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.

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.

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.

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.

Giving Thanks

I'm struck lately

by the bounty

of time given 

in retirement,

the stretch of day

to do as I want.

The burden is to choose

wisely, to plumb

my heart and play 

my stars, each day.

The grace

is the freedom 

of choice itself. 

What excites me,

interests me, draws me,

expands me? 

How can I move

toward those?

How can I fall

more in love with

life, this life, my life?

Read, write, run,

nurture family,

talk to John,

visit friends,

settle after years of travel,

become a hub,

although the 'of what'

can't be known yet. 

Weigh in

on what matters,

Step toward it.

Be an ally.

That's all. Except to

give thanks 

for this life.

 For Brian at dVerse Poets Pub who asked us to write what we're thankful for. I took the photo of the Swan Boats in Boston this past summer.

Fair Bones

The good thing about bones

is there can be no comparisons,

who's thinner, who's better looking or better dressed.

We can tell males from females, of course,

the angles of bones and width of spaces,

but expectations don't hinge on that

or judgements formed.

The problem with bones

is the lack  

of skin to hold us in, 

the vulnerability to breaks,

the hunger

that can never be stilled 

and the question we debate endlessly

of contact with the living.

We know things 

and want to pass them on,

especially to those 

who share our marrow

but the how 

eludes us.

That's what bones seek:
to be wrapped in skin again, to talk, to be heard.


Gay Reiser Cannon has us writing about "fair" over at the dVerse Pots Pub, Meeting the Bar. She gave various definitions but since I'm on a bone kick, I chose fair as "having a disposition free of favoritism or bias" for this and found bones to meet that standard in an exceptional way.

Bone Dreams

I dreamt last night.

It answered my question

about whether the dead dream.

Must mean dreams come from bones

not brains, bones as scaffolding 

for psych and soul with the DNA of generations 

carried deep within 

bones' marrow.

But about that dream,

some ancestral reverberation 

straight from the marrow,

grandfathers galloping through,

priests stealing things from children,

a girl rising up to accuse the priest,

she took things back too, wanted to reclaim

her grandfather's treasures, 

hand-carved.

That's what you can do with bones:

stand, yell, take, hold, dream.

Inspired by Grace at dVerse Poets Pub who wrote about The Book of the Dead Man by Marvin Bell and asked us for a poem written by one dead. The link has expired but here it is posted for Mama Zen with Words Count in the Garden who wrote of the circus and requested 90 words or less about which performer you are. This is skeleton man, or dead man walking.

A Country You Carry in Your Pocket

A country you carry in your pocket,

stays there as forgotten as pocket lint

but filters your perceptions, marks you plain when 

you walk through the world, it's not only you,

your country is in your pocket, carried lightly

or heavy in its heft, gravid as you meet others

with other countries in their pockets.

Posted too late for Mama Zen's Flash Fiction 55 over in the Garden so here it is for Kerry's Open Link instead. Inspired by Brian at the dVerse Poets Pub who shared the first line in one of his posts. It got me thinking of my experiences living in Italy and traveling around Europe.

This Poem Is the Poppies

This poem is the poppies,
one red ceramic poppy
for each British soldier killed
in WWI, a castle moat
filled with a red sea planted
in waves by silent volunteers
stretched as far as eyes can see
and farther than hearts can bare.
This poem is the war
did not end wars.
It happened again
and again and again.


Posted for Gabriella at dVerse Poets Pub who has us writing War Poetry. I saw this exhibit in London in September where a single red ceramic poppy was planted in the moat around London Tower for each soldier lost in WWI. There will be 800,000 when finished so this is just a fraction. WWI was called the war to end wars at the time. There were over 37 million military and civilian casualties.

Keep it Slow and Savor

In love, start, then keep it slow and savor.
Just kiss at first stretched out full side by side,
focus on each sensation and flavor,
keep it slow and savor.

Speak quiet words to your belov'd, confide
how love is a cherished gift, a laver,
bathed and refreshed in the ebb flow of tide

this season and next, each act a paver
building the whole for days and years 'till wide
and high is love's monument and favor.
Keep it slow and savor.


A too late Roundel for Margaret's Play it Again over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads writing for Ella's (second) Chakra prompt, so posted for Fireblossom's Open Link Monday at The Garden and (also too late) for the dVerse Poet's Pub.

