Big Raven, by Emily Carr. Via real toads.
the same grunts we each utter
with or without vocal chords
how bees whisper beneath a raven’s caw
how grass whistles in the teeth of a pale wind
how blooms take weeks to slip open
how waves susurrate beneath a slit moon
how we forget the pulse of blood
we all share, red or blue
Words Count with Mama Zen (in under 60), in the midst of an aching world.
“Peony Unbloomed” – Fair Use – rights belong to lemon hound – no infringement intended, author will remove if requested
we kept the quiet days safe
as the innermost cup in a shy peony’s fold,
you, dancing on petals quick as rain,
me, curled as though to a cheek
but really just to the silent sheets,
flat and fitted to each other
without our intervention.
the door is open; the day, spun;
what once was ours
or never was, is gone
Secret Love prompt, in the imaginary garden with real toads
water is rising
you open your mouth and it fills you,
your belly rounder and breath shorter
as your realize it doesn’t matter
that blood is thicker:
it’s where air, water, blood, your mouth lies
that makes the difference
The Tuesday Platform, in the imaginary garden with real toads
borrowed from University of Bergen. Fair use, no infringement intended
air is thinner
what does that mean, ‘thinner’
like paper? like me
young, not old
like the veneer on that Ikea table
and not a solid oak desktop
or the air a mile high
– two miles below Kibo hut on Marangu route –
so I couldn’t push on to Kili’s summit
because of the damn jackhammer
the arteries in my head had let in.
still, the view was spectacular
when I could look up between vomits.
some of the others pushed on –
they set foot on Mawenzi, on Uhuru
on the top of the center of the world
and I wondered: what if my feet had taken me there?
would I feel differently today about summits,
about achievement, about seeing the sky?
but then I remember the cloud tops.
the summit? it’s a push, either way.
Fireblossom Friday: Touch of Gray prompt, in the imaginary garden with real toads
In 1987, I didn’t quite make Kilimanjaro’s summit, but did make Kibo hut on the Marangu route, to about 15,500 feet in elevation. No food for 2 days then 1 bowl of tomato soup in, equalled 3 bowls out. Yucky and looked terrible and felt terrible but was actually pretty funny – to the damn Belgian tourist taking photos of me yacking. Damn tourists.
Amawalk River, NY
small hands and small feet
hair black as night
and closed eyes.
the earth wobbles on her axis
the melting poles tilt us with all that water
once locked, now flow(i)n(g)
and your brothers now taller than me.
your urn has no eyes, no hands, just dust
inside and out
while your mother carries you
inked to her wrist, light
my only ink lies
on this page: you are impermanent
now, you are for ever
Harrows and Hallows prompt in the imaginary garden with real toads