Good- Bye for Now

Our apartment here in Italy is under contract and we hope to close in July and head back to the states. What a grand adventure these last six years have been. Living in Italy immersed in another language and culture, traveling around Europe, making friends internationally, getting better acquainted with our extended family in Ireland is one of those life- changing, deeply enriching experiences that has forever changed me and my world view. From what I thought this might be to what it has been is so much more, so much richer as to be a whole other reality. My imagination was way too puny.

So, while I yearn for home, I am grateful to my Honey for working in Europe and inviting me to all the places he's traveled, to our friends here for making it all possible with friendship and generous assistance whenever needed, and to our family who only supports us and cheers us on despite not having us nearer. Altogether, and with our own bravery, it has meant an extraordinary opportunity in this, the youth of our old age. I've taken the first steps into retirement and into elderhood; I welcome the next stage.

I want to focus on the process of packing, saying good-bye to our friends and wrapping up our life here. I'm taking a break from my blog, which I started when we decided to move to Italy, while I do this. The next stage will be different in ways I can't imagine and will call for changes in my blog that I also can't imagine. Becoming acquainted with this virtual world of writers sharing your lives and considerable skills has been an amazing door opener for me. You've been my mentors, my inspiration and support in my efforts to stay conscious and write it down. I thank you. I wish you smooth journeys.

Two Ways of Looking at Bone

1

Bone is a most interesting thing.

It encrypts brick and feather

it's shaped 

with shades of blue

like ice midwinter

that Maine winter of cerulean snows

when a small boy's 

sledding yells rappelled 

down the hill.

2

But now 

spring is a carousel

that spins a kindred melody

(Are daffodils ciphers 

bloomed to mock death?)

brings a bone wish 

to walk again 

the garden 

to feel earth's curve 

under spine.

Inspired by Hannah Gosselin's blog, Metaphors and Smiles, back in March where she gave intriguing instructions for a Guided Poem. I liked it and have been playing with it since. Today's post by Grace over at Real Toads about Wallace Stevens pulled it together though. It's another in my Bone Poem series.

This Search for Tribe

This search for tribe

along world's riverbanks

with names of past ghosts

exhausts me. At some point

I sigh surrender, go home

among the ghosts of ancestors

long past whose names I do not know

but whose genes form my riverbanks,

folded and tucked, course bent, 

hands structured, twilight eyes, 

this mother tongue spoken,

my tribe.

Posted for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets and inspired by Margaret's archived challenge, Play it Again # 15, back on Saturday over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. I chose the one imagined by Ella in 2012 about Poem Sketching- using a word group and developing it into a poem. I'm a little late but the words I used are: tribe, riverbank, ghosts, names. I took the photo in Prince Edward Island where my maternal grandmother is from.

Strange Dirge

"You pluck strange dirges from the storm

sift rare stones from the ashes of the moon"

You've always been this way.

It's what drew me to you in May

of '71. Me with storms in my life

that needed music and moon-struck strife

that begged a mining of sorts, a sifting through

remains searching for stones you blew

to life like a shaman, prelude to all that came after.

We mined together then and sang out loud until we crafted

our sweet song. That time the strange dirge was sung
over our first daughter you stayed in such a way that along

with storm's barrage and from the ashes, we rose, not triumphant,
but still standing, longing that phoenix might bring bereft

to some other incarnation, any other incarnation than only gone,
us left alone, two not three, with nothing more to be done.



Posted for Grace at Real Toads who introduced us to the poetry of Wole Soyinka, the first Nobel Laureate in Literature from Africa and asked us to use his work as inspiration. The first two lines of this poem are his from the poem: Fado Singer for Amelia Roderinguez. The photo was taken by my Honey at the National Orchid Garden in Singapore.

The Hike

Raptor Ridge, once scaled, 

sets a vista 

flung to the horizon,

nature unbounded,

Mt. Baker on the skyline, 

dappled ferns on Rock Trail, strong sun

on mountain and stone, 

steep terrain, difficult

to navigate, demands switchbacks,

a sweep herds stray hikers 

to Chuckanut Ridge for 

final views of this wide sky.

Posted for DJan for her ongoing example to stay active and for Anna at dVerse poets, Meeting the Bar, who gave us three approaches to create a new poem. One is Reduction and although she suggested we use our own work I was taken by a post of DJan who writes at DJan-ity about her weekly hikes with a group of elder hikers in Washington state. It contained such wonderful names that I wanted to use them in a poem. Who could resist Raptor Ridge? She was the "sweep" in their latest hike staying last in line to keep the group intact. I don't want to reduce her description which you can read here but couldn't help feeling a part of it and inspired. 

