Orchards Windows Roses

Stranded By the Side of the Road & A Mother's Love

2012-02-21T12:04:00.000-08:00

Stranded By the Side of the Road

Humvee rattles bones

shakes out seeds
of this once
ripe
fruit.

A Mother’s Love

The path strewn

with rotten fruit

of your womb

maddens your mind

tears open the wound

that was your heart

binds you to the moon

and to Her upon it

who stands barefoot

above the desert

waiting.

© 2010 Joanne Elliott

Becoming the Rose

2012-02-14T11:54:00.000-08:00

I wait in silence, unknown, becoming.
I awaken to myself as leaf turns to bud.
Greening, I am sun, earth, sky, rain.
I am the secret untold;
I live in the blood red heart.

I come forth in Eros,
in the bursting of life I bleed,
I live; I am born on my way to death
to be born again.

The rose unfurls
and beauty comes to bear
upon this world.
My heart, rose red, opens.
The light enters as petals splay and spin out.
The Divine enters the world,
a red rose enraptured.

I am the rose; open to the Beloved,
my fragrance is my answer to His call.
Where do my petals end and my perfume begin?
Where do I end and my Beloved begin?
In the rose we are one.
In my heart the rose lives and dies and lives again.

I am the rose, my heart transformed.
Blood red my heart beats as each petal falls
to feed the seed in the dark earth.
I am the rose, forever.

© 2011 Joanne Elliott

This poem grew out of my love for the texts in what is called The Egyptian Book of the Dead. Normandi Ellis' liberal translations of these are the most poetic and can be found in a book called "Awakening Osiris." There are many texts that are about becoming, Becoming the Swallow, Becoming the Hawk, etc. The way Normandi translates them also makes me think of Whitman's way of writing. I wonder if he was an influence. The interesting part is that he was influenced by the Ancient Egyptians, he studied as much as he could about them.
The symbol of the rose is very important to me and my spiritual path. It is also a very important symbol in earthly love. So today, on this day of love, I dedicate this poem to the love of my life, Charles.

A Ship in a Bottle, the Return of the Light

2012-01-31T12:17:00.000-08:00

A tiny ship alone on a shelf finds itself
once again born from shadow’s
memory of a time where his hands

longed to reach up hold this miracle
a ship in a bottle forever encased
with masts raised in the night

under a dusty desk lamp.
Rough hands made tender by delicate
placements in glass.

On the floor with clunky wood trucks
and trains he was silenced
by the weight of the moment

when masts were raised
gently tugged by a thread
between thick fingers.

Then slowly the ship set sail
in his imagination
and in his hands now rests.

Hands smooth and used to
keeping books, not sails and ropes
and nets, holds this treasure.

The sun begins to move up. Within
that tiny glass bottle his heart rides
the waves, feels the wind

knows him who now sails the seas
outside time and memory. Stares into
early morning rays. Remembers

harrowing tales of ghost ships
and crushed limbs. Becomes
lost in the swells lit with the light

returning to the dark ocean waters
shining on the early morning calm
bringing him back from the storm.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

To Dream of Crows

2012-01-10T12:12:00.000-08:00

Colm Meaney asks why we are not on the beach.

Our companion says there are too many crows.

Colm says it doesn’t matter; they are coming down

like the rest of us.

I wake to a myriad of caws as crows sweep the morning sky.

My companion does not hear them for he speaks online

about the world and how it will end in a blanket of smoke

with bodies burnt but unpicked by fallen crows.

Sky Canvas

2012-01-03T12:33:00.000-08:00

Morning reaches out of darkness
hovers on the horizon
graces sky with light.

In that moment I am the dawn
that breaks open night.

Sky a blush of pink
streaked clouds burned onto
pale gray canvas.

Shades of color blend
light bends and shoots
between crooked evergreens.

In that moment I am the sun
etched on eternity.

Then the giant glides higher
becomes too bright
for mere mortal spheres.

© 2012 Joanne Elliott

Winter Lull

2011-12-20T12:55:00.003-08:00

Moonbeams dance upon snow
as the tree casts itself in shadow
over the quiet field. Branches
vein across glitter, reach
over veiled ground to touch
bent, frosted grass at the edge
of the silenced brook.

@ 2011 Joanne Elliott

Parade Posterior

2011-12-13T12:11:00.000-08:00

Gray cast morning.

Screeches! and chirps from children and birds
drift in window
as crowds flood Greenleaf
now a street for Christmas packaged floats
and marching bands.

Santa hats and sweatshirts
dash here and there like elves
as seen from my two-story perspective.

In between car revvvs band noise begins
slowly turns to music.
Big brass echoes follow the boom
and rat-a-tat of drums.

Heads move and sway
like river reeds.
Party ready they lead the way for Santa.

Up here there is no glimpse
of the little fat man in his red suit.
One lonely yellow-turning tree
spans across his mini North Pole on wheels.

