Feathers Flying

I cannot sleep, I cannot keep from chasing thoughts that lead to troubles, 

real or imagined. 

I go outside, I try to hide in the solace of the night, 

but my thoughts come with me.

A sound sweeps by through this night's sky, then another. It's the rush

of wind through feathers, flying, on the wing.

I leave behind my fretful mind and begin to dream that I have wings, 

that I am flying.

The sound soon fades, again the shades of doubt surround me. 

It was just the wind, or my imagination.

Then something twirls, it spirals, whirls into my hand, one small feather

fallen, fallen from the wing.

I close my hand around it and go back to bed. I close my eyes 

and soon I'm sleeping.

Again I hear a sound come near - the rush of wind, of feathers flying.

I must be dreaming.

A great wing lifts, it circles, drifts. It is searching for the fallen,

the one small feather held within my hand. 

The great wing fans, the sky it spans. The wing sweeps back,

scoops up the feather and takes me with it.

Now comes to me with mystery, in whispers like secrets, tales of now,

tales of old, and stories of tomorrow.

I listen to what dreamers do where they have flown upon the wing 

in the time between now and everafter.

And when I land in morning's hand within my own rests a feather, 

my keepsake of the wing. 

Oh, feathers fly, so can I, for it is the dream that is the wing

that takes us flying.

Yet I wonder...

as my dream flies through distant skies, should another feather fall, 

could it be my dream that circles back to catch it?

We Ran Together Then

Lying quietly in summer's open field, eyes half closed against the sun, the hot yellow grass molds the majestic shadow of buzzards wing. How low will they drift, how near will they circle before they discover we are pretending at death and at last moment glide away?

If we had seen an eagle circling, or even ravens, we wouldn't have been so bold. We were small enough, we thought, to be carried to a high sky world and raised as eaglets or fed to eaglets. We couldn't agree on the intent of ravens. We were different, even then.

Beside the field, a thin river resounds on the rocks in its bed. A low wind shimmies down the willows along its bank, slides beneath the dead dry leaves at their feet and begins to spin. It spins skyward, it churns earthward, a dusty whorl of leaves and wind.

We jump up chasing, laughing, mocking. It spirals back and pulls us inward, keeps us running takes us reeling, dizzy in its wayward spin. Grabbing hands we leap together, headfirst blindly towards the river yelling, "Save us! Save us! Save us from this crazy wind!"

The leaves scatter freed across the water, stick, and become little islands for bugs. We drop between them into the one pool where the river is over our heads. We know the river. We know it loves us. It keeps our imprint at its side, the running tracks of an earthbound wind.

I remember the summer we were watchful of eagles. I remember each of our sun streaked faces. And I remember, we were barefoot when we ran. But I cannot remember...were we spirit or were we creature when we went running on the whirling wind?

(A childhood keepsake for Kathy - for all of us - and our summers together on the riverbar at Redwood Creek) Note: I made the large muslin doll. The Teddy Bear, Charlie, was a gift for my first birthday. The little doll was made years ago by a member of the Blackfeet Tribe.

Laughing With Trees

If you throw your arms around a tree in the middle of a laugh, 

the tree will give you a mystical secret.

Few think to do this while laughing,

laughter is immediate transport to its own magical land.

Those who have, when questioned, smile mysteriously and say,

"I only remember laughing."

Bob in New Orleans

go to the Temple of Unconcern 

slip out the back

follow the Alley of Echoes
to the Tavern of the Soul

it is filled with accomplished dreamers

...

The Flyaway Moon

Night falls. Nothing seems broken. Nothing has changed that anyone can see. 

Walls stand. A ceiling stretches across the branches of petrified trees. 

Bulbed lights leashed to rafters obediently switch places with the stars, the moon, 

and fall with the downcast eyes of betrayal upon the polished floor.

Old women in stiff soles the black robes laced upon their bare feet when they were young  

tilt buckets, bend to scrub the marble tiles - shallow tombs upon the dust where drums 

once beat when their bare feet ground the earth - and pretend to let no memories rise. 

Muttered whispers pour from their mouths.

The Triple-eyed-face, third eye turned inward, sits at the table peering, 

shuffling through his favorite thought. He collects a few hands, a few eyes, 

a few hearts, and tosses them in. When they're gone he draws a few more.

The old women collect in a corner, spinning. Hands keep spinning, spinning, 

reaching for the moon. It's just old women. No one notices.

Old men sit against walls of blackened out stars, blue smoke from pipes toked 

curls a tattoo across their palms. Another memory rises, another reach, another moon.

A bow is drawn, a string glides across the underbelly of a wave. The piano 

sails in from another continent. A reed descends solo footed onto the tiles. 

Young bodies, rigid in black cloth stitched against the looseness of their joy, stride

with well placed steps between the pools of light cast down upon the polished floor. 

This is a sophisticated dance. No one sings. 

The old men drape memories across the high heels, spiked kicks, slicked back hair 

and drop matches, smoldering, at their feet. All that's left of the old women 

are their spinning, spinning hands reeling in the moon.

She draws a mask across her eyes, approaches the table in one slow turn and sits down. 

Ombre tones in languid waves pour from her face. The Triple-eyed face, two eyes leering, 

deals the cards. One by on they land flat and floating, face up. 

The numbers are always the same. They never change. She knows that.

"Win or loose, there's no in between, numbers never lie," laughs the Triple-eyed-face. 

He laughs again and tosses a spade over his shoulder, "I win." 

Another grave is dug, another tile is laid in another hollow room.

Voices sing softly, sha na na

in a language no one knows.

Little hands stitch straight lines

in the fabric piled before them.

Who's to say, who's to see

the little hands are broken,

who's to listen to their song?

She rises, opens the window, reaches up, lifts the moon from the sky, turns 

and offers it to him. "A gift? Too mystic." says the Triple-eyed-face, 

third eye hinged against emotion. He reaches for her cards. 

She smiles, replaces the moon. It tilts and out comes pouring 

the mellowed howl of a pent up wind.

(note: finally edited and now titled The Hollow Room (2016)

Where Have All The Children Gone?

Don't know. Didn't see

which way they went.

Said they'd be back later.

Might be down by the river

up on the hill

sleeping under a tree.

Could be way over yonder

working the fields

or, they've gone off to sea.

Maybe took to a dreamwalk

out of the blue

barefoot wandering free.

Should be on their way home now

back before long.

Look up and there they'll be.

Till then, open the curtain

set out the lamp.

Might be, they'll need to see

their way home

and, would you light

a candle for me?

Butterfly Logic

Someone told me once, "Whatever you are thinking when you see a butterfly is a good idea." He also said, "Sleep when you are tired. Eat when you are hungry. Work so others can play only if they are children."

I know many things. I know the first star you ever saw will always be your own lucky star. And I know if you work for wages, you will always need money and you will work till you die. A wage brings just enough to eat, a night's sleep under a roof, then you get up and work for another wage and another meal. That's the way of it.

As to that, you must keep secret from the wage payers. Once they find you, they never let you be. But, if you use butterfly logic, you can get away. Otherwise it's a struggle because the wage payers are good talkers and have everyone's ears.

I always dream free in case a butterfly comes by.


...

Sketch

Now to get back to what I was doing before the computer and camera problems. This is a sketch of the front of my house, the thumbnail for a watercolor illustration for a poem called "Our House" - a poem I wrote when my son was little and we didn't have any money - about the richness of having a home. I thought if I took a photo of the sketch and put it up here, it would help motivate me to finish the picture. Or maybe I like it just like this. I won't know until I try. Laetitia Thistledown is still yet to manifest. She's a tricky one.