Mighty Whale (prince of silence)

This vignette was inspired by a question from a friend, “does the whale in their might and beauty practice such”?

In those brief, hazy moments that slip between the dream world and the world of convention, I saw a whale out in the ocean. The day was trying to touch me with sea mist, low clouds that swirled, first dense and then thin and filmy like a worn curtain fluttering behind broken glass. I tried to part the curtain so that I would see clearly. . . but I couldn’t. . . and it didn’t matter.

Out there, in the ocean, the whale surfaced up into the wind and then plunged, drenched in the earths sweat and tears, down into his home. His movements. . . above and below, to the air then to the deep blue were mighty, graceful arcs. How could any creature, so powerful, be at the same time so serene? It may not always be so.

As he swam into the bay, I sensed that his mass was parting first the water and then the sky. This disturbance was so profound that I could feel the air around me become compressed as he rose above the water, that I could feel the vortex of the sea pulling me forward as he disappeared. I felt then that my breathing had adopted his rhythm, or had he begun to dive as my heart beat? Still, his nearness was disturbing. . . or reassuring? I couldn’t tell. . . . And I will savor this dream forever.

Rez Dog

My dogs name is Rez. He lives with me because somebody left him on my deck last December. He's a beauty. I like having him hang around. Before Rez moved to my place, I think his doghouse was a 1972 Buick Le Sabre. The other day, when he saw the window of my 2003 Subaru Outback open, I guess he decided, “Not as good as home, but it’ll do”. So, he jumped in.

He got in there and found an unopened bag of fancy cookies that were going to be a birthday present. The way Rez had it figured it was his birthday too, so he ate most of the cookies. He wasted some, but after all, he’s not a big dog. He didn't have a use for the tin they were packed in but when he chewed on it, it made his fillings zing. The tin looks like a spaghetti strainer now.

I’m not sure what to do tonight when I park the car. Maybe I'll close the windows so Rez can’t make himself to home, can't eat up his share of the cookies, and can't get any cheap thrills at my expense. Or maybe I’ll just leave the door wide open so he knows he’s welcome to curl up on a warm seat with a snack and a toy. (With thanks to Jim Northrup, Kent Neurburn, and a host of other great writers.)

Lost ( for Rider in the Storm )

Lips feel warmth at the back of the neck
Nose breathes heat from steady breath
Hand smoothes shoulder, elbow, hip
Finger tips trace rib by rib

Arms encircle, arms arc and brace
Heart meets heart
Beat, breath
Breathe deep, Breathe

Lips pursed against muscle and flesh
Tongue tastes salt and vinegar skin
Palms of hands grasp and sweat
Eyes find eyes and close again

Mind has wandered, lost to sense
Heart meets heart
Break, turn
Run hard, run


(CB June 2005)

Spirit (prince of storm)

i once prayed to the great one...i asked, is it that i am here and i
will
meet you soon...and if i am truly here, how is it that i am allowed
clumsiness as i journey home...?

then again.......i asked the great one, is it that i am but a spirit on a journey called home? or is it that i am but a foolish heart who may feel the difference from stopping and playing and just going home. and if this is so, then why can not i just go home?

you won, i lost ( dr. c )

outnumbered from the start
technologically advanced
bigger guns
you are the U.S.

i am viet nam

to gain status with most favored Nation
i tried to end alliance with the rogue state who
pleaded, promised to stop,
threatened sanctions

war-torn region in
wonder of the courage to engage in battle
Or escape destruction

Ashes ( dr. c )

Regular mowing of acres of grass, soft bed for children to play upon
Looking up at canopies of shade, moisture evaporates for cool
Ordered rows of ash trees make the prairie town seem planted
Youth frustrates yet we hope that it that it should stay

Are we powerfully young in the wind and the rain that nurtures growth?
Should we seriously inspect ourselves in the morning after the storm?
See how we are better able to buttress ourselves after hardening off
Out here on the prairie. We are meant to be like ashes.

Behind the garden, the golden rod and joe pie fill the air with pleasing chaos
and pollen that irritates. Sporadic in the swamp, the ashes
Tower above bedraggled and irregular. Lucky haphazard accidents all.
Youth cords crooked trunks then burns the winter night away

The wind is tamed but frequent rains fall from the more easterly sky
Here, checking whether we will withstand, isn’t it the same?
Yes, strong and capable but disordered, uncertain that we won’t fall
Expect that some will torch the winter. We are meant to be like ashes.