Calm me with the
Voice of water
Delicate as evening rain
Subdued sky
Bathed in pink and grey
Subsiding winds
Down to a whisper
Douse the fires
That rage around me
Are aroused within me
As the wilds are washed away
In a commotion of smoke
My blood burns hot and troubled
Untamed
Unconvinced
Longing for the touch of water
Continuation, alteration of the poem I started Monday:
A new ending, though it’s still not right. Interesting to find something so simple so challenging. Endings. I gotta work on mine.
Back to the place
Where we were birthed
Or are we born again
Each day
Nope. Not there yet.
Oh, forget it. Onto a new start:
I wept tears like raindrops
Pregnant with promise
(now is this too cliché?)
Pouring upon the land
Dousing sparks of unrest
In changing times
A land hot and swollen as my crying eyes
Sadness for the loss of life upon the now red hills
My sisters standing before me
Stripped and whipped
Waves of grace flow and settle like smoke from approaching fires
Covering up
Consumed
Tears like raindrops
Falling through the cracks
Of a parched land
Raped and left to die
Our land of plenty
And now my mother weeps
Left lying in a heap before us
Blood we are unable to wash free from our hands
As needles from the dying trees fall
Lining the yellow brick road to where I wonder
I am suffocated, suppressed
By my own sadness
I cry
Tears
Dancing
A song upon the metal roof
Friend and fellow writer, Tricia’s M. Cook, has just published a new post on her blog over at Mountain Gazette entitled, “Hunting Bears,” an essay for those who know and love these furry beasts. Me, I can be as wild as any wild beast and willing to hold my own and fight for it if need be. You stay on your side of the fence, I’ll stay on mine. I choose to live in bear country, and I stake a little claim there. And yes, I will defend it, though I’m happy to let the bear do as she pleases on her side of the fence. I believe Ursa, like my friend Coyote, can be trained. See this line? Don’t cross it. And don’t, definitely don’t mess with my watermelons, as the old story goes. Tricia has a slightly different way of seeing things. Please read for yourselves.
Which reminds me. The free range cows have come for the season. How out of place can an animal be, seeing domestic cattle up above tree line.
The semi’s arrived, and how many hundred pair are left to learn the perils of the High Country. Never a popular moment. Nor will it be after they are gathered for the season, and we are left to find the strays. Or carcasses.
Our Forest Service calls it multiple use. A lovely term. I call it putting up with cow shit and closed gates for the profit of the one rich man who owns them. Go figure.
But this much I’ve learned: you might wanna still be a cowboy, but I’d rather keep working at being a horse(wo)man. Hooting, hollering and riding the road in a dusty wake behind a bunch of loud and stinky cows destined for slaughter isn’t really my thing. Why do we still use that term, “cowboy,” for those of us that work horses, not cows? Cowboy. Consider it. Part cow? Ever look deep into a cow’s eyes? I use the term “deep” loosely here, if you know what I mean. So, as you can figure, I’d rather stick with being a horseperson and leave the “cow” part for the dinner table.
And I end today’s post (are you still here with me?) with these simple words:
I care not to live someone else’s dream
And try to wake early enough to remember my own.
(Forrest took these photos yesterday of Crow and me on our family Father’s Day adventure)
Wrapped
Entrapped
Bursting through the surface
And gasping for air
A dolphin above the waters
A woman beneath big sky
Ascending to higher ground
Scattered seeds settled
The wind pauses
Roots begin to grow
Twisted in the unseen vine
Back to ashes
Where we belong
A side note.
The horse story will resume another day.
For now, there is this.
I am a writer, though you may question that fact almost as much as I do. For I’m taken to believe that a writer without a publisher is not really a writer at all. Then what am I? Trying. Too hard at times. Willing to change my voice for the approval of others. Sing a song to please you, so to say. So tired of rejection and getting nowhere and being asked to be patient and trust when truth is it is my self I do not trust, my talents, my abilities.
However hurt and down this gets me, quiet, soft spoken and demure I will not be. I get mad. I suppose anger has its proper place. If not suppressed, it can be a call to action. Then how shall I act now? What shall I do?
In response to yet another rejection from a publication I’m not even impressed with, an editor who pointed me in the direction of work he personally liked and suggested I try to sound more like someone else, I wrote the following.
Tell me who I am
What to wear
The words to whisper in your ear
Does this dress become me
I ask
As I coyly dance before you
On my knees
Where you want me
Where I’ll never be
And then it is over
Last I looked you smugly smiled
And then you smiled no more
Now I hear only the evening wind
A familiar soothing sound
Wind chimes drowning out your banter
Cutting through your shallowness
Calling me closer to where I was
Before I ever tried
Awaiting rain
Elusive, tempting teasing taunting
Powerful, passionate and cruel
I would start with a single cloud
Full of hope and promise
Growing filling building like dreams
But instead there is smoke to the south
Wind from the west
Endless blue as far one can see to the north
A mountain blocking my view to the east
The sacred four directions
Not quite forsaking though perhaps a bit defiant
As the land flourishes in her new red hillsides
Like a new dress worn for the very first time
As the world turns and the springs dry
And the once boggy fields can be crossed on foot
And still I can imagine
The sound and smell and feel of hard cold high mountain rain
Saturating hot flesh and dry land
Lush fresh new youthful green of the Aspen’s full leaves
In contrast to callous ground
The first drops will land and leave tiny craters in the sand
Kick up perfect puffs of dust on the trail
That which once was a single track
And now we have a road
You will hear them coming from a quarter mile away
Prepare yourself
Step to the side
Hide like a doe in the trees
Far enough to be safe from dry earth kicked up in their wake
Or the splatter of mud that will be churned to paste after the rains
They will ride by
Pass you unawares
And feel they have conquered the mountain
With their little motor
And sense of security
Driving along side by side
Smiling
Like a bunch of ignorant beasts
Clearly where they don’t belong
As long as the gates to the zoo are left open.