Soon the last band strikes its first note
as sky brightens to the putter of Santa’s
gasoline powered float.

At the end
orange-shirted, white-gloved men
swing sticks
poke litter
to the Honk! Honk!
of the street sweeper.

© 2002 Joanne Elliott

This past Saturday was Whittier’s annual Christmas Parade so I share a past experience.
Merry Christmas, Happy Yule, Winter Solstice…

Expression

2011-11-08T11:46:00.000-08:00

Blood moves
by the beating drum.

Breath flows
from the inner wings.

Words drift
through air to ear.

Language vibrates
in the shadows.

© 2004 Joanne Elliott

Thank you all for your comments both last week and this week. I didn't mean to post this again. I didn't have a poem to post this week and when posting Charles' poem I accidently posted mine from last week. So many of you saw this...if you didn't I'm glad you came by this week. :-)

Release

2011-11-01T11:32:00.001-07:00

Beads fall to my feet in slow motion
only to rise mockingly as if
they could recapture their well worn
position at the hollow of my neck.

Slowly their rebound subsides
into tiny leaps. Then they roll
out of sight beneath the chair
where my mother never sat.

Tears that strangled my throat
rain to the soft pine floor.
They don’t rise to taunt me
but splatter into stars.

© 2004 Joanne Elliott

Primordial

2011-10-25T12:11:00.000-07:00

I run from the forest.
Out of the darkness I hear its many limbs
strain as they rain foliage on my soul.
A shadow darkens my moonlit path
a crow races towards me, its wings
beat out the rhythm of my heart.
The subtle swish of feathers mocks
my rasped gulps of air.

Suddenly my path ends
there is no where to go
but down

where my toes hover above darkness.
I look over my shoulder.
Stillness reigns as breath
refuses to escape burning lungs.

I watch the crow pull the forest
with black curled claws
draw it over me like a shroud.
I turn, look down into blackness,
into the void that surrounds.
Heart pulsing sounds of fear
race to my throat as screams
that never leave the confines
of my crucified mind.

Feathers whisper in my ears
as a Cimmerian shade
envelopes me.
Shadow fills my sight and for a moment
I face the dark shade
wish only for death
until a song pours through my heart.
Carried in blood it courses
through throbbing veins
chants with ancestral voices
entices me to dance
take a step back.
My foot slides over pebbles
finds little resistance
as I take the lead
hover over emptiness
fall back into nothing.

Arms flail against unfound air
as wings beating against the night
black wings crashing against nothingness
until falling is flying is soaring.

Midnight feathers fanned
I ride the chasm
pierce the night with a blackness
of my own. Glide out of the void
and into refreshing light.
I feel moon rays wash my soul
of eternal emptiness
as they guide me back to the forest
glazed with moon reflected sunlight.

A life that cast only shadows
now soars on the breath of trees.
I glide into the arms of the wild wood
navigate unknown territory within,
begin to see now
as if a milky film had been peeled away
leaving only shiny dark points of light.

Soon I rise up out of the depths
fly to the top of the tallest sentry
spread my wings to open my heart
to the sky, the moon, the stars.

My eye captures another circling
barely visible in the blackest hour.
Surprised to hear my own voice
vibrate the drums of my ears
I blink, take another look
stretch my wings and leap
nearly collide with an image
so like my own
that I cannot be sure
another soars before me.
Its eyes a mirror in which I see
two other shiny spheres
endless reflection.

We sail through the cool predawn air
rise and fall to the beat of our hearts.
Perform against the twilight
a dance rehearsed in lives past
while our eyes echo the fading
constellations.

© 2000 Joanne Elliott

This piece I wrote after my life was touched by a crow. One day, while out walking, a crow brushed my hair with its wing and not long after my whole life changed.

Still Growth

2011-10-18T11:53:00.000-07:00

You stare at me from the picture frame
tongue stuck out, eyes like fire
through crystal.

I look down at my hand
dandelions hang their sun burst heads
now that they’ve been pulled
from a bed once filled
with petunias pink as
bubble gum.

But I haven’t been thinking about flowers
and have neglected my green thumb.
I know you would call that
sacrilege
but things still grow.

I put the dandelions in the vase
next to your photo stick my tongue out
at you.

© 2011 Joanne Elliott

Movement Towards Yesterday

2011-10-11T11:59:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow

As in dream the mists drift in
obscure moonlight and the path
strewn with red wild flowers.
I reach out feel the bark
of a tree
hard
rough
strong.

Today

The path was still there
though wind and flame
transformed. My feet
set on its familiar winding
know the way
though my eyes
are confused
more rock in view.

The once ancient tower
sentry of the forest
overlooking the desert
now cradled by stone.

Yesterday

Sleep is welcome
but it does not come.
Under a white moon
the wind blows hot
trees sway and moan.
The Santa Anas howl
the restless saint roams.

Sun rises over the mountains.
The dragon wakes
heaves its great chest
takes its first breath.

