OPUS 42

Where are you

my salvation?

Everywhere and

nowhere

I can touch.

From rowing

my boat through

piece of my heart,

the lights of

Gotham,

the dark,

the spark

between us,

everywhere

I’d dare to go,

there you were,

and are

my salvation,

my aging with

saving grace.

Strip me of

my face,

my form,

my torn and

tender trust,

just please

hear my longing

in a blue note,

hear it in layers,

like blue smoke

across the moon.

Ataraxia

Artist: Susan Seddon Boulet

I know we have bodies...bodies behind desks...cash-registers...computers...sex...sinks…treadmills... ovens...link in the chain-strain...bodies full of stress, dressed and waiting for the other shoe to fall,
in whatever way, yes...but we always have our right minds too.  Everything is Everything, after all,
big and small, we are juxtaposed, both with life and with death, with nothing...and everything,
with that, get 'er done left brain...and Let It Be, right side, again.

Through that right mind, I invite you...come, sit with me, if you will...still...between this moment
and the next, before anything might, or might not be.

See outside, a gentle rain falls without a sound, to grateful ground.  Light drops tat themselves together,
knots that make a lace curtain, hanging from curved rail of a mist through the trees.  Breathe...oh yes, that breath, in and out, between birth and death, breath, in and out.  Listen to that rushing stream, air, in and out.  I take four real bellows-from-the-bottom breaths, and realise how different it is from shallow, stressed,
only top of the chest breathing.  Creates space inside, a place of peace on the right side, come sit beside me,
in a pyramid of violet light.

I can feel the rain upon my face, my breath catching with the wind...and I breathe the magic word.....Ataraxia...it makes a foreign voice from the everyday...Ataraxia...the state of freedom from emotional disturbances and anxiety...Ataraxia.  Rain, tears, wind, breathe...trees beneath and rising,
twisting through the mist...the sky...the stars...the orbiting rhythms that make us fly.

I'll meet you, midnight at the oasis, or morning on the mountain-top.  We'll walk along
a crescent beach, finding shells...we'll pick heather in the highlands and make
Medicine Circles everywhere.  Never despair, for the door is right there,
and I've come a-knockin'. Breathe and be free, for this is a gift built-in, the door out,
within

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Nehmes, Temple Singer (Neh-MEEZ)

 

On the first day of Egypt’s

Spring Eleven revolution,

while a young generation

called out for freedom,

they found her, temple singer,

in buried casket, Nehmes Bastet.

She died and was mummified,

nearly three thousand years ago,

lovingly wrapped, sacred cargo

entombed with Pharaohs

in Valley of the Kings,

in Valley of the Kings.

Nehmes, daughter of the Priest, Amon,

rose again to sing blessings upon

rise of an Arab Spring revolution,

songs of yearning freedom.

They kept her hidden in a wooden,

painted black sarcophagus,

hieroglyphics written

all over it, to tell us

about her, temple singer,

Lioness, oh Bast…Goddess

Feline, worshipped as divine.

Nehmes sang under drifting sand,

praying for her golden land

released from a golden hand,

in Valley of the Kings,

in Valley of the Kings.

Nehmes, daughter of the Priest, Amon,

rose again to sing blessings upon

rise of an Arab Spring revolution,

songs of yearning freedom.

Three thousand years comes Nehmes,

through a people’s evolution,

lyric celebration,

musical ablution.

They hear her, temple singer,

timeless, people’s voices,

rejoice in Egypt’s choice,

Nehmes and history sing

of power that truth can bring,

Singer, let your voice ring

from Valley of the Kings,

from Valley of the Kings.

Nehmes, daughter of the Priest, Amon,

rose again to sing blessings upon

rise of an Arab Spring revolution,

songs of yearning freedom.

Wolf and Krazy Crow On the Run

My shift as passenger came at night
this particular run from east to west,
Krazy Crow going to Blackfoot,

Wolf Woman to the old Grey's den.
We'd eaten miles from Manatoulin,
made it through Thunder Bay
before raging clay floods

closed the roads behind, miles

we’d ride from clouds with fire
in their bellies and tears
enough to drown towns.
Then came endless prairie,
lamp-lit straight ribbon highway
under spilling bowl of stars,
Aurora Borealis Thunderbird

flying with us, freedom

to follow my gaze, folding

legs under, upon the seat,
unable to sleep before my turn
behind the wheel, come Alberta
and the sun's rising

in the rear view mirror.

Woman Medicine

Women eat

crises
for breakfast,

eat our

hurts

like snake its skin,

desire

at trembling

thighs meeting.
Women eat monsters
for munchies,

fear

like tiny popping

orange roe
oh,

we eat crow and
our own knowing.

Women make places
movable,

our dance unseen

in sweet dark
imagining.
Life set ark in

motion,
circle to straight line,
yin to yang and
Great Mystery

hangs in its

balance.
Women sing
our own existence.

