April Poem

I climbed up to where their eyes couldn’t see
A secret ledge on which to perch
Built into mud and over hung with rock
A cliff face to which I clung with care
One misstep and I’d be toast
But that did not deter me in the slightest
As I scrambled up the hill,
Building my muscles
with each push of my leg
and pull of my arm.
My abdomen activating
In support of my system.
I felt energized and exhausted
Confident and terrified
Thinking only of where
To put my foot next.
Thinking of the plan
Not the consequence.

And so here I sit,
With an eye on much of the forest below
The air is cooling get as the sky darkens
And winter chilled water drops slowly
Upon me from the river carved rock
There is so much sound around me
But it signals life and strength and courage
In the spite of all our ignorance and idiocy
Selfishness and greed.
The forest stands apart, even still,
Even after the atrocious rape we have
Committed and continue to commit.
Here I sit, apart and embraced from and by
Our odd world with its mysteries of
Meaning and or lack thereof.
Pondering and wondering and hoping and fearing. 

There are piles of scat all around me.
I think maybe a raccoon frequents here.
The raccoon has now appeared to me many times.
Along with the deer. And the red backed salamander. 
And I sit with the scat not wanting to leave.
For one, I fear that I may slip and fall to my death.
For another I fear I will have to go back to a regular dull life, unmagical existence enshrined within four walls with an agenda and a Neverending stream of tasks requiring the participation  in a society I wish to withdraw from.

Even here I am sure that the red jacket and blue jacket on the ground across the creek were watching my ascent and even Pondering how to do it themselves. Go away, I thought, annoyed that anyone should be privy to my adventurous (foolish) courage that led me to my vantage point.  But then there it is. Sometimes to go after what you want you must become vulnerable, exposed. Is it worth the risk? Are you more apt to slip? Clearly I perform well under the pressure.  But my real desire is to escape it all.

And so I return to my high volume quiet.
I dare not stay much longer as I start to feel the cold gnawing back into my bones and I know it will be still a climb to get out of here.
So I enjoy a few more moments of stillness
as I sit, an observer
Transparent eye in the forest
Withdraw from participation
And count the thoughts that bubble up
On a calm formless ocean
And disappear once more
Only an imprint left on a
Very subtle mind
Essentially forgotten
Until connection with the divine
Awakens your senses once more

This is the sublime. 


As water falls

Moments like these
teetering on the edge,
nearest to death
we feel most alive.
So easy to slip makes
our grip that much tighter
when hours ago, I could see
no point in carrying on
a powerful awakening
of all senses through
nature grounds me to
the here and now.
If I could live like this forever
I would not know sorrow,
only joy and nostalgia for
the sublime.
This feeling pressing upon my
chest, sending chills down
my sweaty spine
lends me a euphoria
no drug can mimic.
Let me lay my head near
the running river so I
may rest, alive, in peace.

Not sans foye

As I sit on the banks of the river wide
I think, maybe this time, I won’t go home;
I see the birds and wish I could fly
To a place free of cares, free of sorrow
Free of knowing.

Sometimes there’s sorrow in knowledge;
Whoever said knowledge is power, may
Have hit on to something
For where there is power, there is often
Loneliness.  And when I know, I am sorrowful.

As Eve did eat of the Tree of Life,
So I have partaken of her meal.
And I do not know where my sin does end,
But I wish to drown it in the water
Dancing at my feet.

What cares does it have?  What does it feel?
Naught.  Though it holds so much,
And appears so wise, so bold, so strong,
Full of control – of life and death.
It is nothing.

I, on the other hand, often feel like
Nothing, even with my knowledge.
I feel like I should leave this place.
It feels unsafe to be alone when
There are so many sounds and voices –
In a band – drawing near.

I do not wish to be overtaken,
But I can feel this world
Pulling me deeper and deeper
Into its murky depths
Trying to make me unknowable, and not to know.

I dream of Fidessa, yet live like Duessa,
And though I may fool some,
The one who matters sees through
The foggy blanket I have knit
To hide myself from all.  And so I’ll fall.

But still, there is hope.  There is light.
Even as I sit in the darkness,
The moon and stars have not
Left me completely and they
Shine down on me.

Like some unseen hand, pulling me up
From this din and irksome mire,
I will be saved; I will not be buried alive;
I will not be burned in death.
I will be washed clean.

As I stare into the river, as I see where
My present meets my past and future,
As I see the mud settle and the water clear,
As it stands still and becomes a pond,
It’s not moving, nor drying up.

Something mystic happens,
And I can realize all is not lost.
I can’t save myself, nor can I others.
But I can know all is not lost if I am
Not Sans-Foye.  I know that I have faith.

