Cold In Our Hearts

The cold did not prevent our walk. I carried my camera
and led the way. We went to where the little birds
had been. There had been a flock of Townsend warblers

yesterday. Little birds with yellow markings around
their eyes made small pleasing sounds. You thought they
must have moved further south. I searched other parts of the woods,

settled for taking a picture of an ant hill.
Instead of birds, the little boy from the house
down the road appeared. He wanted to know

when I’d be planting potatoes.
You said you were “”wobbly”.
We went inside and I gave you white cranberry juice.

The afternoon news began and I decided to make cake
the way they make it in Normandy France.
Butter, eggs, flour, chocolate melting in the copper double boiler,

a pinch of salt, a cup of sugar, nothing more,
a little cake for later;
food for the stomach a bird for the soul.

We looked at the Carnegie report. It confirmed
our suspicion that the causus belli for beginning
the War in Iraq last March was false. We agreed

we would not show the report to the girls.
White flags and yellow painted birds
with chocolate cake ought to be enough.

But you became quiet, thought it would be best
not to read anymore of the Carnegie report.

It might keep us awake.
I cleared the table. Only the indigo blue cloth
remains.

... by Diane Wyland Carle (2004)

[Written January 26, 2004 when they "received in the mail a copy of The Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, January 2004 Weapons of Mass Destruction in Iraq, evidence and implications.
- RocksWorks]

I wish

I wish
I could
Talk, squawk, squeak, sing
To animals
And they would understand
Replies
From distant skies would come thunderbirding down
To drown my words in the ocean
The unearthly whale songs
Elephant gongs reverberate
Inside my head
And I know the words

... anonymous, age 17

poetry in song

Pete Seeger: The Power of Song on PBS this week

Word of the Day

catenary

your one wild precious life

"What is it you plan to do in your one wild and precious life?"

-- Mary Oliver

Harry offering

In our youth exploring truth, it seems we always knew
by sight, by touch and smells of such what everyone might do.

But now, we’re all refashioned and all
so up to date; we live and lurch and thrash
about from distances so great.

We need telephones and postals,
the arts and sciences too, just to help us keep our place
in space, though we might prefer a zoo

with the joys of somewhat shorter lives in necessary toil
when spent together could be better than extended gropes in modern fetter.

And yet since we ourselves have not died young perhaps these days can still be fun.

... by Harry Lloyd Carle (198_)

Night Love

The night pretends
... to give us to each other
and we embrace night

each thinking we hold our lover.

But it is night we love
... because it seals the day
as one mouth seals another.


by Jenifer Browne Lawrence (2007)

Harry offering

Do you realize that the Ginko tree was here
and was probably
food for the dinosaurs?

by Harry Carle (2006)

love alters

This quote, and fragment from a longer poem by Diane Wyland Carle.

“Loves not love which alters when it alteration finds.”

Shakespeare wrote a sonnet with this phrase. This past year Harry and I had a vacation in Long Beach, California where we visited (daughter) Kristen. There I heard doves cooing and it took me back fifty years. I worked on a poem and placed Shakespeare’s words as the epigraph.

...Fifty years of dove life. Wings
lifted. Carried in bird bodies. Soared
point to point,
twig to moth.

It was good to sit on the sand with Harry. We had the sandwiches I made and he befriended one of the shore birds that he noticed had difficulty walking. We walked on the wooden pier at Seal Beach where I’d walked in the past and I took a picture of our shadows moving along before us on the boards of the pier.
Now, in winter, we watch the colors of the days, notice sounds. Wind and water changing landscapes.
In the evening, I practice old piano pieces and Harry seems calm. He turns the pages of books he’s collected.

“Love, light and courage will come from God.”
…

the unaltered love.

... -- from Diane Wyland Carle (2005)

Mourning Doves

... "Love is not love

... which alters when it alteration finds ..." William Shakespeare

All these years later,

murmuring distant warbling throat noises.

Sounds of Long Beach.

I first heard doves near a willow tree.

... "Which room did you have?"

... "Room. We didn't have a room.

... We were children. I was seventeen.

... I rode down on the Cherry Street bus.

... He came from his Navy ship.

... We met at the beach behind the hotel."

Fifty years of dove life. Wings

lifted. Carried in bird bodies. Soared

point to point

twig to moth.

Now, palm trees trimmed. Shoreline altered.

A road runs through the beach.

Off-shore oil island disguiesed with colored lights.

Cooing mourning doves.

Unaltered love waits beneath the roof.

... by Diane Wyland Carle (2005)

Mourning Dove poem is dedicated to Gary Lee Gambs who turned 70 on February 17, 2006.

Five Questions

She wears the mountain path to granite.

Esses of red-shouldered hawks in the sky,
switchback carved into rock.

No more than a dusting --
field turned white, creek lazy and dark.

