Stillness

The other day I posted a link to the 'crane cam' at Whitewater Draw.

But it was late when I posted and the crane cam only showed the night.

I went back to it this morning, out of curiosity.

I watched it, fascinated, for I don't know how long.

This is my new stillness.


Whitewater Draw

morning
prairie grass murmurs
cranes flutter, tumble
and call




Shared with the imaginary garden's real toads.


I wish I knew html well enough to load up that feed on this post, but I don't so you'll have to visit their site.
https://www.azgfd.com/wildlife/viewing/webcamlist/sandhillcrane/cranecam/

rocks

What do you do when the rock that holds you above the water

only has room for you? 

Sorry child, you're all grown up - 

no room on the rock.

But look, I can reach out - 

I can throw small rocks

your way.

Build your own castle with them.

Just not here.

You can't stand here.

---

Written for the imaginary garden with real toads.
This has been a Flash Fiction 55. 

becoming

“We tell ourselves stories in order to live.”

― Joan Didion, The White Album

And I got it from our prompt over at the imaginary garden with real toads.

 "becoming"

Whisper me your words;

I'll draw them in like silken strings

and wrap them like a fist.

Once to hear you.

Twice to feed you.

Four to see you, again

in my shining eyes. 

Tell me your tales;

I'll take your story for a spin 

and try it on for size.

Once to hear you.

Twice to feed you.

Four to see you, again

in my dying eyes.

Sing me your serenades;

I'll feel them flutter down my throat

and swallow them: whole.

~~~

There's a good chance I'll regret this in the morning. "This" being: publishing the above poem before looking at it with clearer eyes. Meh. Whatevs. That there's a first draft crafted by a sleepy brain that just wants to lay in bed and listen to music. But also write stuff. Mission (mostly) accomplished. Nighty night y'all. 

character development

Directions:

Start with blank card.
Write - in fat marker - numbers
1 through 6
down the left side.
Leave room
for words.
Place a dot
after each.

Line 1: A name,
but not your own.
Make it up.
Now, pass the card
to the writer
beside  you.

Line 2: A place
someone could live.
It could be nice
or real
or not.
Pass.

Line 3: A hobby.
Or a bad habit.
Your choice.
Pass.

Line 4: A job.
Any job.
Dragon-slayer.
Post-hole Digger.
Chemist.
Pass.

Line 5: A trait.
Personality, that is.
Nothing physical.
Not yet.
Pass.

Line 6: here's your chance.
Physical
appearance.
In a word or three.
No more.
Pass.

Now.
Write the story on the card.



~~~

We did this in writing class yesterday.
Here's what I ended up with:

1. Jakob
2. India
3. Drinking
4. Engineer
5. Pompous
6. Always wore a suit

(Incidentally, there were enough of us in class that we didn't get any of our own additions to the cards, which is why mine is so... bland. My additions were ...well, if I can remember them, I'll write them all down. Later.)

Our facilitator added these prompts to choose from: "I wish I could be like..." or "S/he'd always been that way..."

This is what I wrote:

 Jakob had always worn a suit. Even as an infant, his mother had made him tiny suits, replicas of his father's, and shoved his bubbly body in there. "You must never be less," she told the growing boy, "you must always be more." He followed his father, attending the best university in India, and never regretted his British name.
He chose Chemical Engineering. Something about its precision, and the selective behavior of elements appealed to him. Elements wouldn't bond with just any other element - the conditions had to be met, had to be just right.
At night, he comes home to a crisp white penthouse where the plants are only on TV and the dust knows not to settle. In his fine leather chair he pours himself a scotch, no rocks. Some solutions should not be diluted.

on the reproductive anatomy of centaurs (or: mice and things I get distracted by)

Female centaurs should not have breasts. They - breasts - are a second set of mammary glands, and less useful than the first.

...Or would they be? Maybe, now that I'm really thinking about it, the chest location is the more useful location, given the child's shape. The upright torso would have an easier time getting to the chest than twisting underneath to get to the udders.

So, would the pelvic mammary glands reduced to a basically useless bit of decor, like nipples on human men? Or would they disappear entirely? And if they did disappear, would that anatomical region just look like the horsey version of a barbie doll: blank?

Oh right, I was supposed to be posting a poem. From yesterday. Or even the day before yesterday. Or... well, whatever. My calendar is hiding, probably fearing I'll realize how long it took me to get around to posting a new poem.

Well, I do have one, as it happens. It was written from a picture prompt in writing class. We had quite a few pictures to choose from, and yes, one of them was a busty centauress. I couldn't have possibly taken her seriously. At the same time, I couldn't have whipped out some lines for her because I was too busy taking her entirely too seriously. So I chose a mouse.

via
I had no idea it was a book cover until I found it online. The image we had in class didn't have the writing.
I think I have to read this book now. 