© 2011 Joanne Elliott

This year we lost The Poetry Cabin, our retreat in the mountains, to the bank. Back in Oct. 2007 we nearly lost it to fire, but it rose from the ashes better than before. The building is someone else’s now, but The Poetry Cabin lives online via Facebook and Twitter. Please join us there.

Santa Anas are what we call the hot winds off the desert that visit us in So Cal during the fall and winter.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Poetry-Cabin/297527046117

@ThePoetryCabin

The Return – A Process of Initiation in Nine Parts

2011-10-04T12:21:00.000-07:00

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.

~T.S. Eliot from Part IV of the poem Little Gidding

                     1

Winter passes slowly.
The frozen ground protects the seed.
In darkness it sleeps waiting
for the return of the light.

                    2

A glimmer of what is to come.
Will the groundhog see its shadow,
run and hide in the dark belly of earth
afraid of what it casts upon the ground?
Or will it see only gray and stay out,
little by little see what the growing light
reveals.

                    3

Sunlight melts away ice.
All becomes aware.
Greening begins in the warmth of sun
and moisture of melted earth.
Clouds cast shadows
rains loosen soil so the seedling
can find its way to the light.

                    4

Full bloom flowering.
Things grow into color.
Sunlight reveals what was always there
in the dark slumber of winter.
The bristly bush realizes
it harbors the rose.

                    5

Sunlight burns.
Its rays sometimes too much
for green things. The flower wilts.
It knows more than it can handle
but its seed finds its way
onto the earth
and waits.

                    6

Calm settles over the land.
Something begins to shift as
first harvest begins.
All that was hidden behind flower
manifests, is ready for release,
eager to be transformed through
consummation of its ripe flesh.

                    7

Soon all falls as sunlight wanes.
For a moment we glimpse brilliance
burning in red and gold,
the promise of return.
No time for wistful reverie.
The harvest bears what is full
and ripe with flavor.
Taste it now!

                    8

Darker and darker still,
one last harvest before going within.
Once culled of her bounty, the earth rests.
The final seed scattered waits
for the blanket of snow.

                    9

Silence.
Snow sparkles like crystal in moonlight.
Millions of flakes scattered over seed
mirror the stars strewn across the heavens.
The seed sinks deep
in the cold dark earth
begins to know again.

© 2009 Joanne Elliott

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

~T.S. Eliot from Part IV of the poem Little Gidding

**Written for a Science of Mind course at the time my husband was going through his stem cell transplant to bring his cancer into remission. Many levels of initiation going on.

Brine

2011-09-27T12:36:00.000-07:00

The ocean crawls up the rock face. Spray
descends
on cold skin
like tears
from the past.

Thoughts fold into matter
wash up on voices
that once poured
from the place
on the hill
where the wind
rattled the ache.

The place with the eyes
that glanced home.
The one that served wine
in pewter chalices
to fill the chasm
that stretched
from heart to head.

Our lips once touched
warm mead
gathered heaven
onto the tongue
while wind
shook windows
to breaking.

© 2011 Joanne Elliott

Sol

2011-09-13T11:59:00.000-07:00

The way you draw up water
so that it hovers over the lake
as a thin veil of vapor.

The way your light rests on the dial
that then casts shadows on stone.
Time glimpsed as your passage through sky.

The way your rays reach out
stimulate Earth to greening,
urge tendrils to climb towards your light.

The way your winds awaken atoms
that excite the atmosphere into
swirls of living joy.

The way your fusion generates waves
that streak across space
penetrate Earth, move us.

The way your gravitas pulls us
to you. Prevents us from drifting
into that eternal night.

Respire

2011-09-06T12:20:00.001-07:00

“A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller betwixt life and death;”
~William Wordsworth

Black suitcase behind ventilator
with gnarling braids of leather fits
inside the shadows just as each
forced breath fits
inside my mind.

Red spider veins cover your face
like the frost that spreads
on the windows. Patterns within
patterns eating up the cool clear
glass.

Green light shimmers.
A candle cleaves to a wine bottle
in a templed corner.
Wax drips. Lava moving
to stillness.

Blue blanket soft
moving up and down
hides sickness in folds.
An ocean unsettled
by wind.

White falls outside.
Cascades like memory.
Lingers and sparkles
in moonlight
then scatters as darkness

fills with another
breath.

© 2004 Joanne Elliott

2073 Elm Street

2011-08-30T12:00:00.000-07:00

Young limbs dangle then yank
dandelions at their stems;
roots too strong to disengage.

She almost dances
blows seeds into the breeze
warmed with summer.

Long legs tangle in a weave
as she scatters wishes
to unseen winds.

Her juvenile face displays
no trace of a smile
to match the hop-skip of feet.

Suddenly she stops
ponders before a sign
then kicks the bright orange SOLD.

Then just as quick
slim legs bound up stairs.
Home.

