ON POETRY ~ WITH MARIAN KENT AND SUSIE CLEVENGER

Following last week's chat with Shay and Kelli about poetry and blogging, I asked the same questions of two more poets who have been around since we all began writing online with such heat in 2010. Marian Kent, who blogs at runaway sentence, and Susie Clevenger of Confessions of a Laundry Goddess are sharing their thoughts on poetry and blogging and I, for one, am so happy about this! 

BLAME IT ON THE BEACH

The beach was weird
sassy breeze pushing waves
to throw rocks at our shins
rain and lifeguards
clearing the water
because of marine life
       (unspecified)
All this in bathing suits
never my favorite
but we pranced and played
sat our fine asses in the sand
for waves to wash over
flicked our hair
       (caught glances)
bleated like goats
pronounced the ocean female
laughed and laughed and laughed
cried hey sister ocean
here we are
sassy and strong and shining

Marian Kent  © 8.08.2019

Sherry: I adore the sass in this poem. Tell us about it!

Marian: I'm so glad this resonated for you, Sherry. It is a simple reflection about how it felt at the beach earlier this summer with my daughter. We both had such a good time, feeling unburdened, enjoying a cool and somewhat strange beach day, and really enjoying one another. Putting aside concerns for a few hours. Not caring what anyone might think. Feeling connected, to each other and to our natural environs. Laughing a lot!

Sherry: It sounds perfect!

Talk to us about poetry: When did you start writing poetry? What does poetry mean to you, what do you love about it?

Marian: I started writing poems at a young age, and wrote a lot in college and as a young adult. But then I put writing aside for quite a few years. I'm not really sure exactly why, but I did continue to scribble in a journal during that time. I bet if I looked back at those old books there would be plenty of poem fodder in there. When my kids were very young I started writing poems again, and then I started the runaway sentence, which started as a sort of mom-blog or soapbox, but almost immediately became a poetry blog. Thank goodness, whew.

Poetry for me is a chance to express or make a brief but (hopefully) meaningful observation. I like using words sparingly, making every single word count. I think I'm always trying to find new ways of describing ordinary moments, feelings, experiences that can be recognized and understood by anyone. I'm going for universal in the specific, or for something anyone could recognize in a metaphor. For me, writing poems requires both abstraction and direct communication, a challenge that I really love.

Sherry: And we love reading you!  What impact has blogging had on your work? Has it helped you grow as a poet?

Marian: Blogging has had a tremendous impact on me. For you, too, right? I mean, Sherry, you and I met because of blogging and my life is so much sweeter as a result!

Sherry: Mine, too, kiddo. My writing was drying up for lack of connection with other writers, when I stumbled on Poets United back in 2010. I will be forever grateful for what that connection has done for my life and my writing.

Marian: I'm so grateful for your friendship and for the whole circle of blogging friends around us. I have been really lifted up and supported by our online community.

Sherry: Me, too, Marian. I am more grateful than I can say for these almost-ten so-rich years.

Marian: Our community of poets challenging one another with prompts and providing gentle critique and encouragement and friendship is simply amazing. It is a blessing.

I'm sure without blogging, I would still be writing, but to be accountable to our online group is really meaningful. Responding to prompts, creating prompts, reading the work of others and providing meaningful commentary, it's all a part of growing, I think. My skill has definitely grown and improved over the years, and I have observed the same in many of our friends as well. It's great to witness a writer working to improve her craft, and to take that journey alongside friends is a wonderful thing. I really admire the writing and the practice of so many of our friends here, and get inspiration from you all.

My blog will celebrate ten years next spring. I'm aware that blogging is evolving, maybe going out of fashion. That is bittersweet, but we cannot continue to grow as writers or as people without change. So I'm good with all of it and feel very grateful and excited for whatever comes next. The runaway sentence blog will always ramble on, and I have a few ideas I'm working on to change things up for the coming decade and beyond.

  

Sherry: We will be watching with great anticipation, Marian!

IF YOU WERE STILL

If you were still,
I could watch the
sun set in your eyes.
I could see what leads
you to brush and paint,
to capture a horizon.

If you were still,
I could hear you
talk to the moon.
I would learn your
night language,
the dream song
of the nightingale
delivering starlight.

If you were still,
I could feel poetry
splash on your skin
in a summer rain.
I would know how
words bloom from
the tip of your pen.

If you were still,
I’d lose my way
to imagination.
I wouldn’t know
a dandelion was
a heart where
wishes seed.

©Susie Clevenger 2019


Sherry: I so adore those closing lines, “a heart where wishes seed.” Wow.  Tell us a bit about this poem, Susie.

