressures, however, and sadly they come from other people whom we allow to capture and influence our hearts, attention, time, views of all sorts: political, philosophical, religious, familial and on on on. . 

I guess this is what is called "love".  The stupid fuzzy lapse in time where you succumb to another's will and live to not only regret, but to hear the person who pursued and captured accuse you of the very same hypnotic conquest.


 My eyes flashed


at the incongruity of your words.
Darkness cast over the sanctity of Intimacy.

Me, melting into sensual yet alert to intellectual,
feeling confident only in the Physical where
It is not allowed, whispered or even spoken.

And You, unaware of its existence yet completely
knowing that its impending presence will be.

And It will pose a problem that could either expand,
alter, or instigate a termination; which I, nimble-footed will resist
and you? I can not imagine.

Yet, when I saw your Picasso body with outstretched arms
demonstrating a certain airplane, my heart melted; and I knew
you were the Patron of my non-conformity, the Divider of my soul.


November, 2007

Spring

Spring... the time of rebirth and new beginnings.  We haven't quite experienced it yet, but the anticipation is killing me.  I love the season mainly because it is a precursor to summer, which is really my favorite. 

I love the heat(not the sun) but the heat.  Everything is easier.  There is no need for socks, shoes cumbersome sweaters or coats.  Most transitions from home to car to buildings take less effort; unless, of course, you live in the more hot humid climates.  Then, this blog is more suited for your autumn.

Having been in those climates, I have a deep respect for the long term survivors and their tolerance. They are not unlike the very robust people who live in the very freezing cold climates.  I am humbled by the courage of both!

Nevertheless, spring deserves to be honored.  In some parts of the world it is the New Year and in others a celebration of life, flowers, children, love and most of all; the end of another dreary, wet, cold winter.


Scism


I’m really much better in the spring
where hopes are high
and toes are free.
I’m really much happier in the heat,
where my limbs can breathe
(especially my feet).

I’m so elated in the sun
despite the warnings and fear.
The  winter shadows are dreary,
the cold a pain. I guess
I can tolerate the rain;
but only if it’s followed by the
sweet sweet warming
rays of the sun.

2/14/07


Jasmin

Mmmm...delicious fragrance in the air.
I smell Jasmin everywhere.
It climbs on pretty petal feet
to doors and surrounding planter boxes.
Jasmin, smelling sweet
on the vernal side of the equinoxes.
Oh oh... there it goes again
sneaking up so very spicy.
A waft of perfume in the air
pleasing bees and noses nicely!

Spring 1986
Special thanks to Carl Sandburg for
inspiring my second line.



Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

By Carl Sandburg

Feining interest... or other hazards of partial revelation

What is the process of true feeling revelation?  Is it just " Sorry, I ate the chocolate that you were saving."  ...or is that only a prelude to words that are too blurred to be expressed?  "Sorry, I ate the chocolate you were saving  because I really wanted to throw away everything I own and join a monastery because I don't belong in my life or anywhere for that matter because I really hate chocolate but you love it more than you love me and because........?"  

We are fortunate to have language as an aid to expression; also, art, cinema, literature, cell phones, video games, substances, computers, poetry, music, philosophy, religion, therapists, meditation, exercise, marathons, dance etc.  However, wouldn't it be ultimately more satisfying if we could really make clear the fuzzy words that are trapped inside?...if the words could reveal themselves a drop at a time; appear, disappear, and reappear again.. perhaps in a different form or at a different time...until finally, even we would know what we are trying to divulge.


Manzanilla


Delicate Tact lets Sooth cower
under absolute silence less the
"Tippler" appear.
From what Cocoon a Butterfly?
To what Jailer does she comply?

Asunder casts a Heart buoyant.
Brilliant Intellect argues a case
to Wind, Breezes, Bubbling Brooks,
Giggles, Teases-- who all so
freely care, listen sincerely,
contribute a phrase or two;
but are gone as before--the Air.

01/18/09


"Tippler"   a tipsy character in a poem by Emily Dickinson     He is Tipsy by either spinning or drinking, Interpreters argue as to which. This is perhaps my favorite poem written by Emily Dickinson. To me, her poems are the pinnacle of subtle yet intimate expression.  She somehow manages to turn herself inside out; and because exposed, her flesh reveals her inner most thoughts.  


#214



I taste a liquor never brewed,
From Tankards scooped in Pearl;
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of Air-- am I--
And Debauchee of Dew--
Reeling-- thro' endless summer days-
From inns of Molten Blue--

When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door-
When Butterflies-- renounce their "drams"--
I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats--
And Saints-- to windows run--
To see the little Tippler
From Manzanilla come!

by Emily Dickinson

I, not being as cleaver as Emily and certainly lacking her unique eclectic vocabulary, can only grasp the tails of wispy intangible stubborn cyphers awaiting their entrance.



2009

Your fading snores comfort me from a
wall behind vows taken lightly,
refusing your promise or any.

To what avail is this annex viewing?
Perfection from blue eyes,
blue steel eyes that miss nothing.