The Weight of Blue

Back when I didn't yet know that goodbyes 

might be final, when time stretched generously to places

untraveled, back when you and I lived

in the pink bloom bubble of always, 

blue came, wrapped us in crenalated

folds dampening other colors, tamping down  

heartfire as it introduced finality. We 

bowed under the weight of blue.

Posted for Flash 55 Plus for Kerry O'Connor at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads who asked us to add the element of color to our 55 words. I took the photo in the Montparnasse Cemetery in Paris.

Declare Love

Come lie with me beneath the stars

and make this night forever ours.

They say the morrow's war is surely lost, 

you fight and I need no reminder of the cost.

So steal this time with me, my love,

let night sky witness our sacred troth.

Toward midnight I walk a plushy stairway,

you return to soldiers' tent, await the longest day.

Is it ever thus, my gallant one?

Do lovers never win the right to come

first in plans to right the wrongs we see?

Let us declare love the way to set us free.

In response to Claudia and Brian's prompt at dVerse Poets to choose one of the lines from their poems and use it in ours. They've been spinning medieval tales this week. I chose one line from each of them: 'Toward midnight I walk up a plushy stairway'- Claudia's line and 'I need no reminder the cost'- Brian's line. The photo is of a friend's house in the ancient city of Lucca, Italy.

Half Marathon Run

Two days ago I ran the half mmarathon in the National Maraton to Finish Breast Cancer, Jacksonville, FL. I finished 8th out of 61 women in my age group (65- 69). I feel surprisingly good today and pleased that I finished my 5th half marathon (and 1 full marathon) in this fun event which donates all its proceeds to breast cancer treatment and research at the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville. 

The fair skies and 50 degree weather provided near perfect running conditions allowing a course record in the marathon of 2:13:19 by Elisha Barno of Kenya. It puts my 2:40:17 for the half in perspective. He and the top elite runners passed me on the course in a flash of long strides and effortless gliding. I stood in awe. Gorgeous. the top woman runner, Serkalem Abrha of Ethiopia, finished in 2:39:14.

The run is through neighborhoods and residents come out with banners, posters, costumes, bands and silly shenanigans of all sorts to support the runners. It makes the run fun and gives boosts of energy along the way when energy wanes from the effort. I was off my goal  with a muscle pain behind my right thigh which slowed me down in miles 12 and 13. But my time beats winners of the next age group (70-74) which I'll age into next year. There are at least three of us who'll age up to this group next year, two with better times than mine, so my goal is to be in the top three next year. The top three of each age group win a prize (this year from Tiffany). Now that sounds like a worthy goal! 

I love to run! 

Closing out the Decade and Plunging into the Next

I turned 69 a week ago, the last year of my 60's and prelude to my 70's. My 60's have been the decade of great adventures: moved to Antigua and then Italy, retired from my nursing profession, started running with a marathon and five half marathons so far, started writing with this blog, traveled around Italy and Europe with my Honey and spent my birthdays in Trinidad with my daughter, her husband and the grands celebrating with a hike to a place I haven't yet been. Great adventures brought expansion of my world view from international living, the satisfaction of successfully cleared hurdles from growing to love a new sport, the inspiration of exposure to the writers of world-wide blogs, the fun of doing writing I like, thought I couldn't do and improving at it, the awe of exposure to astounding works of art, architecture and more of the world's natural beauty and the exhilaration of tackling and overcoming long-held fears from challenging hikes (including the above plunge off an 8-10 foot ledge last Sunday which felt like 20!). 

There's no way, of course, to know what awaits me in my 70's but I've made some decisions that will tilt towards what I hope for. We're selling our house in Italy to move back to the states to be closer to family, I'll join a running group that includes elders who love to run, keep writing this blog but with a new perspective from being further along the journey and dive into the  life of the diverse community I hope to move to. In this first decade I've stepped into elderhood and found my footing as an elder. In the next decade I'd like to take all that I've received and use it to be of service to my tribe. I can't know how but it will become apparent if I pay attention. 

If the 60's are the youth of elderhood where we make the transition, try out new ways of being, keep what fits and discard what doesn't, then the the 70's are the middle years where we can use who we've become to serve the needs of family and community but with the added wisdom accrued. I'm eager to close this decade gracefully and plunge into the next.