Susie: At Real Toads Sanaa Rizvi used Pablo Neruda’s poem, "I Like for You to be Still", as a prompt for our writing. I began to think of all things one could discover in the stillness of a lover or a friend, but also, in the end, if stillness became a command to surrender one’s free spirit, the loss would be unfathomable. It is in stillness and in movement we experience the true beauty of someone. I like to view it as caring with open hands, doing nothing to inhibit free expression.

Sherry: I love that, Susie. Would you share your thoughts about poetry with us? How important is it to you?

Susie: Poetry has been my lifeline. It is a journal of what I feel, hear, see, and experience. I can’t imagine life without it. Even in the first year and a half of my blog, when only one person read it, I wasn’t discouraged, but energized I had an avenue of expression. When I write poetry, I open myself to inspiration. I have a small totem I created that hangs above my desk that centers me, that reminds me even on the days my muse is silent poetry is patient, patient even in times I rail against writer’s block and self criticism.

I begin most of my writing time with a small ceremony. I either open the shades if it is daylight or at night turn on a small glass lamp sitting next to my desk to invite light into my space. I then light incense to calm me, to invite creativity and growth.

I am grateful for my laptop. I am right-handed and writing by hand is becoming more difficult. I have a condition called dupuytren's contracture which forms knotted tissue in my palm. It affects the fine motor coordination, so holding a pen/pencil and writing legibly is a problem.

All the lovely journals I’ve purchased sit empty.

Sherry: Thank heaven for our keyboards!  Has the online poetry world had an impact on your work, Susie?

Susie: Oh my, yes, it has. My connection to online poets has been such a huge resource to learn from. I have met so many poets who have inspired me and been my mentors. I don't think I would be writing at any acceptable level without it. 

I hadn't written poetry since high school. I look back to the first poems on my blog and shake my head at how poorly written they are. I am so grateful to be part of a community of people who write and love poetry. People who encourage me to continue in the art form I am so passionate about.

Sherry: I admired your work back then with awe, just as I do today, Susie. What a glorious journey it has been!

Thank you, Marian and Susie, for sharing your thoughts on poetry and blogging with us. It has been a wonderful chat looking back on an amazing journey.

Do come back, and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

ON POETRY: WITH FIREBLOSSOM AND MAMA ZEN

We have a special feature today, friends. Fireblossom (aka Shay Simmons) and Mama Zen (aka Kelli Simpson) are weighing in on poetry and blogging. Pour yourself something tall and cool (or stubby and hot) and draw your chairs in close. These poets know how to Use Their Words, and we don't want to miss a single one.

Proof For The Postulation Of An Old Poet

The generosity of madmen
--whether born or made so--
is like a pitcher overturned, 
sweetness wasted in the sharing.

I'm not about to mistake straitjackets for haute couture;
I am as hard and closed as a policeman's nightstick.

Still, you can lay naked in the spring grass,
holding a hymnal and a caramel.
Pretend yourself a parrot, all colors.
I will still be the crow from whom the night borrows its darkness.

When you have gone, I will play ancient games
with dying cicadas.
The years will fold themselves into pastries
the crumbs of which I horde and never drop.

Go, parrot. And this time
do not leave open my coat of poems
with sleeves like shaded roads, and wool like forgotten noons.
But if you do, I will have been right in my manic certainty

that you would make me cry in the end.



Sherry: Oh my goodness! The "coat of poems"! "Wool like forgotten noons!" I don't know how you do it. I am just so very glad you do, and that we get to read you. Tell us, Poet, your thoughts on poetry.

Shay: Poetry to me means being fearlessly honest, including and especially about difficult subjects. It means passion and energy and brevity. By that last I mean saying what you have to say in a succinct and powerful way, not losing or diffusing your point with meandering fluff. (I re-read my first solo book and think, oy, where was an editor when I needed one?) 

I get ideas from almost anything. It's like....I'll be watching a movie and something will send my imagination into a big long tangential invention of my own and by the time I blink and come back, I have to rewind because I daydreamed through the last 15 minutes of the movie. A word, an image, a song, anything can send me off to the races. 

When I know I've gotten it just right--which isn't that often--it's a fantastic feeling. This will sound horribly immodest, but when that happens, I think, "Damn, I'm good!" It's a great feeling. And that confidence, that ego, are what make me feel like I can say something difficult well the next time. Fear paralyzes writers. I have become fearless in my old age. (I also realize that there are a thousand things I am NOT good at. But I am good at this one thing.) 

Sherry: To your followers, it seems like you get it just right every time, and we are astonished by that fact. And so impressed!

What is your take on blogging? Has the online poetry world impacted your work?