I was flippant with the poems because
they were lazily hanging around.  I took
offense at their slovenly indolent after
the fact critique of my annoying loneliness.

I could have gone to see you uninvited.
I could have explained how my paralysis
caused an inconvenience; but you were
being yourself, and I hated you for it.

10-24-09

Trains

I am only writing about trains because I am really longing for a plane trip to Florida but can't commit to a date. I know that I  have to get a jump on it early, so the ticket won't be too expensive.  Whew!  So, I got really excited when I saw my relatives getting free Southwest airline tickets from the web.  I checked it out and ZAP nothing.   Lies, hype and disappointment.  Sigh.  The nerve of marketing scams!!

However, I am not one to be rained out completely.  I can be, but I am on a new trend of positive come-back.  Therefore, I am going to write about trains. 

I took a train two years ago to visit my son; and since I was alone, I got to absorb the scenery and muse on the passing buildings, the sounds of the train, and the ramblings of my imagination.  Sadly, my son didn't rave over my poem and only said, "Neglect eh?"

My come-back?  I am publishing my poem and dedicating it to Trains, Sons, and Travelers everywhere!



Fresno Train  

All Aboard!
Martinez, Modesto, Madera, Merced.

All Aboard!
Backlands of the San Francisco Bay.

All Aboard!
Backyard Doughboys, puddles, sheds,
graffiti, leaning fences, neglect,
cul-de-sac streets, old cars, and trucks.

All Aboard!
New communities with no space for clutter or rust.

All Aboard!
The horn blows past factories, farms, seedlings in
neat wet rows looking up at the big Montana sky.
Its iridescent clouds' big fat cheeks ready to rain
some more or float away.

All Aboard!

O1-24-2009

Apologies

A little too full of I am sorries right now, yet, wondering what for?  I am sorry I am me?  hmmm doesn't seem right.  I am sorry for my mistakes.  well, OK.  We should all reflect and take stock. 

We need to be careful with "I am sorry".  It isn't always our fault.  I once admired a friend who said, "I never say I am sorry."  Wow!  How bold.  Yet, as time passed, I noticed a few "I am sorries" whispered softly from his lips.  Did he suddenly become an abuser, or did he suddenly become more aware of his responsibility in social interaction?  Personally, I think he realized the sensitive nature of humans and became aware of his ability to cause harm.  I think he became human.

'94

Tip toe past the wind in the early morning hours.
See that by August God lopped off the flowers,
weary of blooming "y El Labrador sin horas".
Watch Mulberry leaves settle on a Sunday
afternoon.  Make humble inquiries as to
the where-a bouts of the Moon.

08/94



Jardin

I planted Cosmos in a garden for you.
Became Sherlock Holmes.  Unraveled
my arrogance into strands of silk dyed
by my tears in a rainbow of sorrow.
No apologies no regrets in a grey
endless hue.  Should I be sorry that
I love you?

1994

Centrifugal Force

I am not sure what this title has to do with what I want to say except that the meeting of and subsequent reaction to colliding realities move at a very fast pace for some and more slowly for others.  Oh, how I wish I were the calm one that knows for certain my reality is the correct one; and that the other foolish Whirling Dervishes are simply SPINNING OUT OF CONTROL!! 

Not so.   I am the one holding on to resolutions like, " I have made sooo many mistakes by remaining silent.  I am going to say what is on my mind.  I am going to reveal my reality.  It is the survival thing to do."

I only wish this were the true agreed upon course of action, and that patience could be taken with the stumblings and fumblings of first attempts.

                                                                     

Foibles                                                                      

                                                                                     

It is time to climb the mountain,

Perform a ritualistic dance -
Reach out to the Heavens -
Grab the apron strings of Chance.
Pry open the the walls of Koppelberg Hill

and squeeze our lame bodies through.

Enter a world of magic.

A Mystical Whim pursue.

I am tired of facts and "Crust" toothpaste, alas,
doesn't do half what it should.
Those enzyme detergents are bugs in my suds,
and I'm sure would eat me if they could.

So line up now with your concerns that matter.
Consult the Swami or ask the Mad Hatter,
who mirrors the Philosopher Stone. 
He muses mid clutter in deafening clatter;
but oh, how in-sightly he does hone.

To a mountain that beckons
with each of us reckons
waiting for the Piper to sound.
Take us away in a hypnotic trance.
A whirling twirling feverish dance
to a wondrous, magical land.
We will throw away our crutches,
escaping the clutches of the likes
of the "Onec-lers" we knew.
We are granted our wishes on verges
and cruxes- A Mystical Whim pursue.

1988

Onec-ler - A materialistic insensitive Dr. Seuss character
from his story "The Lorax"



Koppelberg Hill - A hill outside of Hamlin, Germany where the Pied Piper brought the children after the town refused to pay him for relieving them of their rats.  One child, a lame boy, could not walk fast enough and was left to stay in the town alone without play mates.

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

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

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

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

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

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