The Last Day of Summer...Ripples of Love

 

Somehow it is the last day of summer

and rain is falling on the roof

sweet slow soft,

as it's beginning it also is ending.

This week, for the first time,

two bouncy boys

will head to school together

They promise they will miss me,

but not their teachers, who live there.

The little girl

walks on tiptoes

around the table

and crawls on her belly

to catch balloons

delicious inflated moments

that disappear

before you know it.

The season was spent

plopping berries

launching arrows

skipping stones

chasing waves,

the sweetness

piercing

the water

and returning.

I visited gardens

taller than my head

where birds, bunnies, and me

find surprise, abundance

and we put it in a jar

of goldenness

to pour out,

lavishly, over cold things.

When this ice cream melts

cascading through my fingertips

I hope- for you-

to catch it;

to lap it,

from my hand.

Of cabbages and kings!

This week was the Medieval fair, and indeed,:

"The time has come...

[the family said],

to talk of many things. 

Of shoes--and ships--

and sealing wax--

of cabbages and kings."

[And while the sea is boiling hot,

Oh! -Hear the mermaids sing!]

-Lewis Carroll The Walrus and the Carpenter

Slice a cabbage the most thinly or
"plummet" (a.k.a. pummel) the opponent to win.

After chasing knights down, sometimes one is just speechless,

OR must undertake a quest of their own.

Presenting: Sirs Cristopher and Connor.

Baby "dragons" require great gentleness

That mermaid gave her a shell!

["O Children," said the Parents,]
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
[They're snoring, every one.]

7. Reflect: A poem for Friday

1. (transient verb) To give back or mirror. 2. (Intransient verb) To give something back as light. 3(Intransient verb). Carefully considered thoughts.

Even though it was not personal to me, the Connecticut shootings last Friday was something I will continue thinking about for a long time. On the day of the shootings my family went to hear my husband perform in the Nutcracker. The artistic director gave a very tactful address towards the tragedy and reminded of the importance of art and beauty. Coincidentally (I think?) several times in the blocking of the first scene there were exactly 27 people on stage. Then all left the stage, going to bed, and all that was left was darkness and a giant twinkling Christmas tree. For me it was a reminder of lives lost. With deepest sympathy, here is my reflection in poem and photo essay from the day.

A Poem for Friday

Often, in December, the wind is piercing cold;

leaves linger and fall,

and even the mocking bird sits-too chilled to move,

and dead butterflies (still brilliant)

collect on the ground.

The ends of our eyes stick together

and sound is drowned.
A void

is blowing us down.

Light shines through

the holes.

Angels, lay unnoticed,

just beyond view.

We close our eyes

(Praying: mercy; raindrops), 

and hold hands.

Move forward

together.

The seed pod is waiting. 

To spread exuberance,

and, miraculously,

flowers still bloom

in December. 

I hold the Thanksgiving wishbone

in my hand 

and wonder:

What comes next year?

A snowflake touches the ground 

with it's toe.

We embrace 

a dream,

the morning.

The laughter of children

echoes

in the air.

----------------------------

Twenty eight people were killed on December 14th by guns. Disgusting. There are countless responsible gun owners in this country, but that does not discount the facts that additionally "every year there are 30,000 gun deaths in the United States and 300,000 gun related assalts."  I firmly believe that we are long overdue for some much different gun regulations in this country. And while I don't know all of the answers to this complex problem, I feel that more stringent gun regulations (not elimination) will be an important step in prevention. Period.

I've been asking what I can do as an individual. I had already been in progress of beginning to sell photo cards on Etsy and through the Oklahoma Food Coop and have decided that some of this collection of images will be amongst my first set to sell and that 15% of my proceeds will go towards organizations that help prevent gun violence and organizations that promote juvenille access to mental health. I am aiming to have these for sale by the end of this week. (Also I'm taking suggestions on organizations to donate to meeting either of these criteria as I am still researching that).

Sky Touchers

A few weeks ago when we were in the mountains of central New Mexico I came across this phrase "sky touchers" as something the local indians, the Jemez, the Zia, and others, who lived in these mountains historically referred to themselves as. To me it was such a beautiful metaphor for the whole spiritual quest. But also a reminder of what happens when we make spirituality something so grandiose and other we miss the heaven on earth right before us. Perhaps, because children are nearer to the ground, they are better at remembering this. These are my musings of how they live their lives immersed, satiated, saturated; living out prayer.



Dear children,
We came here
For sky touching.
But instead
of star gazing,
you wanted
To eat dirt.

We wanted to see
A mountain lion.
You have caught a caterpillar.

We ask
where does the river lead?
Inevitably,To your feet.

We hear the hollow
And haunting sounds
Of the wind
in the ruins.

You catch it
And make it whistle
Through your mouth
Through your round flute
Through your laughter.

Camp song

Little sound sleeper
In my arms
I watch your breath
Move you
Up and down
On my chest

Soft and full
Those clouds
Hover in the still air
Breaking up the monotonous sky
Lingering And swelling
they will
Bring life on
Desert peaks

The notes
On a blank paper
The songs of my sky.

Allargando
Repeat
Fromada, fromada, fromada
Rest.

What your mamma calls you (A poem)

(Just a few weeks ago Calyn turned five months. Four months was a time of great delights. She can now turn over both ways and gyrate herself in a circle around a blanket. She learned to blow raspberries, suck her toes, drink from a cup, and give kisses). 

At five months I wrote another poem in her honor.

What your mamma calls you

[Valentine's day: I love you]

Your mamma calls you Beauty.
Your hair, two ripples,
concentric circles,
leading through
a labyrinth with each sleeping breath.

My favorite toy

But she could call you Joy
when you cackle gleefully,
and flex your whole body,
to see the whole world,
and watch it jump.

She calls you Comfort
when you nestle;
a wave returning to shore,
a nut inside it's shell,
an animal curled in it's den.

February. Image by my friend Sandra Rodriguez.

And when you roll over
Look up
Set out
And go-
She'll call you 

Hope.

Smiling: A bedtime poem

Calyn 2 days old

I love
the dimples

on the back of your hand;
they make a mouth.
It clamps around
             my finger,
anchors me,
gives constants,
in a world where
castles are swept to sea.

I love
those little breaths
that fill eyes, rooms, sails,
and that red balloon
which carries me up
up,
to jump over the moon.

While you dream
I hope you swallow stars.
I hope it feels
like lavender shortbread
dissolving on your tongue.

And when those eyelashes
with rainbow arches open

I hope that you see gold