Sunday, April 13, 2014

The Crow's Voice

"Early Spring in the Field"

The crow's voice filtered through the walls of the farmhouse
makes sounds of a rusty car engine turning over. Clouds on a
north wind that whistles softly and cold. Spruce trees planted
in a line on the south side of the house weave and scrape at the
air. I've walked to a far field to a fence line of rocks where I am
surprised to see soft mud this raw day. No new tracks in the
mud, only desiccated grass among the rocks, a bare grove of
trees in the distance, a blue sky thin as an eggshell with a crack
of dark geese running through it, their voices faint and almost
troubled as they disappear in a wedge that has opened at last
the cold heart of winter.

~ Tom Hennen from Darkness Sticks to Everything, Copper Canyon Press, 2013.

Painting by Andrew Wyeth

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Five Forty Five This Morning

Had Buddy not sat up beside the bed
Had he not, in my hesitation, placed his paw on my outstretched arm
Had he not then followed me half asleep down the morning hall
Had he not led me outside where we stood on the porch together
We might have missed it
Its large cat body striding silently in shadow past the not yet blooming lilacs
Yes, some days are like that
You have to get out of bed before sunrise
Or you might miss the thing you asked for
The thing you're meant to see
Moving through the world with certainty and grace.

A photograph of my Buddy, keeping watch for the return of the lynx ...

Sunday, April 6, 2014

A Trap Or a Blessing

Several years ago I had a vivid dream in which two of my sisters and I were in a burned out house. We were standing in the charred doorway next to charred windows wearing white clothing that was also charred. It had the appearance of an old black and white photograph and was unsettling at the time because I didn't understand it and was concerned it might be prophetic. Now I see it in another light, another perspective offered by "time." When I came across this poem the other day, I was reminded of that dream and how I have come to see time as simultaneous, not really time at all but a montage of images based on my perceptions, that I am creating my "reality" and I am always free to choose how I'm going to perceive it. Always. I honestly don't believe there are any exceptions.

"Morning In the Burned House"

In the burned house I am eating breakfast.
You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,
yet here I am.

The spoon which was melted scrapes against
the bowl which was melted also.
No one else is around.

Where have they gone to, brother and sister,
mother and father? Off along the shore,
perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers,

their dishes piled beside the sink,
which is beside the woodstove
with its grate and sooty kettle,

every detail clear,
tin cup and rippled mirror.
The day is bright and songless,

the lake is blue, the forest watchful.
In the east a bank of cloud
rises up silently like dark bread.

I can see the swirls in the oilcloth,
I can see the flaws in the glass,
those flares where the sun hits them.

I can't see my own arms and legs
or know if this is a trap or blessing,
finding myself back here, where everything

in this house has long been over,
kettle and mirror, spoon and bowl,
including my own body,

including the body I had then,
including the body I have now
as I sit at this morning table, alone and happy,

bare child's feet on the scorched floorboards
(I can almost see)
in my burning clothes, the thin green shorts

and grubby yellow T-shirt
holding my cindery, non-existent,
radiant flesh. Incandescent.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Oligarchs and Plutocrats and PsychoClowns

I was looking for a way to express my feelings about this latest ruling by the Supreme Court Justices (I use that term loosely), found this image over at One Fly's place ... and nabbed it. You know how I feel about clowns, so this was not easy to bring over to my site, but nothing exists more apropos. These clowns are destroying our democracy, such as it is, through a not-so-slow dismantling of everything we were led to believe this country stands for; they are publicly handing it over (as opposed to the previous, more private means) to the oligarchs and plutocrats who have long been in charge, maybe always, and ... here we are. I shall now restrain myself from using a lot of swear words.

One Fly's blog:

Thank you, One Fly!

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Mark Twain and The Beach Boys

Yesterday afternoon, the plumber was here for a couple of hours. The fixings under my kitchen sink fell apart as I was fixing breakfast.  Normally, I try to do these things myself, but I had to admit bitter defeat on this one. It didn't take him long, so, while he was here, I had him change out a bathroom faucet that had been waiting for just such a day. Things not being quite up to today's standards in my little shanty, it required an extra trip to the shop for adaptable parts.

At the end of his stay, he felt obliged to inform me that my driveway was getting hard to navigate. One look out the kitchen window told me that: large mud puddles where none had been in any previous so-called spring. I could see my spring chore list growing as we spoke. Ruts would need to be dealt with. But, that was yesterday and today I can't see any of that for all the additional white stuff that's blowing around the driveway and piling up on the porch. Adding to the fun, as I peacefully slept, ice formed to a measurable tune. And, Daddy has taken the T-Bird away.

To help me find some humor I turned to Mark Twain. You can count on him to bring an amusing perspective to just about any situation. I found his speech to the New England Society regarding changeable weather, transplanted his thoughts to my neck of the woods, and voila! Smiles and nods of recognition to the rescue. For now.

"In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty six different kinds of weather inside of four and twenty hours." Mark Twain

Here it is, in case you could use a a few chuckles this morning:

Plus, a song by The Beach Boys to cheer one's weather weary soul.