Bone's Memory

When I picture myself alive I'm in lavender 

fields near home back when muscles

powered me anywhere I pleased. They brought me

one morning to purple flower bustles

stretched out

far as eyes see, lavender cowls

gathered free,

held close against my decline,
becoming only bone, having to surrender

home's fields and time's spine.

Posted for Kerry's Flash 55 at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads with an additional feature of a form she devised with a word count each line and a rhyme scheme. The original inspiration was from Hannah's prompt, also from Real Toads, of Lavender Fields under Transforming Thursday/ Friday Nature's Wonders. Also posted for Open Link Night, hosted by Claudia, over at dVerse Poets Pub. Another in my bone poem series.

All that Remains

We're left with

this: the hardness of 

bone, the space where organs 

used to be, life's music itself stopped,

silence reigns.

Tonny Maude has us writing cinquains expanded (5 lines with 3-5-7-9-3 syllables) over at dVerse Poets Pub. This is another in my bone poems series.

Firsts

My, then, totally cute,

love- of- my- life boyfriend

gave me his old and my first car,

a cream colored VW Beetle.

He had moved to NYC

and I was finishing college

in Boston traveling 

to home, school, work.

That car held his scent 

and showed me his intent.

It was the scene of other firsts as well

but that's for another poem altogether.

He came to visit one weekend

and admired my legs in my mini skirt

as I swung them into the drivers seat.

It's what I remember most

about that car- the jolt

of being in the driver's seat

for the very first time.

I went on to marry that man 41 years ago and we've owned many cars since but talk frequently and fondly of our first car... Posted for Herotomost at Real Toads who asked us to write about our first car. 

Bone Quiet

It's strange

to be without

boundaries

marking inside

and out, defense 

made impossible. 

Din arrives 

not just by ear
but surrounds
each bone. 

I thought 

quiet would reign,

the death silence,

but wind's

fierce incursion 

blunts bones 

with no skin 

to hold it out. 

Intrusions
blur any sense 

of safe containment;

after gone 

comes noise.

A Flash 55 in my bone poems series for Kerry at http://www.withrealtoads.blogspot.com.

Holiday Travels

I'm in Orlando, Florida for a stretch of time with the grands alone- yes! Then my daughter and her husband join us in Jacksonville at my sis-in-law's for Christmas and New Years- double yes! I'll write when I can but major family fun is job one.

Happy Holidays to you all, hope your family time is fun too!

Clean Your Bones and Catch Some R & R

Bones are surprisigly 

difficult to keep clean,

turns out white wasn't 

the best choice for beings

without skin. A search

brought me years ago 

to a distant island spa 

for bones- a pink lake

surrounded by a rim

of sand for scraping feet

and a dense woodland

of paperbark trees 

against which to rub.

Salt crusts cover

the shoreline and whiten 

stained bones. 

The flattering pink color

might come from 

organisms 

(that don't harm) 

or might arise from a dye,

but we choose not to use 

that word, what with it being 

a spa. Pink draws 

the ladies though. They carry

home clear pink water

in necklace amulets

that catch the interest

of friends and spread

the word. Bones

worldwide come. 

The bright pink
lends an appropriate

other- worldly air, the pratical

aspects of bone care

are tended to while

peer to peer contact

is facilitated. A whole 

package solution.

For Hannah at Real Toads who has us writing about Lake Hillier, a bubble gum pink lake that sparked  this (much) lighter tone in my bone poems series.

Bone Whisperer

Winter solstice, 

short nights 

and cold in our bones,

we gather in the dell 

among the alders

to greet our newest member.

Fear wreaths her head 

as she feints left to run,

so I am called 

to calm her and explain 

the bone scrum we form. 

She doesn't know 

our ways,

the comfort 

we derive

from bone on bone,

but she brings 

the latest news,

other nights

so recently hers,

perhaps she brushed 

a loved one 

lost to us

and carries 

their faint scent.

We have orchards

of hunger

for all she has.

Posted for Mama Zen at the Garden who asked to use homophones in our poem. I used feint and faint. I also found words in another prompt and used dell, alders, wreaths, and orchards but didn't write down the source and now can't find it again. If anyone can tell me I'd be grateful. This is another in my bone poems series. 

Bone's End

By the end

all I sought

was peace,

pain dove so deep

that suffering 

fused to bone.

Bone's meant to

hold up and not be

source of the final fall.

Can bones be haunted?

I was at this failure

so fundamental.

Death came
as sweet escape,

a swift descent 

to the ground of all being.

