Gordy's Mitzi

Dad has a pup curled up still

 in the corner

with a belly full of batteries. 

He quivers no cow herding dreams 

 and only breathes when you turn him on. 

 When the milk barn telephone went off

 he would never torment that cow

 by swinging madly on her tail.  

He doesn't smile for cookies, shed, 

or make a mess. 

This pup's has no ears to anticipate 

the whistle coming from his master, 

no eyes to watch intently

 for the beloved hand

 sweeping towards the calf 

needing separated from the herd. 

Never will he run flat out, belly

to the ground, tongue dripping joy. 

He won't ever beg for food, 

or beg for more of the work

 he was born and bred for. 

This pup won't die with

 sides heaving,

trying to please his master 

whose hand he can't lick. 

Airplane Window View

Underneath wing shadows

were paisley fields

with river tails, trailing

like curling thread.

It pieced and stitched

together

odd shapes of all sizes into

a crazy quilt.

History says paisley

was once a design

woven for mourning.

Easy to believe

as paisley 

and tear drops

lay the same 

lament upon the land.

No till is the accepted way of planting now. It was disturbing to see such progress up close as we visited family in North Dakota. The fields were being harvested. Sixty bushels an acre instead of the meager eighteen of thirty years ago. Afterwards, they spray to kill weeds. With poison. Round-up ready or poison coated seeds are then drilled into the clean, weed free fields. More toxins are sprayed on throughout the growing season. It is dead dirt, not to be mistaken for loamy soil, alive with living things.

I felt sad for the young farmers trying to survive and feed their families. They sit high and removed on the ways of monoculture's big tractors, insulated from the dying moans of the soil.

I feel sad for us, that we eat bread, made with dead wheat, poisoned from the beginning and several times after. It is altered, bleached and separated from its center of life.

We willingly eat bread made from poisoned wheat without a kernel!

When our bodies react as if violated, we are told we're intolerant of gluten and believe it.

Bulbs Buried

This is my second fall of planting bulbs. Daffodil. Tulip. Paper Whites. Hyacinth. Crocus.

Memories of last spring gave me momentum to be extravagant.

It seems futile. My back aches, my hair gets frazzled, and dirt finds its way in under the gloves. I'm soiled and sweaty this morning. Instant gratification won't reward me any time soon. The bulbs and I wait.

Two hundred pockets of hope were buried in the dirt this morning.

When they burst out next spring, so will I.

Buried treasure. Buried pleasure. Buried dreams. The deep darkness grows it, knows it well.

Launch #1

Tessa left home with her car packed yesterday. She snuggled with me in bed before we had coffee. As we hugged good by I couldn't quit sniffing her neck and cheeks and hair. Her scent is her own. I have already misplaced it. This makes me feel blind. Crippled. Numb.

I made her two aprons. One, a girl apron in pink floral and polka dots. The other a plain, John Deere print with tractor pockets - farm girl wanna be apron. She is an amazing cook, infusing her creations with sensuous passion. I think she stays pure and virginal physically because she can release and transform her desire into the food she shares. We have been blessed by many meals where the only sound at the table was a soft moan of satiated hunger.

Tucked into the aprons was a love note. Her middle name is Rose. Another gift to the world is her music. I will miss the piano throbbing the windows silly. The girl has soul. You can't learn it or buy it. You can only be born with it. It has nothing to do with perfection or performance.

On the back are taped tickets. Unlimited tickets to return home or ask for help if she needs to.

This was a love letter printed with crayon on first grade tablet paper. 

It seems like yesterday when she was practicing cursive on it. 

Tessa Punkin' Noodle Rosebud ~ 

Don't forget whose you are. 

Be the bride.

 Look loved instead of trying to look good. 

Present yourself as a gift. 

You are. 

See others in that pink light also. 

Give. 

Save. 

Pray. 

Live simple and real.

 Live fully alive and engaged. 

Work and love from fullness and rest. 

Be instead of do. 

Don't look back. 

Move forward within the tension of waiting. 

Shine. 

Twinkle.

 Offer. 

Laugh. 

Play. 

Smile on your world. 

You are needed. 

Collander

Grind my bulk with wooden
handle going round in
circles until holes
ooze messy
pulp

bruised flesh broken away
from seed and skin
makes tasty
jam for
toast

Outside the Frame

I want to know what is outside the perimeters of what the camera lens is panning, or framing. If it looks catastrophic, I want to know the rest of the story. Is there help? Is there also a flower bursting through the blood stained ghetto street? 

Then, the happy pictures and posts of everyone else's wonderful lives, happy families, and idyllic vacations ~ you know, the Christmas Letter version of successful living? The kind that make me feel like a loser? Our vacations seem like a disaster? Our real lives extremely, painfully dull, and real? 

Let this comfort you. Please. 

Look at two pictures from the album I posted on Facebook from our last camping trip of the season, this weekend. 

Idyllic. Pristine. Premium spot by the quintessential babbling brook. Luci Shaw's Breath for Bones, a journal, and falling leaves surround my peaceful interlude with nature. This is how what I show you looks: 

Here is what you can't see, can't know. We got rained out the first night. The ocean was socked in, so we came inland the next morning. I cried with disappointment. We set up our soggy tent in what seemed like a perfect spot. By the time it dried out, we were regretting our choice. Our neighbor had his radio on full volume. Loverby asked him politely to turn it down. It canceled out the lovely quietness for the rest of the evening because he refused common courtesy. 

