Spring Update

Spring came late this year to my little corner of the world but seems finally here. It tiptoed in and then retreated driven away by cold and rain. Cooler temps lingered although some warm, sunny days had slipped through as teasers. I further qualify cold as temps in the 50's and 60's. Unseasonable for here but not too bad. The geraniums on my balcony thrive as does the parsley, mint, chives, lavender and rosemary. Only the basil held out for warmer temps by refusing to grow. I empathized with it. I was ready to break out, head for the beach and take nice long run/walks. Instead, I looked out my windows  at gray clouds, misty rain and a brisk breezes until this last week. So I hunkered down frequently to read and to write. Also not a bad thing. But this last week, I luxuriated as the sun stayed all day and warmed temps to the lovely 70's. Today I went for a long run by the sea, cared for the plants on my balcony, went out for a mid-day meal with friends and finished my book- anything to spend time outside. The mountains and the sea have been clear and the sky that spring bonnet blue with only wisps of clouds. So welcomed.

As for the sale of our apartment so that we can move back to the states after five years in Italy, nothing yet. The economy is difficult and called "the crisis" in the news here. Real estate is especially hard hit. We had our first house showing after lowering the price so we hope for the best. There's no time pressure other than the decision is made and I'm eager for the next step in the journey. My Honey is ready to cut back on his work a bit more and take his retirement age (plus) seriously. That and the desire to be closer to family draws us back to the states. The interim has been a time for reflecting- what I'd like to do and how I'd like to live and lots of talking with John about my answers and his. Good talks. They bring clarity.

Spring break brought many international friends to our small town for short visits and quick catch ups with folks from Sweden, England and the states. I also took a trip to Sweden with my Honey and, besides sightseeing, visited with two couples we first met here in our small town far from tourist areas of Italy. The remarkable hall above in Stockholm is where the Nobel Laureates stage their celebratory ball after the awards ceremony. This coming week I will visit another family in Manchester, England that I met here and then on to visit family in Ireland. Ireland with its familiarity of people, culture and history and the open-hearted welcome of family has become a favorite place to visit. Life in Europe is full and rich.

Meanwhile, I continue to run three times a week, read, write, visit with friends, Skype my family, work on a family ancestry project, play Words with Friends and DragonVale on my iPad (notice my new favorite iPad Mini with the Logitech keyboard) and learn all I can about poetry as well as what other elders are doing to be of service. More about that later because I'd love to have a conversation on this topic. I love my life. Seems counter-intuitive to also want to change it but there you have it.

On this day set aside to honor mothers, Happy Mother's Day. We all owe our lives to a mother's  courage to bear us. In my ancestry project I've been conscious of the long line of women leading through me and my daughter to my grands. I'm proud to be part of these women. Strong women, may we know them, may we be them, may we raise them!

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

The Color of Fire

                   call
                me red
              like flame
                 quick
                   hot
        but tempered over
        time as  flame  can
        be tapered, or does
        it spark  and  sizzle
        fanned by winds  n'
        fuel  we  know  not,
        an inside glow  that
        lights, dims by need
        of  dawn, dusk  and
        dark  night?   Ignite
        red flames  n' shine,
        shed   bright   light,
        illuminate the night


Fireblossom, at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, is hosting the now monthly Flash Fiction 55. My hair used to be red (up to my 60's) so here's my 55 as a shape poem. I was called red as a child and hated it but I've decided to embrace it here.
     
     

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.

Grave Number 95

I used to know my name, sometimes
I almost remember it, hear my mother
calling me in a dream, but it's gone
come morning. Nurse tells me she
remembers it always and will tell me
anytime. Mother put me here young,
thought I got auntie's sickness or maybe
some badness from grandfather's brother
who ran away. Nurse says it's brain wiring
gone awry and I'm not to believe it's my fault.
Fragmented, fuzzy memories of the man
in my room at home float in and out in ways I can't grab.
Nurse says the treatments scramble things a bit
and keep me from remembering. I wonder
just who that helps? Somedays I worry
they'll forget my name when nurse is gone.



Margaret, at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, has a stunning, moving story of the Willard Asylum in New York and two projects to photograph its remains. One by photographer, Lisa Gordon, who has photographed the buildings after their closure in 1995. The haunting photo above is hers of a Willard grave marker with only the number 95 to identify the person buried there as was the case in 5,776 out of 6,000 patients who died at Willard from 1869- 1995.
And the other project is by photographer Jon Crispin who is photographing the 400 suitcases and their contents that were discovered in the attic of the Asylum after it became a prison in the mid 90's. It's called "The Willard Suitcases". Follow Margaret's link to see some of them.
Margaret also included some poems from the Diary of Anna Anderson who was hospitalized at Willard. Please go and read Margaret's post- you'll be glad you did. It's important that we not forget these people who did nothing more that have a mental illness outside their control or behavior deemed unacceptable by their families.

Arms Race

In stores a story's told:
hands down, hands off,
hands up, hands on,

an arms cache, arms haul,
arms repair, an arms dealer
with arms akimbo in the arms factory
for arms trade with smuggled armament.

We stand powerless in its midst,
throw up our hands and lament
this isn't the story we want told.


For Lolamouse at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads who published her photos and asked us to write about one. It's also a friday fiction 55 for Mama Zen.

Working on That

The circle of life holds
all within its hoop,
the story danced in ritual telling,
hoop formations surround the body,
butterfly, eagle, coyote, snake,
all our relations danced with hoops
as wings and tails, moving, swinging,
dancing us as one.

Marian, over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, introduced us to a wonderful singing group, Donna the Buffalo, who sang "Working on That" about working on peace. In the background were Native American Hoop Dancers and this poem focuses on them. Google 'hoop dancers' to see more of these amazing dancers and their dance stories. The photo is from wikipedia.

Nothing to Say

"I have nothing to say and I am saying it, and that is poetry."
 John Cage

The pivotal transgression-
to stifle the stories
that are only mine to tell
in some fear that I have
nothing to say.
Say it anyway. Open
my mouth, open
my heart and speak.
"Sometimes
a person needs stories
more than food
to stay alive."*
Imagine,
to live.

* Crow and Weasel by Barry Lopez.

The full quote is gorgeous: "Remember on this one thing, said Badger. The stories people tell have a way of taking care of them. If stories come to you, care for them. And learn to give them away where they are needed. Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive. That is why we put these stories in each other's memories. This is how people care for themselves."
I was again reminded of this truth today when Fireblossom of Shay's Word Garden posted a stunning poem telling a deep part of women's story. It was a case of me not knowing I needed a story until I read it. And it fed my soul.
Time to give up the myth of nothing to say- offered for Open Link Monday at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads hosted by grapeling who graciously shared the opening quote to this post.