Cracked Open

Our heels crack from weary walkabout. 

Minds crack and shatter wanting to fold. 

Hearts crack without tears. 

Skin cracks and peels from lack of moisture. 

Heads crack against buttresses impenetrable. 

Our bones crack from heavy packs. 

Finally, our very souls crack open 

wetting cracked lips.

 It's the only way to find our voice. 

Take courage my friend. Being cracked open lets your story out. It is still being written. 

Bird Below

White bird
circling high
above the valley
weaves a bouquet of
mountains together
below me



Waimea Canyon, Kauai. November 2010

Playground for Light

End of season fluff 

used to be harvested

by tribal prairie people

for diaper filling 

and women's flow.

 Bed mats too, softening 

sleep on earthen floors.

Soft cotton free and plentiful.

Disposable?

 Recyclable? 

Renewable?

Back then? 

Farmers hate it like 

gardeners hate dandelions.

 One strong gust spreads 

millions of floating seeds waiting

to root. Blackbirds roost and 

nest in cattail marshes before

deciding to strip a field of 

sunflower seeds. 

"But wait, please don't kill the cattails" ~ I pled.

My first firefly show

happened here

long ago. 

The glow of it

 has yet to dim. 

Gallant Loverby 

got wet catching

one buzzing light ~

a love trophy for 

me, his new bride.

Captured magic 

~love's light~

magnified in 

a mason jar. 

This fall, Loverby stopped to let me take a picture at a thriving cattail colony in the slough. It was still there in spite of planes spraying for complete eradication all those years ago. I had gone crazy when I realized they were systematically trying to rid the prairie of magical places where fireflies played. When I came stumbling into the house sobbing because the planes were spraying overhead with a vengeance - my mother in law held me and cried with me. She explained that the blackbirds came in hoards like locusts and cleaned out the sunflower fields. The cattail sloughs were their breeding ground. They would have no harvest to harvest if something wasn't done. I hated not being able to offer an alternative.

I was an idealistic young woman raging against the destruction of the place where cotton batting grew free, and light played and lived.

 I still don't notice blackbirds. 

Cellar Remains

  

Playmates won't slide down this cellar 

door. It is gone like the house above. 

Rocks split on the grain 

were dry stacked flush 

by hard hands.

 An artist holding hammer 

and chisel raised the puzzle 

one row at a time. 

Small rocks 

fill empty spaces

 between 

big ones balancing careful 

until corners meet 

woven and strong. 

This cool dark hole 

preserved harvest well

until the long winter was done.

Homestead wives 

went down stairs outside 

to the store around 

   the corner  

      underneath 

         their porch. 

Barefoot Heart

Comes a time 

a wintery time

between summers 

when my 

earth widened  

sun browned 

barefoot heart

has to squish 

expansive parts

unwillingly

back inside

uncomfortable 

tight spots 

constrained by 

framed by 

culture

no air cleansing 

no water cooling 

no sand tickling 

earthiness

no circles

only rows

no love feasts warm

celebrating at the table 

of friends

only

clacking plastic  

grating against shiny

metal holes passed somber 

with 

baskets of crumbs

dead and dry and tasteless

unable to breathe 

or wriggle free

monstrous waves 

of panting panic

attack 

until ties are loosened 

buckles unfastened

restraints kicked 

off and away toward 

the preferred 

expanse 

of summertime's

intended 

green  

freedom

where 

no blisters rub

my barefoot heart

raw

Maureen encouraged me to join in the fun happening over at One Stop Poetry's One Shot Wednesday. Even though I feel quite shy about it, playing with others and learning from them is good. Poetry only recently found me. I'm most thankful. 

Pretending

The pile of end cut two by fours tempted me. It was fire wood for camping, but playing with it wouldn't hurt it any, would it?

As I stacked two north and south on one layer, then two east and west the next ~ it grew quickly. The kids gravitated to the tower making. Soon they branched off with their own creative plans leaving me with a tiny midget of almost three years.

When I had to start lifting her to put one more layer on, we decided to started another small tower just her size. She promptly stuck her legs in using one side for a seat, the other for a table. With me squatting on the ground outside her 'house', we had a tea party. Sticks were scones, dirt was sugar, leaves were saucers and cups. The cream had to be poured out of thin air.

After a bit, she became concerned with the lopsided hospitality and insisted that I join her inside her 'house'. At first she had trouble understanding that my large body simply would not, could not fit. Puzzled, she looked around trying to solve the problem. Her eyes hit upon a wooden crate not far away. Leading me by the hand, she showed me my 'house'. She lit up with delight as we both took our places at the table and set out another, fresher tea party. It was very refined, and delicious. It felt like I had taken a turn into Neverland for a few moments. Tea parties with my girls were quite some time ago ~ mixing the memories from then into now ~ was sweet. It was a relief that I still remembered how to have a proper tea.

An older and wiser little girl of six or seven came over to see what we were doing. She didn't understand the laughter. She didn't see the tea party accoutrements, the steam from our cups, or the lemon curd drizzling down the scones.

She asked us what we were doing. A puzzled look scrunched her face as I told her, showed her, invited her. She shook her head no. I asked her if she ever played pretend. Again, she shook her head no, saying it was weird. As the grown up little girl walked away, I wanted to catch her up in my arms, and beg her to stay and play.

The shortest sentence in scripture is: Jesus wept. So did I.

Passion Play

Need Fire was one of the Celtic bands playing at the Scottish Highland Games in Enumclaw this weekend.  They took turns sharing one of the stages with The Wicked Tinkers.  

Little Michael Purser plays the didgeridoo and the fiddle for Need Fire. At the end of the day, I noticed his fiddle bow was nearly shredded. I asked him if this was a common occurence. He shyly hung his head and admitted that it was. If a fiddle bow could look happy, that one did. Completely tired and happy.

Since I was without a camera or phone to record the evidence, I asked Lauren Madison if she had any pictures of it. Turns out she is a photographer and gave me permission to dig up and use any she had taken of Michael.

Both of these celtic bands have pipers and drummers who send primal shivers down your spine and entice you to shed your inhibitions while you listen. What happens the Highland Games stays at the Highland Games......

At the end of life, I want to be shredded from being passionately used. Used long and hard and joyously.

Shredded passion ~ unstrung ~ then restrung only to be shredded once again by the music maker.

Play me.