Women gather

Medicine
for living,

gather our
answers
like seeds

their promise,
hope

in the cold and dark.

Women gather

at tide-lines,

high and low,
gather seaweed

and moon's
glow
oh,

we gather threads
for our own weaving.

Into the Gibbon's Moonlight

Where are you taking me,
she whispered to monkey
as if the trees had ears,
and stars might tell moon she
had wandered far from bed.

Monkeys don't talk to little girls
now follow me,
said he,
running on all fours ahead.

In bella bella luna light,
night-blooming jasmine glowed,
and when her shift brushed by,
shiny pollen wove with cotton,
a Celtic design on yoke and hem.

Come on girl,
said monkey,
tut-tut now, you keep up.

Nightingale sang to the moonlight,
dogstar sang light years away,
she ran in bare feet over
bright green moss, catching up
with monkey at edge of a glade.
Sir Monkey,
she said with tiny gasps,
thank you for making me come so fast,
eyes filled to wide and liquid brim
she leaned into him and stared.

There was a pond,
like melted silver in the moonlight,
flora and fauna of every kind,
truly a most beautiful sight.

Come,
said monkey and took her hand,
led her to rocks and reeds,
lifted slate and pulled back weeds,

monkey freed a water-spout,
monkey pulled his tin cup out.
Children who drink at the hidden spring
open themselves to the Muse.
Monkey held full cup out.
To drink or not, you must choose.

Faeries on her shoulders,
animals whispering in her ears
she reached forward, took the cup.

Thank you Monkey...Cheers!

Playing with form:

Home

O
we
can
spin
upon
string,
ellipse
planets
in space
about sun
but what is
home to us?
What is need
for our seed to
dream of return?
Tiny dancer spins
blue an' green bead,
it may be ripe garden
but is it home? Breath
held within this pressure
swirls lacy clouds around,
wind o’er water and ground.
Can we make this earth move
for us? Am I home if fire spills
down my thighs? Tiny spinning
blue-green bead, jade and lazuli
desires reach for new beginning
through never-ending, inky sky.
Home is where our naked wet
pounding hearts lie, outside
our bodies, where Milky
Way pours its light

in afterglow.

New Moon

Deep knowing,

held sweetly in

textured dark,

promises in

maiden moon’s

chaste turn

from light.

Poets,

dip your pens

in inky shadow

of earthen desire;

write words that pull

maiden moon

to ripen,

to show her first

sexy

silver

curve.

"I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul..." Yusuf Islam

Everyone has a place,
that place is always
moving
to become
another place.
We become another
yet retain each other
in a chain of places,
spaces, or races
we have run~
even won

~well~
some.

But here we are,
traveling slippery

on a slide
of celluloid,
frame
by
clicking,
ticking in
the dark,
frame.

Everyone has a place,
that place is always,
all ways,
moving.

Scott Heffernan 5/21/2011....painting by Tweed Meyer.

Scott is a wonderful writer, at the same time as being full-time caregiver for his parents. His father has passed and now his mother is in her difficult, final chapter. Scott writes with acute truth...but, in his gentle way, he always gives relief in humour and fantasy at some of the hardest moments. As he gives himself some breathing room, his readers may pace themselves too.

I first met Scott at Jerry and Pam Libstaff's Words & Music, House Concert Series, last year when he read, and I was so very impressed with him. We now sit in the same writers group and I count Mr. Heffernan as friend. Look for his soon-to-be-published book, "Chasing the Last Banana."

Here follows a piece I wrote on Scott's reading in May, for Words & Music 2011.

Scott Heffernan

Audience tunes up

in familiar dissonance,

solo trumpet of laughter

drops descending notes

on cool silver night,

sunlight plops in big

golden spot upon

monochromatic

scored water,

drops

from burnished

cup in curling,

cumulus

sky.

Met him

inside

a seashell

she didn’t sell,

one that had

cracked down

to its interesting

parts,

edges

softened by sand

and pounding sea.

Heard him

reading to

driftwood damsels,

defining

high-tide line

with roar of his

laughter,

hear him

whispering

still,

inside

a seashell,

long after tide

has been pulled

to other side

of the world.

I breathe with him,

breath and timing

familiar to me now,

yes,

presses

two fingers to

pulse in his neck

racing,

breath,

now pacing himself,

champion of Elders

and other

fading causes,

he pauses

between hat

changes,

rearranges

older pieces

to read us.

Oh, what would

Scott do

but leave us

chasing

that last

banana,

not wanting

to waste

that last

banana,

would he care

if we had no

spoon?

Poetry Book Published

I've been away from this blog for a while now, life often derailing my train of thought! Last September I was fortunate enough to have a book of my poetry published by Watermark Writers. My thanks to my publisher, Jerry Libstaff.

If you are interested in purchasing a copy, please go to www.watermarkwriters.com

Now...onward.