The next morning, he fell out of his motor home cursing the dogs tangled with his legs. Two young boys with a live, beeping geiger counter started scouring the empty space next to us. This was all before seven o'clock in the morning. We forgot a flashlight, the dutch oven lid handle, the briquette tongs, and hot pads. 

Loverby got cranky at a new rip in the tent. I got cranky at a slow leak in the air mattress. We both became cranky at the non-stop traffic on the way home. 

There is a "however" ~  We did make glorious coffee. The brook did babble all night only a few steps from our tent door. The aromatic steam from the dutch oven meals probably made the neighbors drool. We did stay warm and dry. We did snuggle like a puzzle all night. And oh, the stars......... 

Next time you see a disaster framed, know that somewhere there are beautiful hands taking a swipe at the ugly. There's more beyond the frame. 

Next time you see someone's marvelous vacation pictures, realize they aren't showing you the blisters, disagreements, leaks in the tent, or breakdowns. There's more beyond the frame. 

And that steep granite mountain I'm nose to nose with right now? Thankfully, there's more beyond the frame. I can't see it, that's all. 

 

Biblio

I am 

alive words

 carried through

time 

protected from harm

undiluted

a

poem to feel a

parable to understand

a metaphor to see

paradox to puzzle

wisdom to know 

prophesy to fulfill

truth to live

bright and sharp

I am

open book 

full pages

words

written on

 hearts   

I am

We just saw "Book of Eli". It prompted this. 

Bloody Berries

Falling into the berry patch hurts. Dumping the full basket is discouraging. Spider webs trapped me. Barbed thorns hooked tender flesh. Hair chunks getting yanked out by a bramble branch made me cry behind askew sunglasses.

Is that blood oozing or berry stains?

Another two quarts of berries in the freezer is all I have for my trouble today.

Why do I do it?

It is never about the berries.

It's about the sensual satisfaction of gathering summer and putting it by. For later.

And Another One Does

Sophisticated man 

greedy for his own

decor in the big city 

plunders the riches 

of a small town's 

history. Raping 

her, gutting her, 

leaving her torn, 

a gaping hole 

bleeding. 

His assurances 

earned trust in town

before leaving her

scarred

barren 

forever bereft.

They, not he

are left 

with remorse. 

Loverby and I heard a sad story last weekend in a small town in Eastern Washington. Waitsburg has a lovely history. Mr. Wait owned the gristmill on the Touchet River. The town thrived. 

A few years ago a Seattle man bought the historic bar on main street with the understanding that he would renovate it and rejuvenate the town at the same time. It had one entire wall of custom oak bar. Mirrors. Draft handles. Personality. Patina. Artisan quality work that isn't found any more. 

As soon as the ink was dry, he gutted it - installed it in Seattle somewhere - and left the gaping hole on Main street. The building is useless now. He doesn't care. He got what he wanted. Waitsburg pays the penalty for his greed. Thus the angry poem.

These pictures aren't the same building; it was in a town close by, telling the story better.

This is how another charming small town dies. 

Nine Lives

"It's a small world" wasn't only a cliche tonight. I met Fred Sprinkle through poetry. Glynn, Maureen, and Nancy promoted him through Twitter, which in turn caused me to follow his blog; I Force It To Rhyme.  I then friended him on Facebook. Oregon, Missouri, and Virginia led me back home. I'm glad I followed the trail.

Through his recent Facebook status, I saw his invitation for Wrong Way to Hope, which was having a premier showing in Mt. Vernon at the Historic Lincoln Theater. Fred helped produce it. How cool was that? It sounded like a fun date on the water with a full moon escorting us on the short drive.

Looking through the program, we learned that it was about nine young cancer survivors taking a nine day rafting adventure on a remote river in Oregon.

They let the camera and us hear their journal, join their isolation, observe their solitude, feel their pain, see their scars, sing their stories, wipe their tears.

They let the camera and us watch as they wiped out over and over again in class IV rapids and climb back on their kayak once again to do it again.

They let the camera and us see transformation and jumping joy.

The let the camera and us touch the grief, loss, and regret.

They let the camera and us in. We were with them. Raw. Naked. Hurting. Minus useless sentimentality.

Being with them was pure alchemy, turning our own private pain-with a different name-into redemptive time. A thread of empathy and compassion seemed to complete an invisible electric current from the lives on screen to us. Understanding lit up the dark theater.

The most noticeable thing was how their countenance changed. Surely there was a gauntlet of rainbows arching above that stretch of river during those nine days?

We didn't have far to go or have any long lines to wait in to meet Fred and two of the young people in the film. I would prefer looking into their eyes and shaking their hand ~ than any royalty, pope, or celebrity ~ it was high honor indeed.

I wish them well in spreading hope.

"You can't suck and blow at the same time" and "I think I'll put up some mountains" were the unforgettable take-away quotes for me.

You'll have to see it to understand. :)