Shay: Blogging has been wonderful for my love of poetry and for writing my own. Poets like Hedgewitch and Mama Zen push me and always have. I read something fantastic that they have written and I am 1) thrilled for them and 2) eager to try to match it. I'm not competitive with the writers I admire most. I love their successes as much as my own. I'm just saying they spur me to greater efforts. Also, blogging has made me friends who I never would have met otherwise. I don't think poetry blogging has the same energy as it once did, though. I am not as into it as I used to be, but I do keep my hand in. 

Sherry: I don't think blogging has the energy it once did either - but we are ten years more tired too........I loved those heady days! I will always look back on those years with gratitude, when the world of online poetry opened its doors to me.

I like what you say about not feeling competitive with the poets whose work you admire most. I feel the same way (about your work, for example.) It would be like trying to compete with a star, rather than enjoying its beauty and perfection in the sky. I just glory in their (and your) talent. 

Thank you for this chat, Shay. Online poetry, as you say, introduced me to friends all over the world I never would have met otherwise. My life has been so much richer for it.

Let's see what Mama Zen has to say, shall we?

Snoopy - who cracks me up!

The Buck

The buck, throat cut,

bleeds out about six.

Half-hidden in nightfall,

I redden a stick

and dampen the doorway -

a Sunday school lesson

pass over

pass over

pass over.

Sherry: Yes, may bad things pass over our homes and our lives, though it feels like the whole planet is in peril these days.

Would you share your thoughts about poetry with us? Your poem definitely shows the power words have to impact our minds and hearts.

Kelli: Have you ever heard of the Supreme Court obscenity test? In a ruling in the '60s, Judge Potter Stewart wasn't able to define obscenity, but claimed to know it when he saw it.  That's kind of how I feel about poetry.  I can't really tell you what it is, or what makes it what it is, but I know it when I see it and, more importantly, when I feel it.

Sherry: And the reader, too, knows it when she sees (and feels) it. As in your poem, shared here. Great explanation, Kelli.

  

Kelli: Without the online poetry world, I'm not sure that I would be writing poetry now.  I had written poems and songs in my teens and twenties, but I had given it up to pursue other things.  It was the wonderful poets that I met online who inspired and encouraged me to pick up the pen again.

At the moment, I'm taking a break from blogging.  I'm homeschooling and doing some political activism, so I don't really have the time to interact the way I would want to if I were posting.  I'm still writing, though, so I hope to be able to return soon.  And, I miss you guys!

Sherry: Homeschooling and political activism are important, Kelli. We are glad you are still writing, and it is wonderful to know we can look forward to your return. Thank you for saying yes to this short visit. We are so happy to hear from you! We miss you!

Kelli: Thank you, Sherry.  And thank you, everyone, for all of your kindnesses over the years.

We hope you enjoyed this exchange, friends. Next week, Marian Kent and Susie Clevenger will similarly share their thoughts on poetry and blogging. Be sure not to miss it!

POEMS OF THE WEEK ~ MEN'S VOICES

This week, we will hear three more of the men's eloquent voices. Michael Phan, who writes at  grapeling: it could be that, Eric Erb of erbiage, and Scott Hastie of his blog of the same name, are sharing a poem each that we know you will enjoy. Let's dive in!

(Motion)

give me the far winds that feather heaven,
that twist and tumble and clutch
autumn’s last leaf to earth’s hearth.

give me ice, and rest
and the earth chilled to silence
only seeds hear.

give me tendrils. give me a cherry’s flirty first blossoms
, emerald hills spiced with orange and mauve,
a double-winged dragonfly patient as water.

give me skies paling pink, trilling crickets,
light high as the north star,
cool red watermelon with plenty of seeds;

give me your eyes’ fire, the thump in your breast,
the wisp of your bangs,
your forefinger’s crook motion

– your vermillion lips
– your heart sharp as words

for if you give me your days

you will have mine 

Sherry: Your imagery is so rich in this poem, Michael. Just lovely.

Michael: Just a poem about seasons, and maybe keeping an eye open to details...

Sherry: And beautifully done. Eric's poem employs wonderful imagery, too. Let's take a peek.

TREETIME

I’ll try to write this in your terse speech
Upon the skin of my kin you call paper
Such a small word for the crushed pulp
Of my people. There is nothing in that word
Of the books you make of it, nor
How it is the vessel of your moments.
Nor the majesty that stood centuries
Rooted like we are in the sky,
Nose to the ground.

But these small words of yours are upside down
And backwards. It’s our branches that hold
Us fast in spirit. The matted whiskerbeard
Is what keeps us kissing the earth. The
Parts and the meaning are entwined.
The same, and not. But where was I?