Our prompt was a little different this time (aside from being a picture). We were given a list of statements to complete, e.g., "I am... I wonder... I hear..." and we were to complete them as though we were the character depicted. So, the first to words of each of the following lines, was provided for me, as part of the prompt. Here's what I came up with:

I am the Don Juan of Mice. 

I wonder whether you shall fall at my hands, bested by my skill as a  swordsmouse. 

I hear in high frequency. 

I see in fine detail, but only in certain colors. 

I want to defeat all challengers, large and small.

I save every last penny; Brie is an expensive habit. 

I touch this feather in my hat, for luck. 

I feel like I could conquer the world.

I pretend I am not balding; the hat helps.

I worry about funding my Brie habit. 

I understand there is something odd about you, but that's okay, I don't mind. 

I dream of growing my goatee long enough to braid.

I try everything, at least twice. 

I hope you do not get in my way, because you seem nice. 

So that's not much of a poem, in my opinion.
Here's the poem I took from all that:

I am the daringest of Mice. 

Don't wonder that you shall fall at my paws:
I hear in high frequency, to better hear your cries of defeat. 

I see in fine detail, to better see your loss.

I am the choosiest of Mice.

I'll rescue a fine Brie
while snubbing the lowly Swiss.
One doesn't get to my rank
by slumming, you know.

I am the handsomest of Mice.
The feather in my hat should tell you so.
It's lucky, this mark of a conquerer,
and I touch it to remind myself
that I'm not really balding.
As long as I keep the hat on.

I understand
there is something odd about you,
but that's okay, I don't mind. 

I hope you do not get in my way,
because you seem nice.

~~~

In other words, I got nothing for this one.
But there it is. All done and ready for a chorus.

Shared with the real toads, in their quest for songs. 

at the shrines

Taken on our way back down the mountain;
there was a fairy ring larger than the scope of this picture.

We climb to the top

where all those hopes have lain

under moon after moon,

for eras, continued.

Floating on a sea of light and lives,

A thousand lost voices

reaching for our hands

- the long dead, the new dead, the never dead - 

just want a piece of our time.

The peak at our feet is dark,

lit by white paint in the moonlight:

the path between shrines is 

deep as graves.

~~~

Written at the top of Shrine Hill, as I call it, during our full moon hike, 3 April 2015. The italicized line was spoken by Archer, and inspired the entire poem.

One of the many shrines, before the sun set.

Looking down on our town, at dusk.

~~~

Shared with the real toads, because even though it's not specifically about stars, the starlight was peeking in around the edges. 

brother

He always wore band t-shirts
and baggy shorts.
Or jeans,
because it wasn't always warm
in North Carolina.
They were usually clean
when he put them on.

He always wore Adidas sneakers,
as though he might stumble
into an indoor soccer game
at any  moment.
He never did.
But sometimes
he and his sister would kick the ball
around the weedy yard,
for boredom's sake.

He always had music playing:
the Misfits,
Violent Femmes,
Goldfinger,
Dropkick Murphies.
These were the soundtrack of his life.

He finally cut his curly dark hair,
the day he joined the Army.
For the next eleven years,
he wore OD green and combat boots,
a pair of wings, and a red beret.

via

~~~
Shared with the real toads.

father

Who were you,
with your joyfully tripping words and scruffy beard,
with your gruff wood-stained hands
and Clint Eastwood smile?

You were there,
in my earliest years, a ghost in the barn,
given shape by hay and cows and lathes,
taking nails from my sweaty clutching hands,
fixing that fence again.

You weren't there,
in your flowing scripted letters
telling tales of horses birthed
and storms weathered.

You were there,
in the house your next wife ruled,
your wit too cutting, your eyes too clouded,
and I don't know
who you are.


~~~

Day 2 of NaPoWriMo, shared with the real toads.
I'm going to let this one speak for itself. I'll say only that it does answer the prompt: to write about the house that built you. 

Keuka Lake

via

I remember those orange trees,
lakeside, catching the breeze.
Chilling, with unease.

I remember that cold, slick water,
swimming with my father.
He said, "No otter."


~~~

I came across the above image this morning, and was reminded of the lakes I grew up near. Specifically, I thought of Keuka Lake, into which (it was rumored) the local hospital dumped its waste. The appeal of swimming in the lake faded pretty quickly as I grew up and became aware of things like "toxic" and "waste". Keuka Lake was surrounded by houses, but if it hadn't been, it would have looked a lot like that image.

~~~

For the real toads' benefit: during the four years I lived near Keuka Lake, I began writing poetry. It was the time in my life that stands out most as the time I began thinking about things outside of a child's simple world.

Our challenge, from the lovely Magaly, was this:

Your poetic mission, if you choose to accept it, is to write a new poem inspired by the first poem, poet or written work that sparked your poetry.

I didn't have much poetic influence at that stage. I didn't start reading any - that I can still recall - until much later in life. I didn't feel influenced by others' poetry until after I started writing my own. I just didn't get it until then. But things like Keuka Lake caused me to think more deeply, and my father's love of words and word games has influenced me deeply, for longer than I can still remember.

So, these are my beginnings. 

don't forget the flowers

"Never forget," whispered the flowers
- golden poppies, the first to bloom -
the spring rain splashing their
satin-saffron petals into streams.

"We'll see you again,
     and again, and again,"
returned the trees,
"in the garden, waking the bees."