© 1999 Joanne Elliott

Releasing the Green Dragon

2011-07-11T19:19:00.000-07:00

Releasing the Green Dragon

Felis (Wild Cat)

2011-07-11T13:15:00.000-07:00

We take your wildness
into our home
our civilized life,
attempt to domesticate you.

Yet our eyes are drawn
to your cousins
larger than our life
as they prowl
through documentaries.
Find ourselves mesmerized
by shoulder blades
fluid under fur.

You drape yourselves
over our desks
tails tapping keyboards
eyes sleepy
yet aware
you watch…

our rush in and out
a bite to eat
in front of a flickering
screen
our silent
screams.

Your wild eyes
capture our slink
as we sift through life
wanting
needing
consuming.

We don’t see
our own mouths
fall open
muscles tense
backs ripple
ready
for the next
kill.

© 2009 Joanne Elliott

Forever

2011-07-03T16:25:00.000-07:00

A poem I wrote before I met my husband. It seemed to be call out for a soulmate and I found him in 1998. I married him 10 years ago on July 4.

Crash upon the rocks
of my shore
like an ocean’s
rising
tide.

Forever charge
into fires
long buried
in the bedrock
of time.

Be the one dancing
the forgotten memory
fanning the flame
to infinite fire.

Worship my being
so that I may learn to love
the divine that resides
inside my soul.

Beams may spread over
a satin silken sky
never setting fire
to eternal darkness
but your light
your light will
burn through the ebony
of my starless night.

©1997 Joanne Elliott

For Steve (January 26, 1947 – November 6, 2009)

2011-07-03T15:59:00.000-07:00

My wedding anniversary is tomorrow, July 4th. I want to thank someone who is no longer with us in person who made a great contribution by taking photos of our wedding ceremony. The official photography didn't turn out to well and Steve, a doctor of epidemiology, unknowingly became the official photographer.

Blinded by technique
planned photography failed.
Meaning not seen, not captured
left us with only memories
fading fast as footprints
beneath the tide.

You took up the task.
A natural with the camera
unasked you framed friends
family, the interplay of lives
against sky, sea, surf,
sand crystals in sunlight.

Your eye trained to see microbes
could discern the details of life
see miracles unfolding beneath
the veneer of motion,
the flow of bodies and water
on sand under sky,
the intensity of light
refracted and reflected,
events fleeting on into
the fog of memory.

Time moves everything.

Thank you for those eyes
that could save lives, that also
saved moments of life.
For you saw us that day
as our hearts would recall.
You saw beyond color and light
beyond shadow and form
deep into the molecules
of meaning
you travelled
and travel, still.

May You Never Thirst

2011-06-21T13:17:00.000-07:00

We are mostly water walking
encased in a thin membrane of skin.

Drawn to our like, most of us live
at the edge of wind-rippled surfaces

bodies of water lapping land
cooling air, slaking dreams as we

pour ourselves into their being
pour their being into ourselves.

No wonder this land of ravaged rivers
now mostly dry beds of concrete

repels

does not quench the longing
for the porous land

filled to brimming with life.
I never thirsted as I do now

watching the narrow trickle
upon the heated concrete

evaporate before it can reach
the ocean, before it can return.

Ancient

2011-05-13T16:08:00.000-07:00

Ancient stones of ancient fire
call to my heart
filled with ancient desire.
Circles once danced
we dance again
charging to life
the desire within.
Slowly it turns
slowly it burns
stone returns to fire and then
the heart memory sends
all stories raging in time
to the one now
collective mind.

Dust In Beams of Life

2011-04-09T12:06:00.000-07:00

Dust speaks.
Dreams of mingling in mist
like an endless wave of
blood moved by the beat of
drums. Language that vibrates
in shadow.

At the center
eternity hovers like wind
in the tremble of wings.
Earth its metaphor
(shape now released)
exists everywhere.

© 2002 Joanne Elliott

Life

2011-02-18T18:19:00.000-08:00

Facets

2011-02-08T21:13:00.000-08:00

At least let it be
a dilapidated chapel
with a humble roof
and a decaying door… 1

…gone gray with weather
hung with bouquets of fuchsia
in blue pottery
with fraying twine.

Let there be sunlight
pouring through shattered glass
reflecting and refracting
angles of dying light.

Let it be alone
in a field of wheat in wind
waves of yellow
waiting for snow…

…and let the path
from it be overgrown
with dandelions and bramble
its destination unknown.

1 The Complete French Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke, trans. A. Poulin, Jr.
(St. Paul: Gray Wolf Press, 1986) 373.