Upon returning from a stunning day skiing (yes, skiing…) atop the frozen Methow River… I was inspired to rework this poem originally started back in October of 2010 inspired by my beloved Rio Grande. Thank you to new friends and neighbors here in Washington for a feritle seed of inspiration, and to those who put up patiently with my longing for where I was.
The water lures me as she has so many times before
Now emerging discreet as a delicate muse in the woods
Her hollow voice tempting in a distant primordial chant
Of silver coins tossed from teasing fingers
Her sweet smell and silky sway and wave taunting down the mountainside
And if I stand here long enough will I see her freeze
Watch the surface relinquish to the stagnant state of frozen waters
Am I no more than a voyeur
Standing safely out of reach
Dry on her precarious banks
Enthralled
While she takes no heed of my presence
I am but a hunched form like a leaning tree casting shade across her face
As her struggle to keep fluid ebbs and flows in thickening waters below
Watching the last of her dazzling dance down the mountain
A spray of glittering waters splashing over rocks worn smooth by her impassive force
As the last of the lowering sunlight sheds long shadows across her ever changing shell
So soon to be concealed for the drunken duration of long winter
The surge of ice shall spread expand swell and cover
Suffocate the last of this seasons song
As she gives up gives in and can no longer hold her own
Succumbing to the weighty swathe of ice and snow
Cooling and calming her passions
Reducing restricting constricting her rage
Held back at bay by the season
The expanding cold takes charge of her course
Secrets and sounds still
The long static expanse being laid out above her
A white ribbon winding between two hills of black timber
Silent
The end of a white noise louder than the clatter rolling around in my mind
I lose myself in the last of this frigid rushing
The conclusion of open waters and her alluring voice
Soon to be suppressed
Numb and stifled with no words of her own
Tucked away behind her hijab
I lean over and dip in my hand
Calloused palm seared by cold waters
Fingers outstretched seeking searching
As if I might hold onto something solid
Perchance an understanding
But all she does is move around me
Unconcerned with the minor inconvenience of my flesh and blood and bone
Appearing a ghostly white beneath the slick surface
I pull back my hand now red and throbbing
Anger at the violent cold
And allow the water to continue without me
My futile interference leaves not a ripple
I am allowed to watch but nothing more
The river is stronger than I am
And to think of how many spend a lifetime
Struggling to subdue control alter and own
That which is mightier than you or I will ever be
She will have her time again
Singing loudly with fierce abandon
As the ice recedes and she releases her pent up rage
Wild with furious brown waters
Six months from now
The obscurity of a mid-night with no moon
Silent stirring of a shadow hiding in shade
A flower unfolds in this darkness
Bright blossom petals
No one can see
A blind woman roused by the fragrance
Feels the colors
Emerging
Promises holding no more depth than a looking glass
I’m giving you what you want
And still you see right through to the view beyond
Envision me romping happily in the open field
Dry of snow and awash in sun
Not noticing my flesh and blood before you
Bleeding in the wind
And in the dark
The wind rises and twists and heaves
And circles me with a fierce embrace
Somehow lifting me body and soul
A black sky overcast
Void of sparkling depths
Air moist and heavy and balmy
The big trees that stand sentinel
I find finally moving dancing swaying
To a song I hear in the murmur of the wind
The forest comes alive
Here so trimmed and tamed and thinned
Now in the enigmatic depths of darkness
Whispering to be wild
In the deep ferocious bellow of the sky
Still somehow subtle soft contained
A secret promise remains held back
Unable to let down her hair
Throw back her head and howl
The hush of the mountain’s cry
A rumbling I finally feel
Low down and primal
Damn it, would you roar!
Let loose unsuppressed and unrestrained
Even the wind is sugar sweet soothing and polite
I want you to rip and tear
And burn and pulse
And let me sense your surging
Stirring
And I awoke
Looked around
And wondered what the hell I was doing here
Waiting for the darkest hour
As the wind teases
It doesn’t take much to arouse me
Set me off
And I am gone
Covertly covered by the wind
The remains of last season
Visible as an odd curiosity
For I have not seen the leaves green here
Somewhat strange to arrive at the start of the dormant season
And wonder how life will transform and blossom
Now we approach darkness
Hesitant like stepping into frigid waters
The darkness does not concern me
I barely discern the difference
Here where day and night ooze and overlap
Lacking strong shadows and clean lines
Oh wild beast
Contained
By civilization
It does not become me
My eyes narrow and pulse quickens
I pace the cage uneasily
You pinned me to the wall
Did you think I would settle in softly
And not lash out?
It is uncomfortable
I shift awkwardly and cannot make eye contact
She stares back intently asking for recognition
Recognition I am unable to give
Only a blank stare in return
Shallow
Touching no more than the surface of the reflective glass before me
For a moment I become the Little Prince
Standing at the center of my little world
Silent and alone I can see forever and forever is not far
I call out and hear my echo
It is a small world
Too small
It is not that I feel large
Only confined
I see last season’s leaves still clinging to a dormant branch
And I see beauty in even that promise of what was
What will be
A certainty I am not yet comfortable with
Instead I curl up like a kitten in the windowsill
Basking in sunshine I only remember
Gin Getz 