Forgotten Language

Sprinkle rosemary liberally for memory
to bring back practices long forgotten.
The killing of wise women for generations
obliterated knowledge once common
of flowers, herbs, weeds used to foster health,
sometimes to cure, oft times to prevent, perhaps to sooth,
to ease birth and death, part of every life,
to leave us less alone in all we face.

Cast witch hazel around to conjure spells,
powerful spells to heal this old hatred of women,
their special powers, no longer burned at the stake
but raped, covered, silenced, denigrated
throughout the world, left with wormwood and yew.
We dance a lamentation around the aspen trees.
Sprinkle rosemary liberally for memory
and wave the willow as we mourn.

What oneness with flowers, bush or tree can restore
this healing power in the service of all? We'll surround
ourselves with zinnia, orange blossom and black poplar, bury
ourselves in persimmon until lilies fill our valleys and hazel trees bloom again.


Kerry, over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads has a fascinating bit of history and information to encourage us writing in the language of flowers.
For this poem: rosemary- remembrance, witch hazel- spells, wormwood- absence, yew- sorrow, aspen tree- lamentation, weeping willow- mourning, zinnia- thoughts of absent friends, orange blossom- woman's worth, black poplar- courage, persimmon- bury me amid nature's beauties, lily of the valley- return of happiness, hazel- reconciliation, peace.

Grandmothers

Grandmothers counsel the world,

touch the earth,

the lost land,

in a time of violence,

cry the beloved country.

Eternal echoes,

the celtic way of seeing,

the way of the shaman,

the education of the heart.

Grandmothers,

wise women,

(wisdom of the crone)
walk two moons,

fireflies in the dark-

heart of darkness.

I heard the owl call my name,

a grace disguised.

What color is my world?

I so enjoyed the prompt from Samuel at dVerse Poets on Oct. 4 that I kept going with more titles in my bookcase and a whole new topic.

Authors in order: Carol Schaefer, T.C.McLuhan, Eavan Boland (2), Alan Paton,  John O'Donohue, Frank MacEowen, Michael Harner, Thomas Moore, Nikki Giovanni, Joyce Tenneson, Field, Somerset and Phillips, Sharon Creech, Susan Goldman Rubin, Joseph Conrad, Margaret Craven, Jerry Sittser, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

Where I'm From

I wanted to explore this topic and found this format as a means to say "Where I'm From" in a more specific, tangible way. It has taken many weeks to finish but I deeply appreciated the process.

I'm from a balcony in Italy these days, from a land where south and west horizon meets in mountains frosted with clouds, and the sea beckons from the east with its sunrise sparkled water, a balcony of lavender that scents the air and reminds me of embroidered pillows my mother gave me to perfume dresser drawers and forever encode that fragrance with her.

From an apartment scaled to cocoon that wraps me, but spiced with the reds and golds of this peppery land, a home faced south with granite tiles that cool my feet in summer and warm them in winter when sun slants in. Books flood this home, sorted into topics that tell my story: celtic lore, poetry, women's studies, travel books, children's tales, indigenous spirituality, historical novels; words that witness a journey.

I'm from begonias, a terrestrial species that collude with this warm climate to grow showy flowers of pink and scarlet in the perennial cycle of thriving, dying and waking back that plots my course, too.

From McLellan's and Harvey's, Tierney's and Donovan's, Scottish and Irish who forged strong women, made  strawberry-rhubarb, mince meat and apple pies, grew tomatoes, rhubarb and concord grapes for jelly and jam, read, argued and held strong opinions.  

          I'm from the bossy that struts in when strong is expected in a child, from you don't air 

         your dirty linen in public, from good girls don't get angry, from staunch Catholics on 

         both sides, awash in Catholic doctrine, from family secrets, subliminal, not yet understood.
         I'm from Massachusetts, from corned beef and cabbage, potatoes and turnips.

From the aloneness of grandmother's first born with raging fever at ten months on a remote farm in Nova Scotia while grandfather was out at sea. He felt a strange heaviness in his arms, unable to row, said to his friends that he must go back. The baby boy died in his mother's arms before her husband reached. Grandfather carried the tiny, white casket in his arms for the funeral, the weight just as he had felt it.

From the grandmother born in Irish South Boston who found and married the only protestant around and converted him. From the great grandmother who came from Ireland, lived with her daughter, doted on her only grandson, wanted only to dance at his wedding and died two days later.

I'm from boxes of photos kept on the shelf of mother's bedroom closet, taken down at holidays to remind us of our family story, photos I fought to claim after she died to pass on to my daughter and grandchildren, the record of  ancestors, all who existed to produce these two Dear Ones.