Pull

Pull.jpg

I feel that pull again
simplify
stop gathering
breathe
rest

You see I’ve worked my time

I’ve played the games
I wanted to be noticed
Seen, acknowledged
Let people know I know what I’m doing
Manipulate my life into what I think I want
Control the outcome, control everything

When that ends
there is peace
a quiet to hear
frogs, yes, frogs
I’ve never heard before

When that other stuff ends
I reside in what has been given
Wet sidewalks after spring rain
Running brook that last week was dry
Mother Tree, always
Ravens who now come when I am present
Deer scat in the middle of suburbia
A moon so bright it wakes me up
Snow so deep with sideway winds
our aspen takes its last bow
Squirrels to taunt my Bean

And yet I continue to gather
stuff, new now
paint brushes, canvas
ads for collage
containers, easels
stones and bells and candles
and statues and rattles and drums
and crystals and scarves and
journals and meetings
and Zoom calls
all blessings, yes
yes
yes

But..

My space gets smaller
inside and out
tighter, less room to breathe

I’ve worked my time.

There is freedom calling

Freedom that asks just to sit
Not mediate
Not journal
Not journey
Not chant
Not sing
Not pray

Just sit
Listen
Be grateful

I’ve worked my time

It’s time

Boom

 

Snow.jpg

 

She woke to snow. Trees bending low to ground. Naive leaves encrusted with rain frozen into flurry’s handiwork. This would not do. There would be no journey, journey dreamed in hibernation. Her spring pilgrimage of buds unfolding, crow paired, and callow sprouts pushing up through roused earth halted, hooded in drift’s deep sleep. Winter sought one more tarriance. She endured knowing the fledgling interval’s warm breath would sigh again. Soon…

Snow drips from tree limb.
Azure unfolds from behind
grey veil, green booms.

 

 

Author’s Note:

I love the haibun form introduced during NaPoWriMo this year.

The above was sketched out during our “All School Write” this past week when everyone put done what they were doing and wrote for a period. Kindergarteners to the office staff put pencils to paper, pens to journal, fingers to keys and wrote about something that happened to them.

Peter

A piece from our Wednesday Writer’s Group.

Peter

It seemed as though he would never find his place where laborers toil. It didn’t matter. He had a purpose. Just because it didn’t involve what others call “real” work, well, that wouldn’t stop Peter.forest.jpg

He had one blue eye, one grey one. He was a glassmaker, but not a good one who could sell in shops and at fairs to make a living. Rather, he made things for a purpose and then gifted them to the ones who were in need.

He made the glass goose for her. It was small and delicate. He didn’t know her yet but he knew it must be a goose and hers was the hand to hold it, hers the neck around which it would hang. She would make herself known when the time was in season.

Until then, he would eventually find and work with Alex washing windows. It had to be something to do with glass. It always was about the glass.

When Peter was young child, maybe six or seven, while walking through a forest having been separated from his family’s picnic, he came across an old beaten-down house. At least that was the voice he heard in his head describing it. It was his father’s voice. His father hated old beaten-down things, maybe because he was. Nonetheless it didn’t stop Peter from investigating the Forest House as he named it.

Peter could climb or run like any animal of the forest. Or fly, yes. Even fly he believed if he was given the opportunity. He was able to walk without being heard. It was as if he floated above, barely touching the earth.

When he reached the Forest House, the door was unhinged, hanging desperately to one side. Without a thought Peter let out a long sigh of air to make himself as small as possible and squeezed under and between making his way into his Forest House.

He thought it would be dark but it was the opposite. The roof was gone. Part of it sprawled across on what was once a floor. And the rest of the roof, well, maybe a wind took it to a place of new purpose. It was as if the forest became the house, or the house was now the forest. Vines and moss and golden streams of light from an opening high above flickered and fell across the cottage.

Then it caught his eye, glass. Strangely enough, the glass in the window frames was perfectly fitted. He stepped closer to the rectangles still holding a crystal glance out into the depth of trees and brush. As Peter approached one window, he noticed something more confusing. It was as if the window was melting. It was solid. No holes or gaps that he could see, just a sag.

Gently he reached to touch it not wanting to ruin or break it. Peter always had a gentle touch. It would come in handy while working with glass in later years.

As he reached to place his delicate slender fingers on the pane, a sharp voice screeched out to him. He made himself pull back instead of falling forward in his start. He stumbled away not wanting to break the glass and landing with a flop on the cool mossy ground.

Peter sighed. It was his sister, Anne, and he had been found. She always found him. She with her loud voice and stomping feet would halt whatever journey he undertook.

At least for this first day in his Forest House he would comply with her demand. But he wasn’t going to let her stop him. He would return often and for years. That first day he left holding Anne’s hand with the image of melting sagging glass in framed windows of his Forest House etched into his memory.

When he got home he asked everyone he knew about the dripping glass. He eventually found out that glass is considered a liquid and over years old glass will move like slow, very slow lava. And that was it. Peter was wedded to the magic of glass.

But now he was walking, to where he did not know. To meet Alex with whom he would partner. He would discover that he would be a window washer. Yes. That would be it. When washing windows he could look out as well as in.

And there Peter would find the owner of his glass goose.

 

My Feast Day

In gentle light of fading sun,
when I know deep stillness
will soon shroud my being,
I slow myself to pause in the
flush of day’s end, and ready
myself to plunge with audacity
into the unknown.

It is my feast day, a remembrance
day of my birth, the beginning
from depth into light, from
assurance into bold awakening.

I’ve traveled far since my advent,
crossroads in the distance call for
negotiation. But this night gives
me joys to savor.

In gratitude I hold you dear,
my friend, my love. My heart
is extravagant with your presence.
I am brave in your goodwill. I
am boundless in my journey
with you at my side.