This Morning

                                                                                 image by Brooke Shaden

I watched you

pulled from sleep

into the shadowland

between wake and sleep

you murmered

something indistinct

eyes still closed

against the dawn

half remembered dreams

played on your face

before today's task

list takeover

you stretched your limbs

back arched just so

when you opened your eyes

I'm the one you saw

gathering you in.


Inspired by the photography of Brooke Shaden as presented by Grace (aka Heaven) over at dVerse Poets Pub. Brooke talked about finding what you're passionate about and, after 41 years with my Honey, it was an easy answer for me.

This I Know

I watch you walk the forest path,

two-leggeds, moveable beings,

part of cosmic fertility, content

for now among us tall ones.

Is your life like mine, simple

and clear in its purpose?

Here is what I know, that's

shared in our council:

That sky remains ready

to receive dark and light.

That forest sits silent

awaiting sound.

That sun feeds bright

and heat to all.

That wind strokes my arms

to play the song of my life.

That birds alight on my branches,

find shelter and, in turn,

scatter my seeds far from me.

That this right action you call wisdom.

That forest deaths create humus

to urge new life in its crucible.

That when I turn toward

what I love, it saves me.

Do you yet know that being

and appreciating is enough?


Abhra, at dVerse Poets Pub, has us writing Tree Poetry, to actually write as the tree. Check it out, there's some good poetry going on over there… The photo is of an Imortelle Tree taken on my latest trip to Trinidad. It flowers around Christmas and is just beautiful.
Two quotes are paraphrased here: 
"Wisdom and right action are the same thing." Marcus Aurelius
"This turning toward what you deeply love saves you." Rumi

A Secret Place

If I owned three volcanoes and a flower
I too might escape with a flock of wild birds,
or else, so afraid of eruptions, I'd cower
under the cover of my baobab, say words
to ward off death and draw a friend to share
my lonely life of care and wasting time on herds

of new sprouts. Until one rose appears, spares
my life without beauty by her perfect self. Sweet
at last staves off catastrophe, at once pares
life to essence, time wasted makes it full, replete,
a change in vista complete, what's unseen deletes fear
and allows the eye to see the real not effete,

so death becomes gears stopped, shell dropped, stars near.
"It's such a secret place, the land of tears."*


* The Little Prince by Antoine De Saint-Exupéry
In response to Tony Maude's excellent article on Rhyme and Sonnets and his encouragement yesterday to write a sonnet at dVerse Poets Pub. The rhythm is off but it's my attempt at a terza rhyme sonnet. It combines with the prompt by Grapeling at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads the other day accompanied by another excellent article and a word list from a favorite and wise book, The Little Prince. I took the photo in a garden in Paris.

Watch Out for the Fishes!

Watch out for the fishes!
They swim where they want, act bold
and eat what they wishes.

Don't think you can out swim 'em
with your floaties and fins green like mold
'cause nothing moves as fast as them.

They look colorful but don't be fools,
no matter what you think or've been told,
they've sharp teeth and swim in schools.

So learn this well my little sweeties
and keep your distance too far to hold
or they'll nibble on your toes and feeties.



Offered for Margaret's challenge to write a children's poem using the amazing kids' art pictures she posted on Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads. Check out the art, you'll be surprised and delighted. Also offered for Gay at dVerse Poets Pub who challenged us to devise a new poetry form. This one is simple - verses of three lines each with the first and third rhyming with each other and the second rhyming across all verses. Does this exist already, Gay? Others came up with fun and creative forms worth perusing.

Pour the Water, Stroke My Scalp

He pours warm water
slowly over my hair.
I close my eyes. He slathers
shampoo, massages my head,
uses long strokes from scalp

to neck, neck to scalp,
always changing pressure light to firm,
firm to feathery, then pours water again,
water at skin temperature,
poured again and again.


Victoria over at DVerse Poets Pub had us writing about memories and sensory descriptions. I don't know if this qualifies but this memory of my Honey washing my hair says love to me! As well, it's lusty (of an age 68 variety) words of love for Herotomost at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads. Finally, I also offer these 55 (counting the title) for the G-Man.

The Night My Friend Died

She relapsed hell bent, while dark overdrive

took her where she'd not gone for years, far side

of slick slope. She'd clung to recovery, night

meetings sparks of light to lead her way. But she lied

in secret ways or got left with sin's wage,

such fine lines woven between lost and saved,

or God turned his back on this great one, made

faulty wiring when precise was needed. Face

him now, demand redress for her, this nurse 

who loved fierce, taught with passion, like a church

shelters those in need, the worst of the worse

loved wildly, counted in, coins in life's purse,

valued by those with hearts big enough. Back,

bring her back. Back. Gone too soon, just lke that.