~~~
Shared with the real toads.

someone once told me

Someone once told me
that all the stars are gray.
Someone once told me
that trees can't move alone.
Someone once told me
that they couldn't stay away.

Stay away - til the wind dances and your limbs sway -
stay away - til the gray stars sing your heart to home.

~~~

Someone once told me
that all They did was lie -
that other group, of Other people,
people who were Them, not Us.

"Them" had families, had lives and loves;
"Them" lost families, lost lives and loves.
We weren't the only losers.
They weren't the only liars.

Someone once told me that if you could write their story,
you should.
How else will we hear it?
If it doesn't come from Us.

Their story won't be heard, here, in their own voice.
We're too deep in ourselves to listen
to any voice but our own.

So here I am in comfort,
writing stories of a people not-Us,
whose voices we cannot hear,
with words I struggle to recall.

~~~

Two poems, two very different topics, one prompt: "Someone once told me..."

From Freewriting I, 18 March 2015.

Shared in the imaginary garden with real toads.

promises

I broke a promise to myself.
When I knew your life began,
Never had I believed.
I could make it right. 

We started out hard
with my broken promises cracking under our feet.

Your tiny infant feet.
My never-a-mother feet.

I made a promise to you.
When I knew your life began,
That though I couldn't believe,
I would make it right. 

Every joyful jump you made
left my broken promises crushed under your feet.

I can't keep up.
You wait for me.

I hope I make it right.

~~~

"There's this fallacy in my head that I think, if I sacrifice enough, if I hurt myself enough, exhaust myself enough, have enough courage, I can do anything I'm supposed to be doing. That's what led to me being desperate enough to hurt myself repeatedly to get myself into an adrenaline-fueled state that only comes with physical danger, and then burning out so hard I landed in the hospital. I keep thinking that I'm just too lazy and that it's my fault; any grown woman as smart as I am should be able to remember to go to class. I've done it before; why can't I keep doing it? All those ideas come from when my mom pushed the "record" button in my brain, and they keep re-playing. Every success, in the back of my mind, implies that I could've done it all along, and so every success is a proof of laziness." - http://chaoticidealism.livejournal.com/138502.html

That is the result of growing up with an unacknowledged mental, emotional, or developmental disability, and it is devastating.

That post I quoted and linked above is a long read, about a situation that is different from either mine or my child's, but it makes a point that is important to both of us: it's okay to be labelled with a disability if you do have that disability. My child does have ADHD, and having the label has made it possible for him to get the help he needs. I do have Major Depressive Disorder, and that label has gotten me the help I need, too. In my case, it has made it possible for me to help myself. I hope that someday it helps him that way, too. Acknowledgement and acceptance of the problem really is the most important step.

~~~

Inspired by life with my child, the author of chaoticidealism, life with myself, and the imaginary garden with real toads, where I've posted a link to this entry. Because promises are about love.

what love is

a whisper across the desert:
blown sand from fingers
stretched to the sea

a breathe within my heart:
warm-pelted comfort
carrying daylight loosely

a moment strung wide
in honesty hurt and healed:
this is what love is

~

For Archer, because I will write you a love song.

~

Shared at the imaginary gardens.

where I find god

In the rush of thoughts to fingertips,

in the clatter of keys; 

In the percolating furnace,

in the sighing of my sleeping son. 

In the fish-breath of my old dog,

in the memories of all the cats I've loved;

In the coursing awareness of my seedlings,

in the cool frosty glass in my windows. 

In the smattered red wash on the highway,

in the torn bits of fluff on the shoulder of the road;

In the chilling breeze that sets a timer on comfort,

in the sharp thorns that caught me dreaming.

In the tender silken thread that is new life,

in the cautious coming forth of each new day;

In the words we trade, for better or worse,

in all the ways we weave,

togetherness is god. 

~~~~~~

This bit of consciousness is brought to you by... well, me. But I was inspired by a writing prompt (at the Pagan Experience) asking about our gods. I'm an all-out animist. I thought about penning an essay about that, but that's been done. Y'all probably know what animism is - and if not, you can google it - so I thought I'd just express myself a little more directly. Because poetry is, in fact, more direct than an essay.