Poetry

... High Theater

a glowing windy night
full of moonlight
on water

now covered by clouds,
small, billowy things
here and there

casting mauves,
many silvery grays,
schools of golden fish

darting briefly into and out
of existence
but always and more

until their scene ends.
winds change everything
and now the clouds leave

only the alders
against the sky and moon,
great slanting poles

with their leaves gone
as seen from backstage

... by Barbara Wolf (2005)

Love, grief, and faith

[Mary Leslie notes: I wrote this a couple of days after learning of my roommate's death in Maui, on her honeymoon. On the day that I was expecting her to return to Seattle with her new husband, I received a call that she had fallen over a waterfall & had been killed. Nothing has shocked me more in my life. - April, 2008]

My back hurts, I'm so tired.
Lord, the pain is deep…
Deeper than I've felt before.
I grieve for my red-haired sister
More of a sister than my own flesh and blood

But why do I grieve and hurt so deeply?
I know that my dear sister is face
to face with Jesus in Heaven.
I could never want anything more for her.

But the shock of her sudden death is all too much.
I don't want it to be true - I'm selfish Lord.
I had already made many plans for her and I.

Her bed, vanity, mugs, and food are still in my home.
Why did she leave her make-up and recipes?
A wedding gift from her Grandma has been delivered, as if
she will open it soon.

Why Lord? There were so many more times to spend together,
prayers to pray, and feelings to share.

Shine my Lord,
into this shattered heart.
Only your love can heal me.
Your peace can soothe my weary mind.

Strengthen my faith, give me new hope.
Fill my life with your love.

God saw that her purpose had been perfectly completed.
Her love, life, laughter, and work for the Lord was finished.

I must take what she has given me and serve the Lord with it.

Shine my Lord…. Shine through me.

... by Mary Leslie (1995)

The Last Apple

Walking in the garden
this spring day
I see one surviving apple
still clinging to the tree
on a fragile branch.
Wizened and brown,
like a shrunken head,
it has weathered winter winds,
storms and snow
and yet remains
to greet the new buds
that are bursting out
everywhere.
Like a great, great grandparent,
always expected to die,
but still there at the table
for Thanksgiving yet again,
hanging in for the turkey
and dressing and
don't forget
the cranberry sauce.

... by Barbara Wolf (2008)

Turning a Corner

moving slowly
sensing where she is
all is familiar

old, old dog,
low to the ground,
mark of the breed

blind these last five years
now out the gate
left open by mistake

into the night
all the same to her
and down the street

hugging the curbing,
secure in its sturdy shoulder,
down the long block

until it ends
as things do

what more to say
when it's over
and nothing beyond

how to go on
and to what,
nothing's the same

or as good as it was
but the heart still beats
life wants itself

a corner is turned,
must be followed
it leads to more

of what it is
solid ambiguity
aiming at another corner.

... by Barbara Wolf (1995)

Resources

I have resources in leaf and wind,
in the cascading cry of hawks,
who glide wide circles in a clouded sky.
Even the slanting light on my horse’s ear
as he crops swept grasses, moves me,
perfectly, to a different place.

A place where, eventually,
the static in my head does cease.
Where the answer to this dilemma,
not sought only for this brief peace,
sends a shoot down to root
somewhere fertile.

Oh, the storm, especially!
festering and exaggerated,
careening as if down some hollow alley, before
imploding and then receding
from the dripping, torn world,
brings relief, and a perspective.

Informed, not by concern or worry,
not by weighing under furrowed brow,
the pros and cons, the
shoulds and don’ts,
the right or wrong…

But by the weight of any one or more
of these— offerings:
carried in my belly like a nourishing meal,
drawn in like a breath,
transforming and ineffable.

The sun ahead in the parting trees,
on woods paths followed as a child…The nap,
until-wakened-by-crows, under pines…Or
the caught-frog’s eye:
blinking, reflecting my own face
before pasture and sky.

Beloved-familiar, so enchanting!
I pray that my sons tap your resources,
sacred nearby, hopefully hidden in blood.
I pray that, though city-born and inundated,
they know the way to go to find these
ripe and vibrating gifts!

... by Barrie Smeeth (2008)

These Days Of Early Spring

These are the days
you linger outside
in the late-sun’s rays,
hearing the breeze increase in new leaves,
knowing its direction
by the way your horse’s tail
ruffles and arcs
against one hock. Or,
if it’s windy enough, how
it scoops between back legs
up under his belly,
while he casts a long shadow
and grabs mouthfuls of fattening grass.

These are the days
of few bugs yet, though
they’re coming, and growing things—
burgeoning green—buzz anyway,
too rich to contain their glee.
At night you apply lotion
to dry, sun-colored skin
and feel gritty bits of dust mixed in.
You’re hot until
the sun goes down
and the wind picks up, when
you suddenly need a jacket
to wrap these days in close to your skin.