My friend died of an overdose recently and broke the hearts of we who loved her. Her presence filled a room. She gave of herself to her patients, advocated tirelessly for them, taught them as if their lives depended on it because it did and laughed with them with her whole body at the foibles that unite us all. I wish she didn't have to go. Damn this disease of addiction and its sabotage of good people's brains.

Written for dVerse Poets Pub for Tony Maude's Bout Rimés. He gave us a list of words to rhyme. They are: drive, side, night, lied, wage, saved, made, face, nurse, church, worse, purse, back, that. They seemed to tell my friend's sad story.

Month of Two New Moons

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands,
And walk among long dangled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

                             William Butler Yeats
                             From: The Song of the Wandering Angus


Month of Two New Moons

This month
in the midst of winter,
first day brings first

of two new moons, splinters
light into fractional shine,
barest glints

of moonglow can't blind
to starlight that fills
sky and mind

as I gaze until
I know at last
I am stardust billed

as first among castes,
but one instead with all that lasts.

                            January, 2014


What is my verse? We are one. We are the environment and care for it is care for ourselves. We are the world and care for one another is care for ourselves. We will languish or thrive together.

We have food enough now to feed us all if we devise the way. We have the knowledge to provide safe water for us all. We have wealth enough for all if we craft a more equitable system. We have resources and creativity enough to house everyone.

And my verse sings of women and elders coming forward at last to dream the visions for this kind of world, to take the leadership to build this kind of world, to notice and celebrate each step toward it.


Written in response to the question, what is your verse?, posed by Robin Williams in The Dead Poets Society and posted  by Brian in dVerse Poets Pub on January 20 for our inspiration. I've sat with it since and formulated my response while on my yearly birthday retreat up the hill from my daughter's home in the rain forest of Trinidad. Surrounded by nature I was reminded of my place in the scheme of things.

Soft Against the Dark

These days of early dark
and long nights invite
the warmth of candles. Ours
are spread on the dining table
and scattered in the living room.
We light them as we settle in, sip wine,
and talk into the night, cozy in the glow,
soft against the dark.

Mary, at dVerse Poets Pub, has us writing about candles and light, which seems particularly appropriate this time of year. This comes with best wishes for happy holidays to all and the warmth candles lit against the dark.

Dear Rosaria

Dear Rosaria,

You kindly asked about my life here in Italy. It embarrassed me and gave me the push I needed. It has been a while since I wrote an update but it's not as simple a question as it once was which is perhaps why I haven't. My first years here were full of newness- new country, new language, new friends, new culture so different from what I was familiar with. My gypsy soul loved it all. Whatever the challenges, surmounting them was heady stuff. My world became so much bigger and I became a citizen of that world. Gladly. You know that feeling you get when you're in the right place at the right time with the right person? I felt like that. For the first four and a half years. And then I didn't.

It's hard to pinpoint the precise time or reason. Like so many things it started as a small thought in the back of my mind, barely there, and me, barely aware. But it grew. Became a full grown idea and then crystalized as a longing for home. I've been a wanderer, a seeker, for years now and I feel rich and full from all I've seen and done...but I'm not home. Not among my tribe. Not where I want to be. I know you love my stories of Italy and the savoring of life here that I've shared. But I want to go home and plant my roots there, deep in the soil of my home's earth. I must do this.

I told some others that I want to be closer to my family and that's certainly true. As I get older, (68 in two months! Can you believe that?) time with them is more and more precious. But since you've asked (twice) what's going on with me, I want to let you know that this move is really about me and the yearning I feel. Seems like it's time for me to stay still, listen deeply and let all these experiences become part of the warp and woof of who I am.

I'd like it to be part of a neighborhood as diverse as my family has become so they feel welcomed and mirrored. I look forward to being part of a running group that includes older women, a writing group that welcomes poets and a volunteer group responsive to the needs of our neighborhood. You know me, I'm still the girl with a protective arm around her brother and her hands on her hips ready to fight for what's right.

So, thanks for asking again. I needed that nudge to acknowledge what's true for me just now. I sense the care behind your question. I appreciate it, and you. You're a good friend. I'm grateful.

Love,
Mary

Gay Reiser Cannon at dVerse Poets Pub in Form for All wrote about hearth, home and common speech. She asked us to bring our writing back home and keep the vocabulary personal. Mine's not a poem but it's all about home and was sparked by a friend's urging.