Rainy Day

The soil churns around my feet
The muck, it pulls me down
I have my shovel firm in hand
And dig past green and brown.

I keep digging – hole or grave
or maybe tunnel of escape? –
But with no plan, I cannot see
through the earth I do reshape.

Each particle of damp dirt here,
clings tight to my damned clothes.
The further down I dig, I think
on how or where this tunnel goes.

For though it is my hand that digs
my arm that thrusts the spade,
I don’t control, nor ever have
The piercing silver blade.

To stab and slay this crying dirt
and throw away some living plants.
The weeping willow has turned over
Despite the native prayers and chants.

The weather’s wreaking havoc;
the wind has riled leaves
to fly about, and it screams and shouts
as it huffs and heaves.

The unmarked smell of freedom
is the sweetest scent around;
it’s fresh cut grass and old pine trees,
but here it’s never found.

The toil, it produces sweat
and beads drip down my grubby face.
The unearthed worms writhe all about
Where are the moths, the Queen Anne’s Lace?

One day I may learn to find the pleasure in the toil,
until then, I hold my blade and slowly dig through soil;
The grimace held firm on my face would convince you the worst
befalls me daily, so untrue; I bear no great burden, nor a curse.

This path goes down, a tunnel round, a steep and jagged trail;
one day I’ll stop this digging craze and rest in final peace.
I’ll find that thing I search for,
And from this mud: release.


This is it, I thought.

This is what I drove like a madman to see.

Driving here, losing my mind about seeing this, the sunrise, because I actually managed to stay up all night in anticipation and with insomnia.

To arrive here and find I have no words.

No words to describe how the pink met the pure blue of the water.  No phrases to describe how it fades to a peach as the sun slowly creeps up the trellis of the sky.

Nothing to capture how the greenery is hung at the bend, obscuring the physical sun, so all I glimpse is the dusky hue in which it paints the morning.

What can I say which would allow you to hear the slaps and the glugs of the waves knocking against the rocks?

It’s not windy, nor are they angry.

Yet there is a fierceness to them which says,

I am alive, and I will be heard.

How many geese are there and how do they float along?

And how does the white goose feel amongst the Canadian?

There is no crashing in the waves thought they smack the rocky shore.

There is no urgency to the geese’s morning swim though they bob up and down upon the water.

Oh, to float there and feel at peace.

How can I express the hope one feels in driving into a sunrise.

There is no day I would trade that for driving into a sunset.

To feel that the dawn is here, and you have witnessed the very birth of a new day.

You have its entirety to fulfill your own.

What wondrous view could amuse the senses without blinding you as does the sunset with its close and its heavy shadows hovering over your latest regrets.

No.  This sun is new and fresh, though it’s shone a thousand times before.

How is it the trees manage to glow their own lights when the sun’s rays touch their leaves?

Shall I tell you that everything sparkles?

This clear crisp air is the breath that I’ve been searching for all the night.

If the water is never silent

If  the water is never silent, why should I be?

I, the woman who is wild and savage and ever changing.

I, the mother of Nature, the mother of children, of the world.

I, who cannot be tamed at the hands of man.

You can try to forecast, to predict what will happen, but I change in an instant.

My storms are incomprehensible, wreaking havoc on villages, cities, countries.

You will never put a chain around my neck or calm my winds – unless I allow you to.

If the wind may screech and howl at the doors and windows, so might I! And who are you to call the words I speak “hysterical”?

If I mourn for loss and if I become joyous in health and growth, who are you to call me over-emotional?

If your sirens, engines, your pollution, your garbage overpower my peace and quiet, my fragile silence, who are you to condemn my anger?

If you push on my  land, my body, who are you to stop my retaliation?

If you pull my weeds and pierce my garden with your shovel, uninvited, I do not want what grows there!

Who are you to say I cannot pluck the flowers I nurture?

For it is from my body that all life flows. I birth nations, forests, clouds.  I quench the fires you start – in order to save you.

And yet you ebb my tides and curse the life I breathe.

You dig up my dirt then pour concrete on it and walk over me regardless of my indignation.

Who are you to call this my “pride” when it could only be hurt.

Who are you to say I’ve thrived too long since you’ve built your concrete jungle and then locked me at home?

Who are you to ask I remain silent…

When the wind is ever-rustling, and the water ever-flowing, and my pen ever-writing.

Who are you to call yourself greater and call me less than?

Was it not I that first welcomed you into my arms and sheltered you?  You pretended to help me up after the fall, little did I know you’d tell everyone it was my own fault.

Who are you to say you are my master when I already have One?

It is not man.  Man will never control this wildness, this wilderness which is my breast, rational when everything is not, steady when it needs to be:

Mother of Nature and of men.

Who are you to say, I am female?

When I say, I am Woman.