Novel excerpt...final characters

2010-08-12T22:17:00.000-07:00

     He stared at the picture of the young woman that lay on his night stand on top of the folder that contained her life history. Since he took on her case a few weeks ago, Daniel couldn’t stop thinking about Celestina. He wondered if she had hopes and dreams before her life came crashing down. He picked up the worn photo. She was pretty in an earthy sort of way. Skin a light mocha. Hair to her shoulders and flipped at the ends. Her attempt to straighten it was not completely successful.
     Daniel sighed. He wished he had known his mother. He thought maybe his mother might have looked like Celestina, still a glimmer of life there before the realities of a child to feed and clothe kicked in. Daniel knew he had to help her, had to make sure her child could grow up with his mother and get the care and education he needed. There was a women’s shelter in Whittier that might be able to help. He had heard good things about it and so had asked Shiori to go talk to the director today to make sure it was ok. Since Shiroi worked over here she could make a visit. The shelter was full at the moment, but he was hopeful with its good reputation that women were being helped quickly. The shelter nearest to Celestina’s home was full and wasn’t the best. He really hoped he could help her get in over here. Daniel thought about his past. Though he was adopted out of a horrible situation by a successful white couple from Connecticut, he still wondered what it would have been like to grow up with his mother.
     He put down the picture and as it touched the side table an image of a girl child jumped into his mind. He had a strange dream last night. It wasn’t until this moment that he remembered dreaming at all. He closed his eyes. What was the dream? He remembered traveling down a dark corridor. There was a light up ahead so he kept going toward it. Suddenly a little girl jumped in front of the light. She looked like a paper doll silhouetted with the light behind her. She was all shadow and he wondered if maybe he was only seeing her shadow on a wall. He kept moving toward her. When he got close, she fell backward. He looked where she fell and saw only an opening in her sillohuette. He remembered thinking how curious that was and started to walk over to the hole. He realized suddenly that he would fall in, so he went around it toward the light. Then he woke up.
     Daniel thought about it for awhile. He felt like there was something he was supposed to do in that dream, and he had somehow missed his chance to do it. He was lucky to have been saved from the life Celestina and her son were living by being adopted by a lawyer and his wife, but in some ways he felt like he missed a lesson of life by not falling into that abyss.
     Shiori rolled over and moaned. She snuggled up behind him wrapping her arm around his waist. “Turn off the light and come back to bed. It’s too early.”
     He turned and rolled himself in next to her. She felt warm and safe. But now that he remembered the dream he found his mind wandering over its meaning. He often had dreams. As a child, he’d had more and scary ones. This one wasn’t scary exactly, but something disturbed him about it. Maybe it’ll make more sense in the morning. He closed his eyes and finally fell back to sleep.

Novel excerpt...next character

2010-08-06T17:45:00.000-07:00

     The light shone through the back window onto the ancient linoleum, bringing out the specks of gold forever encased in its pattern. Maddie sat mesmerized by the glitter.
     The dream was so strange and so rich with images that Maddie wished she could paint so she could capture the dream she had last night. The thought of painting made her think of Janine who liked to paint. Maddie still missed her more than she thought she would. Being here without her partner was even harder than she imagined, but she knew this was where she was supposed to be. She just wished she had more time to help with the problems in Santa Isabel in Baha California, Mexico where the women were being murdered. It seemed the same thing was happening there as had happened years ago in Juarez. Her dreams never let her forget them, and last night’s dream was the strangest one yet.
     She was walking in a moonlit field of tall grasses. A wind blew the grass back and forth so that it looked like an ocean in the soft light. She heard the voices of women calling to her. In the distance, a figure stood still as her dress waved around her. The closer she got to the figure the more she realized it was just a little girl. Maddie thought she would be able to make out what she looked like, but the child seemed to remain a shadow. When she got close, the girl swayed back and fell. She just went down and disappeared into a dark hole in the ground. Maddie looked down and saw nothing. She wondered if she should follow. Was there something she needed to see? There was something that seemed to always remain in shadow in her memory. It seemed to have disappeared from her view like the girl in the dream. She had a strange feeling she was connected to that child.
     She had gotten so used to these dreams that she began to realize in the middle of them that she was in a dream. Unfortunately, when she knew it was a dream, she would wake up.
     The full moon, the field that looked like an ocean, the girl that was shadow, the abyss; all such fascinating images. She would have to look at her symbols dictionary later. Right now she had to get going. Another busy day at the center with the Sufi women coming to talk to the women’s group, and the reporter… “Darn it!” She had forgotten about the reporter. She wouldn’t have as much time to do an interview today. Well maybe the visiting Sufis would help make a story for the young reporter. In fact it was perfect. The Sufi women would get exposure and so would the center.

Waiting

2010-08-06T17:36:00.001-07:00

Prose poem for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night #6

Long black hair veils grief as she rests her head next to a still warm hand. The rise and fall of her body matches the old woman’s who lies on the bed. Life moves in and out of this small dark room in the back of a 20’s bungalow. A home that has passed through the hands of many generations.

The younger woman looks up, takes the rough spotted hand, now mostly bone, into her soft manicured one. With her other hand she gently strokes the ancient one. Perhaps she can discover all the stories imprinted there. Years of hard work and endless caresses have left the old woman’s skin dry, translucent. Veins are visible, but stories are memory now and locked deep within both the silent one and the one silenced. Years are released with every breath and for a moment young and old become one. The woman lays her head down upon the still rising chest.

