Posts for June 24, 2020 (page 7)

Does the wind ever get tired
always moving
pushing and pulling
the world first this way, 
then the other
rushing with breathless voice
stripping away the moments 
like loose shingles flapping in a storm
the wind is an organic machine 
with tireless patience 
it will yank that flapping shingle free
our natural world is field with a mystery of gears
hidden away from casually curious eyes
its unseen mechanics always grinding away 
the voice behind it all is winded
a heavy whisper in the leaves
wind, like gravity is at once a mystery
holding the world together 
even as it threatens to tear it apart
wind rolling down Kentucky hills
teasing and tearing across the tops of trees
carrying the weight of the world
it is invisible motion
does the wind ever get tired?

Wonderland isn’t anything specific,
Everyone has their own,
It can be places like the beach,
The movies,
Or even another person,
Wonderland is a moment where you are happiest,
Once you find your wonderland you’ll never forget it,
If you haven’t found your wonderland,
Never despair,
Everyone has their own,
Somewhere,
Waiting for them to arrive

                    “Look not to me for healing!  I am 
                     a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle.“ 

                                                              –       Eowyn of Rohan

So many looking for rescue; too many to ride in on white horses.
Born and bred with chivalry filling the pockets of my genes, I can
no longer pass out mission statements or definitions printed on these
whitewashed pamphlets.
                                               When did we abandon the fire in the mead?
The furnace burning hot in our guts?  We’ve watered down the message,
accepted and swallowed pale missives selling lack, hearts and hands
behind stoic backs.  We’re all handkerchiefs and apologies, in waiting—
between texts, between mouths, between truths beneath niceties—
all banners without seeing flags.

                                                                         No more.
No more will I walk the ramparts, chasing ghosts.
No more will I go seeking dragons as proof
                                                                               of my strength.                                                                                                                  
                                                                                                                         The Lady I seek
is more than some high and vaunted goddess, more than some wilting flower
needing rescue.  I’ve been to that kingdom.  I’ve attempted those quests.

No more!
She is both earth and fire.
She is wind and water.
She holds her own
                                         sword and shield.
                                         She stands with the elements—
                                         Feet planted in battle stance;
                                         storm screaming in her hair;
                                         eyes that sizzle both lover and foe, alike,
                                         differing only by her word, which washes
                                         the surface of her world in the waxing and waning
                                         magick of her lunacy. 

I will not need to protect this one from the wolves (though I would);
I will not lock the doors nor lower the gates (if I could)——-Only run
there, beside her—a blade, an urn, a seagoing vessel, grin of teeth
and claw—our legs churning fog before the sun can think to rise,
the trees and their leaves blurring past eyes,
the dogs nipping heels and hackles
too busy laughing
                                    to question the worth or validity of their names.

I could not name it, a feeling
like a sloshed mother & spoiled
birthday party in a mixing bowl

with rust & gravel. It lived behind
the pale blue Goodwill
sheets draped over my back

bedroom window. I tried
to find it, an inkling, hunch,
slight premonition. It hurt like

a woodpecker beak splintered
behind my ribs but was tinged
with complexity, had a good-

bad twist considering I also
felt hope. It’s not because I’m
not used to it; I collect losses

like pennies in a cigar
box but this was like a train
rolling toward me. No words

for it, when I found out Zoey
died it hit me hard. Not
sweet Zoey, barely 30,

& the last person you’d
expect to leave. I couldn’t
find the words for such sudden

devastation & I was left
with brief gusts of her — long
hippie hair, light blonde & down

to her waist. The way her mom,
when she was a baby, tucked her
inside a rolling tentlike contraption

that hooked up to her bike & she
pedaled them together, chains singing,
to the only laundromat in town.

Pine Mountain Cemetery XXIV
               Rosspoint

The village down below this mountain,
Really once just called the settlement
Is all but gone nowadays. First road

Was widened, then they built a high
School so big it shaded all the houses
Running down the foot trod lane.

Then the Sampson place burned,
Scorched the ground, then Ed’s, though
He was long dead, gone. Left us young.

A pioneer and his clan once crossed
At the Gap and just kept moving. Old
Man Ross knew what he wanted.

He found it too, along with enough timber
To keep him the rest of his days. Until,
That is, the railroad chewed its way

Right through the point of land loved
By Ross even named Ross Point. Water
Was a problem up on that ridge. The women

Were glad enough he moved them all down
Next to the river bend. Pretty little place, fairly
Wide as valleys go in Appalachia. Others

Joined by blood found their way up that
Cumberland branch and for enough years
To imprint several generation life was good.

This wasn’t the only cemetery, just the one
Most used by the Ross’s three lines. Funny
How it got to be the place to bury folks.

Even those came back who died in exile
Living where the land has lost it spirit can’t
Stand tall and strong anymore, plumb flat.

We make quite a to do when we lose precious
Ones and cry and twist and mourn. If they
Fall to dust up here we hope it hurts some less.

Nothing lasts though and it takes a lifetime to
Understand that, even little villages of folks
Do fade in time leaving only their memories alive.

Like God.

It is a cramped portion.
An acrid taste in every slice.
Salted with notes of cracked pepper.
It sees, through a dark glass,
Hoping to remember.
Where it will go.

Outside the glass
There are such dishes
That apotheose.
The ortolan bathed in the 
Toffees and chocolates of armagnac.
Naked and set to roasting—
I eat the sparrow whole,
Guilty as my mother bore me, and 
It is a happy, jubilant slight—
For I am free.

Like God.

wind chimes recollect
                   Long Beach Island                 salt breezes
                                                                           off the Atlantic  

mid-day sun                   and heat 
                                                               prickly sand          cool showers  

our washed tanned bodies humming
                                                          beneath               the ceiling fan