... by Barrie Smeeth (2007)

Watercolor by Barrie Smeeth (2007)

Just Spice

Looking back on my life,
can I write about the past objectively?
It’s oddly attached to me.
When I think about it,
or begin to feel about it,
it weighs
the value
of my choices…

Like something on wheels
that I pull behind at the airport
and check through security,
and drag in and out of the overhead bins,
it complicates my trip to the coast.
I’d rather have it be just spice,
put in early,
unidentified in today’s meal.

Not seasoning that defines.
Not taken so seriously.
“Chicken Oregano”, “Sweet Basil Pasta”:
so pivotal to ordering.
Can’t one be happy
just showing up at dinner,
expectant but not weighing?
As kids we were, weren’t we?

So what if I’m a “mother”,
used, all these years, to mixing spices,
choosing nutritional value
and creating meals?
I’ll find back the habit
of just leaving my sandy suit
on the floor where I stepped out of it,
and showing up for the evening meal!


... by Barrie Smeeth (2008)

Truth Force

"Man and his deed are two distinct things. It is quite proper to resist and attack a system, but to resist and attack its author is tantamount to resisting and attacking oneself. For we are all tarred with the same brush, and are children of one and the same Creator, and as such the divine powers within us are infinite. To slight a single human being is to slight those divine powers, and thus to harm not only that being but with him the whole world."

- Mahatma Gandhi

Bailey

She was six months old
Floppy ears, bouncing & bounding
I looked at her with immense joy
How could she have changed my life?
. but she has…

Not a moment's peace, but that's o.k.
Her happy wagging tail greets me after
. each long day at work
She follows me from room to room,
adoringly watching my every move

She swims at the park & chases the ducks

One would think she would tire after an hour,
but not Bailey. Why rest, there is too much living
. to do today.

Bailey is a brilliant pup, and learns ever so quickly
Stubborn she is, I think stubborn goes with brilliant
She argues at times, throwing her head back & forth
So much like a child

When it's time to eat, she woofs at me & tosses her head
. towards the kitchen

As I meditate, she lays quietly at my feet.
If I'm sad, she's willing & ready to lend an ear,
and snuggle up beside me, one paw always on me.

But, I'm in trouble….
she's only six months old, and I'm smitten.
I never expected to fall so deeply in love with an animal.
The connection we have is incredible.
Our hearts are in sync.

I know there will be a time when I will lose her
I can't stand the thought
I don't want to ever lose her, she's my baby
She's my family.

Now it's 16 years later, Bailey has been gone a year
My heart is still broken…. In pieces
Her ashes, and collar sit on a table
The vet had cut of some of her fur & put it in a bag for me
I still can't touch it
I miss her so much

I still can't stand the thought of losing her.

. by Mary Leslie (2008)

Keep the channel open

There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it.

It is not your business to determine how good it is, nor how valuable it is, nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly; to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open.

- Martha Graham to Agnes DeMille

Breathe

You hear a garbled voice
giving directions you don’t understand.
You wait.
Then something begins to move you along.
There is now nothing you can do.
You have no control.
A panic rises.
Breathe.

You’re being swept along
a wet path, like a rising river,
and then giants appear
tossing their huge heads
of thick red hair all around,
slapping and flapping,
swirling as in a frenzy,
dancing until they drop as though dead.

Then more water sprays,
with a rocking force,
pummeling, slamming
on all sides of you, a raging surge
and then it stops.
Now you’re going backwards.
Your progress is reversing
while a gentle solution washes
all around, sliding down in droplets
as you start once again
toward the original direction
where you see a red light
turn green and there is silence.

Breathe.

Turn on the car.
Drive out. It’s over.
Someone you’ve never seen
is waiting with a towel.
You head out to the highway,
cars barreling down from both
directions. You wait to get safely onto the road,
an achievement a minute as you drive
toward home, knowing
that the end is still to come.

And you still have really no control

Breathe

by Barbara Wolf (2008)

Ill Never Stop Dancing Inside

I'll never forget the memories
... of childhood
The person I was then will
... always be me
I now appear wiser with
... years of experience
I'll look like I've changed but
... you can't see

I'll never stop dreaming or
... loving or laughing
Although old man time can't
... be denied
I'll never stop wanting to be
... all I can be
And I'll never stop dancing
... inside

Yeh, I'm still dancing on the
... inside
I'm dancing all the time
Life is too short to ever stop
... dancing
Deep down I'm dancing
... inside

I'll never stop dancing inside
No, I'll never stop being the
... person I have been
Every mirror I've seen has
... always lied
Life is too short whatever
... your age
To ever stop dancing inside
So I'll never stop dancing inside.

...

by Kenny Walther

[From Metro (Seattle) bus bench.
-RocksWorks]

He who converses ...

Those who talk do not know.

Those who do not know talk.

... - Lao Tzu

Rock 'n' Roll Lyfestile

Your excess ain't Rebellion,
You're drinking what they're selling."
- From '(How do you afford your) Rock 'n' Roll Lifestyle', by Cake