The silence is broken when the door is cracked open. A slant of light eases its way into the darkness and strikes strands of silver woven through black draped over the last moments. Those waiting wonder, hover, but don’t enter into the shared breath.

Darkness and darkness still. Breath then quiet, then breath again. Hands hold onto life a little longer, holding until the last breath is held forever. Breath then quiet. Then quiet, then quiet, then quiet…

Novel excerpt

2010-07-19T16:03:00.000-07:00

     In the distance, a small figure in a long black veil stood next to a tree in the desert. The wind was blowing the veil about, but it never lifted. Maheen started to walk over and felt the wind get stronger with every step she took. As she neared the figure, she realized it was too small to be an adult. Suddenly she stopped. She had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. She started to call out to the girl, but before she could say a word the girl raised her finger to her lips then bowed. Maheen just stared. By now the wind was so strong she could feel it trying to throw her off balance. The little girl stood strong and steady.
     Maheen decided she had better get to the shelter of the tree and so started to move again. With her second step forward the little girl disappeared into the ground leaving the veil behind. It fell like a magician’s handkerchief when the dove under it disappears. The veil didn’t blow away, though. It seemed like a puddle on the dry desert ground. Maheen made her way over to it and found she was looking down into an abyss. The wind whistled around her, nudging her closer to the hole. She couldn’t move away from it. She began to sway. Then a huge gust of wind picked her up off her feet and dropped her into…
     Maheen jerked awake. She felt her heart racing and adrenalin shrieking through her system. What was that? It was one of the strangest dreams she had ever had and she didn’t remember having many. Something about it made her skin crawl and brought up thoughts of her childhood in Iran. She hadn’t thought about it in a long time. In fact, she was nine when her mother took her and left Iran, she hadn’t thought about it again, until now.
     When she felt her heart beat return to some state near to normal she threw the covers off and sat up. She was dizzy. “That was a real shaker upper,” she told the fish on the other side of the room. She looked at them still drifting in their sleep. She wondered if they dreamed and if so, about what.
     Today was going to be a busy day. She grabbed her watch off the side table. She was already getting a late start. She looked over at the alarm clock. It was blinking. Apparently the power went out last night which is why the alarm didn’t go off. One of these days she’d remember to get a battery for the backup.
     She got up and headed straight to the bathroom, no time for her usual cup of coffee. She needed to be out the door in five minutes to get over to the center and come back with the Sufis before their talk at the woman’s shelter. They were scheduled to speak at ten a.m. so it was going to be some kind of miracle if she could get over there in rush hour and back again by ten.
     She flicked on the radio as she pulled out the toothpaste.
     “…construction on the five is still on hold. Funds are still not available since the collapse of the bond market last spring. Continue to take alternate route. The 10 is backed up due to an overturned rig. It will likely be backed up for a couple of hours. There is no cleanup crew available. And…
     Maheen switched off the radio. “Damn it! I guess it’ll be surface streets part of the way. Better just rinse and go.”
     She threw her t-shirt on the floor and jumped in the shower, not waiting for the water to get hot. Ice cold water pelter her small frame. She swore through her chattering teeth and hopped around while pouring body wash over her goose-bumped skin. She wished she believed guardian angels. One would certainly come in handy today.

Excerpt from the Novel my current Work In Progress

2010-07-06T15:39:00.000-07:00

     Screams echoed from inside the slanted shack. She felt frozen in place. It was like the shrieks were bouncing off the inside of her skull. Rosa finally made herself take a deep breath and felt her body start to thaw. She took a tentative step toward the broken window. She was sure she didn’t want to see what was inside, but found that now that she was moving she couldn’t stop. It was dark inside and the piteous cries became faint as she drew closer. The window looked as if someone had punched a hole through it. She touched the broken glass and an image of her father, angry at she knew not what, flashed. A memory from when she was a very small child – of him punching a window.
     Suddenly someone inside ran past the window. It was a small figure. She heard the person running toward the back. Rosa ran around to the back door and saw that it was a little girl with dark hair. She was running away from the shack.
    “Wait!” Where are you going?”
     The little girl stopped and turned around. She was quite far away now and Rosa couldn’t make out what she was saying. She seemed to be motioning for Rosa to follow. Rosa moved toward the girl, but could not seem to get any closer. The girl laughed and then fell backwards and simply vanished. Rosa ran faster and nearly ran over the edge of a hole in the ground. Where the hell did that come from? She looked down into the blackness, and then looked up into the blue sky. A loud crash jolted her. The sky shook and then she woke up. She sat bolt upright trying to make out if the crash was in her dream or coming from upstairs.
     The woman upstairs was screaming for her boyfriend to get out. Then a door slammed.
     Rosa quickly got out of bed. She didn’t know what to do. A part of her wanted to help June, but another part of her felt like a helpless child. How could she help anyone when she was having a hard time helping herself heal from her own abusive past?
     The meeting with her father had not gone well. She told herself she would keep her cool, but she didn’t. She let him push all her buttons and she left slamming the door before much could be said. Her mother came running after her, but Rosa just ignored her. They would never believe her side of the story and they would never forgive her. After Rosa spoke up, her family was never truly welcome at that church again. The endless abyss in her dream felt like her past and how she skirted around its edges, never wanting to delve into the pain.
     Today she had planned to go to a women’s support group at the local shelter. Last night she talked herself out of it, but after hearing the craziness upstairs and then that strange dream, she thought maybe she would go after all. She would be sure to bring back some literature for June.