LaPush

Suddenly, there she was,
frothed and furious, broken
lines that beat upon shore,
cold angry chevrons of grey.
Darker sea, she reaches for
white waves, curling, streaming
screaming wind pulls in night,
blue slate, except for blue-white.
Scrub pine, vines and driftwood
dragons; shadows grey on
tattered broken waves.
Take this from me!
Take this rage that rattles
my bones! Blow out my brains
you bastard! Shouts swallowed
in the screaming storm, rage taken
and thumped in each pounding curl,
each furious fist of an ocean
shaken, not stirred--a woman
wild as her natural world,
pulling lunatic fringe of the Great
Mama's shawl to wrap a fury,
a pain so deep, only wild
raging storms can reach.

Just Beyond My Reach

She stares around the room,
wrinkled and featherless
like a baby bird searching
the air for something--anything
to appear and give sustenance.
Black and white magpie thief
stole her shiny memories to hide
in darkened nest of her own mind.
She who held me--lost,
she who was the goddess
tossed upon his airs, now
disconnected voice and thought.
She stares with opaque liquid eyes,
fledgling spirit held from flight,
held in an ever-darkening night.
She stares somewhere
just beyond my reach,
just beyond my reach.

Man In The Moon

There, the curl of
his back in the west,
legs fold forgetfully,
one over the other.
See, he bends his head
to silver flute and
her golden face?
Oh yes,
the man in the moon
was easily led upon dreams
to serve La Bella Luna;
love and madness
in liquid night
bound both round,
thirteen times.

Sunflower Shaman

Line upon line upon line
her pen drawn to
aging sunflower,
Shaman whispering
from page to pen.

Line upon line upon line,
inky mandala flows from her pen,
Fall sunflower letting go...
but is it so? When you look again,
pen dances to Shaman's tune
while dreams are given room,
bloom with each vision.

First a kneeling boy with feathers
then faces tumble, ancient measures;
she pulls harvest from her pen
then, line upon line upon line,
her pen it pulls you in...
Shamanic experience,
there and then back again.

Sunflower bends and sends
seeds of our need to dream.

"Sunflower Shaman"
Pen and ink by Tweed Meyer

Cobwebs

If I acquiesce to
a pleaded silence,
there's cobwebs sewn
across my lips,

for my loyalty
knows only you,
not her lover.

If I speak to the pain
of thee and she,
it roils between.

If I speak to her fear
she fights us both.

I would not be false but,
I would not be unkind nor
have my words between.

I pick up the cobwebs,
threads of light, of love.
With each sticky stitch,
I sew the death of secrets
between my lips.

Music is Moonlight and Memories

Auntie Moon she sings
to her a lace shawl,
shimmering
silver and indigo
lit from within,
like intimacy.
Her songs call my tides,
rising to her,
remembering a night
in the mountains
and forgotten
cowboy songs
with an old Indian
in his pickup,
shimmering
indigo and chrome
lit from within,
like intimacy.

Don't You Wish

Don't you wish
some folk still wrote
with chisel on stone,
thereby forcing them
to carry the full weight
of their own words
in that big ol' back-pocket
of humble experience.

A Prayer With Brother Joseph

I wrote this for our fellow "In Your Neighborhood" blogger, Joseph, who is a Catholic priest of open heart and mind.

A million grains
of painted sand
could just flow
through our hands,
forgotten and unseen,
life shifting within
a drifting dream.
Let the Spirit
walk with us,
forgiveness in our face
given over to trust.
Our face in others too,
something blessed
shining through.
To work together
grains of sand,
Spirit called to action
through a human.
Let each of us practice
our gratitude this day,
let each of us be
grain of sand that way

For My Father: WWII Bomber Pilot

There's a Quonset hut in Heaven
where all bomber pilots go.
It sits on the edge of the tarmac
in the pre-dawn indigo.

Inside the doors the chairs are filled
with each re-united crew,
the bonnie lads who saved the world
and gave the devil his due.

The men all spring to attention
when the brass comes through the door.
Not one sound was made,
they were needed once more.

These were the lads who gave their best,
and they'd do it all again,
for love of King and country,
for love of flying a plane.

Group Captain welcomes the men,
Wing Commander then takes over.
He steps up to the shrouded map
and deftly removes the cover.

The world spreads out before them
but no streamers mark their way.
No routed destination,
no bombs to drop today.

No enemy planes will be in the sky,
No ack-ack fire below.
The Wing Commander smiles and says
He doesn't care where you go.

Today the flight is just for you,
the world is yours as well.
You've earned it boys, Group Captain says,
for all your flights into hell.

Today the sky belongs to your crew,
the flight plan yours to make.
Fly till you touch the face of God,
today's mission's a "piece of cake."*

These were the lads who gave their best,
and they'd do it all again,
for love of King and country,
for love of flying a plane.

* "Piece of cake," was a term the lads used for any destination that wasn't Berlin.