From the bone poems' series, a Flash 55 for Marian at the Garden. I took the photo of a dolmen (portal tomb) in County Clare, Ireland.

This is My Brick

"We pave the sunlit path toward justice toether, brick by brick. This is my brick."

Tim Cook, CEO of Apple

If Tim Cook's brick is his announcement of being gay and the support that that might give someone else, what is my brick? I was going to say apart from raising a daughter to be a thriving woman, mother and environmentalist. But maybe Kelly is my brick even if her outcome is in her hands now. From the moment of her birth, when she first looked around in her old soul kind of way and I breathed in the scent of her, I was utterly and hopelessly in love with her. Her announcement when she was barely three and disagreed with something I said that I should think my thoughts and she would think her thoughts put me on alert that mothering Kelly would have its challenges. 

I can't take credit for her since she was so inner directed from the beginning, such her own force of nature not looking for much direction from me. But being her mother was deeply satisfying, great fun and a unique source of growth for me as a woman. Still is. It's her birthday today. (For the next month and a half until my birthday, my Dad is 98, I'm 68, Kelly is 38 and my granddaughter, Kamala, is 8.) I used to marvel when she was young because she wouldn't hesitate to tell someone what she thought or give them advice even if they were older. She had that clear thinking and confidence. It was the beginning manifestation of her wisdom.

If we're paving a sunlit path toward justice together then my daughter is a vital brick in that path. The justice of saving the rain forest, the justice of interracial harmony, the justice of attachment parenting and educating children based on their interests and inner drives. Plus, she plays a wicked game of Scrabble. I only began her trajectory but she has flown far and true and built a life based on her values. I admire her for that and feel grateful to be her mother. I'm glad we've done the (occasionally) hard work needed to change and solidify our relationship as adults. I love that we're friends and part of each other's lives. Happy Birthday, Sweetheart, I'm really glad you were born.

Unwitting Evangelists

Some folks live in negative territory every day, 

live on the wrongside of the demographic altogether. 

Errors of brain wiring force them into a granularity 

of vision that would terrify the likes of us. 

They struggle, with unyielding integrity, 

to leverage what right functioning they have 

and build some kind of strategic staircase to normality. 

Aberrant fears drill down into vulnerable minds 

feeding back godawful beliefs they can't quite shake, 

shame cascading over it all as if crazy 

wasn't enough to cope with. It's like some sinister 

reduction in force of brain's powers.

In this space, getting ducks in a row 

becomes an effort in grounding. They try to capture 

their colleagues, stakeholders who must come 

to the party, like Alice to the mad hatter, in another 

effort to keep their doors open, to make
their thinking 360 degrees once again. At the close of play,
though, the paradigm rarely shifts, hallucinations,
like low hanging fruit, pre-prepare them 

for the idea showers that never end. Brain storms abound.
They yearn to be platform atheists to their version 

of holistic cradle-to-grave disorder. Instead, 

they're product evangelists even as it loops back on them

and drives others away. Challenges- 

how to conversate, how to sprinkle magic 

over bizarre behaviors, how to touch base offline, 

overwhelm them while answers steer clear. 

Going forward means being lost in a maze on no one's radar

at the end of the day, actioning damaged from the get-go.

Tony Maude has us writing biz-speak, jargon and buzzwords over at the pub. After 36 years working with the seriously and persistently mentally ill, these phrases, silly in a business setting, became a way to better speak the mentally ill's remarkably difficult story. They have my respect.

Right Now

The mountains are gone this morning, closeted by gray clouds. Everywhere is wet from last night's rain and the start of more today. Night winds blew the tablecloth on the balcony into the arms of a chair as if purposely placed there. I've kept it on late this year with its golden background and whispy gray-green olive leaves in collaboration with the warm, sunny weather of these last three months, autumn stretched into December. 

The vines are bare, pared back after the recent harvest. Pruned olive branches are piled in the groves of our neighbors. Wind blows bits of fog from the hills' crevices and smoke, like a thicker, deliberately-placed fog, dots the fields as discarded branches burn despite the misty rain. The scent is of earth and rain. 

Sun, behind cloud layers, looks more like moon. Andrea Bocelli, on my playlist, fills the room with his glorious voice. As sky lightens and ground fog creeps back, the mountains are suspended in air, blue ghost mountains. There is only this moment of full presence, of clarity and connection.


For Marian's Open Link Monday at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads who talked about the importance of our attention as poets and writing what we experience and who asked us to write about what's going on in our little corner of the world.