The Vacant Lot Next Door

2010-06-27T19:06:00.000-07:00

He works hard.
Digs into dirt now thawed.
Baselines reasserted,
makes sure tops of boulders show through,
ready to be tagged.
Wild grass reaching for blue
mowed down to playing level.
The rough, uneven ground slants
slightly towards bushes and marsh;
the graveyard for stitched leather.
Beads of sweat
drip into his eyes
run down his muscled arms
seep through his white tee.
The air chills him.
He breathes deep
smells damp earth, cut grass,
sweat.
One more round of the bases.
A last sweep of the field.
Need to make sure all is clear.
Safe.

Soon the kids will be back
just like he was every year.
Once the air starts to warm
and the ground firms
they gather, make teams, and throw
that first pitch.
He remembers the way his hands
vibrated with the bat
as it struck the ball.
Remembers the flight of white
against blue sky.
The feeling that this one is lost
in the bushes
as his legs carried him home.

Days go by and Albert waits.
His friends are off playing real life,
but sometimes he still finds himself
at the edge of the field.
Every day is warmer. He waits.
Then they come.

Bats and gloves in hand they ramble up
from down the hill
drift in like an early summer breeze. Ready.
One, he can see, has been waiting
in the yard next door.
The big kid who can’t run;
his feet turned in too much for speed.
Albert feels something inside
when the kids let this boy play.
They know this kid can hit
so get somebody to run the bases.
The boy’s slightly chubby arms
look bigger bent in batter stance
and when he swings
you know he is going to connect
and then he does.
As Albert watches
he feels like it’s him standing there.
The boy and Albert
not running in this moment
still seem to find freedom
in giving their gift.
Free as the ball leaving the bat
heading high into blue.
It means
they’re already home.

Meet the next character from the novel

2010-06-22T10:55:00.000-07:00

     Brighid lay in bed watching a fly crawl in and out of shadow on the ceiling. What did that dream mean? She got up, pulled her robe off the bed and wrapped herself in it. It was a little cool this morning, again, though three months ago she wouldn’t have thought so. She must have become acclimated. She picked up her notebook and then sat to write down the dream.
     It started with that rainy day on the pier. She saw the old woman with the huge black-and-white checked bag again, only this time the old woman was shrinking as she sang, “merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.” Soon the old woman was a little girl who kept getting smaller and then suddenly stopped shrinking. The child put the black-and-white checked shopping bag in front of her and climbed in. She simply disappeared inside the bag. Brighid went over to the bag and looked in. It was a big, bottomless pit. For a moment she felt like she would fall into it like Alice down the rabbit hole. Then she woke up.
     The rising sun glowed golden behind the curtains now. Brighid put down her journal, got up and stretched. She went over to the window and pulled the curtains aside. It was a beautiful day. She’d make sure she got outside for lunch today.
     She walked into the kitchen and flipped on the light. For a moment the black-and-white checkered floor made her feel nauseous. It started to reach up around her, as if it was becoming a huge checkered bag like the one in her dream. She jumped back into the hallway, shook her head, and closed her eyes. Then she opened them again and looked at the floor. It was just a floor. She tentatively stepped back in. Still just a floor. She felt silly, like she was a kid again. Her overactive imagination caused her great stress as a child. For weeks after seeing Alice in Wonderland she imagined all sorts of fearful things.
     The last couple of days had been like living in Wonderland. First that homeless woman on the pier singing that children’s rhyme about rowing your boat and life being like a dream, then the little girl who ran up to her and handed her a four leaf clover, and now this dream. Maybe she was working too hard. Why had she had added another project to the list? She knew why. Seeing the old woman at the beach had given her an idea to write about homeless women. She wanted to know how they ended up on the street and how they were different from homeless men. It would be the article that would finally get the editor’s attention. This kind of article was what Randy had always encouraged her to write. Her eyes started to water at the thought of him. She took a deep breath. Not now. There was no time to go down that road today.
     This was the day she was going to visit the local women’s shelter, Sophia House. She remembered her mother once talking about having been in a shelter of some kind in her early years in Ireland. The look in her mother’s eyes when speaking about it, which was almost never, disturbed Brighid. She wondered what these places were really like. What could they do to help women in dire circumstances? Brighid wished she knew why her mother ended up in one, but her mother refused to give any details about it.
     As she went to turn on the coffee maker, the clock was blinking. The power must have gone off again. When she first got here it would go off at peak times, but lately it was going off overnight. This place was turning into a third world country. That was another story she wanted to write. First, she needed to have her say about homeless women.

Portrait of an East Coast Smokestack

2010-06-18T09:07:00.000-07:00

This poem was inspired by a piece of creative non-fiction by Nick Belardes called "Take What You Can" The term 'East Coast smokestack' is his. You can find it here. http://tinyurl.com/27jo5bg

Her life wafts before her
in an aroma of Pall Mall
unfiltered.
No clean coal BS for this
dyed-blonde-leather-skinned-permanently-pursed-lipped
smoke stack.

Eyes squinting
she heaves in the smoke
full force
puff after puff
a locomotive she keeps chugging
flicks ashes like opinions
never asks for a smoke
her silver case
always lined with white
keeps the chain going.

East coast accent
rasps over the rattle and hum
beyond closed windows
reels off tales about the days
or what that old fart Joe
used to say.
Hacks/laughs
while her hand hovers
over his face
painted on ceramic
the tray a gift her kid made
in art class ages ago.

She knocks ashes to ashes
as the room fills
smoke rising like Spirit
to the ceiling.

Yellowed fingers shaking
she brings the shortened stick
back up to her lips
draws one last puff
closes her blue-lidded eyes
blows smoke
then crushes the butt
into his face.

Excerpt from the Novel my current Work In Progress

2010-06-15T20:48:00.000-07:00

     Illumined by the eerie glow of a full moon, Michael’s breath rose up towards the forest canopy. The cool, damp air left his skin feeling wet. Something brushed the back of his neck sending a chill through him that radiated to every nerve. He quickly turned to the left and saw a crow fly up to a tall pine, to a sentry position. Michael took a deep breath and started to walk on the path lit by the moon. He couldn’t quite see the bright lunar disk behind the trees, but its light broke through and guided him.
     The bushes to his right rustled. He stopped. A small figure ran ahead behind the trees.
     “Wait! Who are you? Where am I?” Michael started to run after the figure.
     The only response was a giggle. He glimpsed the silhouette of a little girl.
     He ran to her. When he was nearly upon her, he saw only her shadow. “Where are you?”
     “Everywhere,” the small voice echoed from all around him.
     Michael was about to step on the elusive shadow when it vanished. It didn’t move away. It was just gone.
     Suddenly he didn’t feel very well. The forest seemed to be reaching towards him. The crow started to caw raucously and swooped down. Michael ducked and then started to run. He ran and ran, stumbling on the uneven ground and gnarled roots as he went. There seemed to be no end to the woods. His lungs soon burned with every breath he took. Where was he?
     Just as he was about to give up, he found an opening in the trees. He ran out of the forest with the crow still just behind him. He kept running until he came to the edge of a cliff. Its sharp edge abruptly fell away into darkness. He nearly lost his balance as he gazed down into the blackness. He turned his head. The crow was still coming. It seemed huge now, as if it had grown large enough to grab him. Michael looked back down into the abyss. It felt like he should jump and at that moment he realized he was in a dream.
     He jumped.
     As he fell and fell he wondered if he would ever land. If he did, would he die in the waking world if he died here? Then his arms started to tingle. They felt so light and as he lifted them he heard the swoosh of feathers so he started to flap his arms. His fall slowed. His arms were now wings. He pumped them and started to move upward. He was no longer falling but flying.
     With a few flaps of his wings he rose out of the abyss and turned back towards the stand of ancient pines. From above they looked peaceful, like silent Druids robed in silvery moonlight. He flew to the highest tree and landed. The crow that was chasing him now circled above. He flew up to it and then realized, just as he woke up, that he was a crow, too.
     On his back in bed, Michael stared at the ceiling. Though sweat ran down his temples, he smiled to himself. Switching on a lamp, he eagerly sat up and grabbed his dream journal from the bedside table. He finally had his first lucid dream – and what a dream it was.
     For the first time in months he felt he was coming back to life. Spending nearly six months nursing his dying father back in Nova Scotia had taken a greater toll on him than he realized. When he moved to California he had hoped he would feel like composing again. It had been months since he moved and so far nothing. But now he felt something shift. Becoming the crow in the dream and flying out of the darkness was a good sign. Maybe his muse had returned.

Writing at Penn Park

2010-06-13T18:16:00.000-07:00

The wind blows towards us
rustling brown leaves on green grass.

Voices of Spanish bridesmaids
coo like mourning doves

mingle on winter breezes
with the caw of crows.

Balls bounce in the distance
while tiny flies rest by my words.

Thread like legs trace circles on yellow.
Wings turned prism in sunshine

expand between blue inked musings
sparkle like frost glazed windows.

Sun pierced wings suddenly flutter
fly off like thoughts

that barely touch the page.