In this poem of a time that ticks
In trees long perception.
What persists, what appears
In one moment, gone the next
Like deer

Most of us sleep all winter
A trick we taught the bear-clan people
Winter is as night in treetime

And the thing you call summer
We call day, in our language.
We hardly notice the strobe
Of that thing you use that word for…

If you want to see the world
As we see it, sit. Be still.
Stop tricking yourselves
With your movie-reel motion.

Though in this too, like poems
Is a truth that is not present.
Moments, when strung together
Never become water.
I know that river
It licked my toes once
Egged on by angry thunderheads

There are some poems that
Can only be discerned at night
Then their words swell and ripen
Their bitter meaning sound sweet.
This I hear in the sigh and creak of branches

Sit in darkened rooms
Run the wheels at breakneck pace
Love the lie of video.

Or if you dare, and can find out how,
Slow the footage and you’ll come to know
Each moment is its own now.

Sherry: I love this poem, which reflects upon trees - and us - so wonderfully. "Each moment is its own now" is a great closing line.

Eric: We take so much from trees, and they just keep giving.  It doesn’t seem like we take the most valuable thing they offer though.  I’ve been trying to be still, and pay more attention to things I take for granted.

There have always been trees near my home, and at this house there are two big venerable pines, and a river.  Their presence I often notice even when I can’t see them.  So our disrespect of them was prominent, and how could we ever understand a life that seems so different from ours.  It was written in springtime, when the trees were just waking up from winter, so that got in there too.  This was a gift from the trees to the humans, I’m grateful that I was able to get out of the way and let it flow.

Sherry: me, too. How lovely, to live near ancient trees and a river. Thanks, Eric. Let's see what Scott has for us today.

Sherry:

See How…

See how,

Around

The stream’s

Silvery edge,

Reflected light

Dances on the surface

Of rushing water.

Becoming

The very essence

Of life

And motion itself,

Effortlessly tapping

Into timeless truths

That, once absorbed,

Echo right back

At you

More than ever before.

And with a peerless

Reminder

That’s both soothing

And humbling

Of how,

In a single lifetime,

One could never oneself

Accumulate

Such knowing grace,

Gather up such melody,

Nor offer such endless

Nourishment.

Still here

With the chance

Of some

Sweet release though.

And, for so many

Amongst us,

Would that it were so!

To dream

That one day,

Within,

Such a river might flow. 

Sherry: I love those closing lines!

Scott: I regard the over-arching theme of my work to be a personal investigation into the positive potential of the human spirit. This I think is clearly evident, running through most of my poems. Not that I believe my work can ever be said to be some sweet pastoral panacea, because it never shies away from pain or suffering – and is prepared to also explore the darkness, as well as the light and, crucially, the fundamental significance of their inter reaction. This being, to me, the absolute axis (the truly dynamic and crucial interdependence of the light and dark, of joy and sorrow, of love and loss, in the grand Romantic tradition) and that key notion of duality which I hope still lies solidly at the heart of my work and my approach.

I remain determined always to be challenging enough to try and reach deep into the core of the meaning of the human experience - although I do readily accept that, as my work has developed, then my voice has also become more reflective and spiritual in its emphasis.

I have aimed, at any time in my career, to always be as simply expressed and as readily accessible as possible – For me, this is a vital component of all my work to date. And it is here that you can also hopefully see how simple often short line length structures also play their part – though still carefully shaped for emphasis, controlled rhythm and musicality that lifts key passages, enhances meaning and always looks to carefully and lyrically draw the reader towards the concluding climax of any piece. The success of which for me is always a critical consideration and the key litmus test of success of any particular poem. Hope you enjoyed See How!

Sherry: I did indeed, as well as your process for writing it. Thanks for sharing, Scott.

Well, my friends, wasn't this a treat? Thank you, gentlemen, for sharing your fine poems and thoughts with us. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

POEMS OF THE WEEK: BY BUDDAH, HANK AND LEE SAN

Today we have three wonderful, heartwarming (and heart-pinging) poems of marriage, brought to us by three fine gentlemen: Hank, also known as Kaykuala, who blogs at Rainbow, Buddah Moskowitz, of I Hate Poetry, and Lee San, also known as dsnake, of Urban Poems. These three poems send songs of love out into the world, and straight into our hearts. Enjoy.

TWO HEARTS LOCKED IN PLACE

What of it?
Reflecting on good fortune snug on a pedestal
When life was of prophetic indications pulsating
Looking to the sky clouds bidding as palatable
A tussle to recollect images of a pretty plaything

What of sweet recollections?
Gracious imaginations with mutual feelings of awe
Boy and girl whispering sweet nothings manifold
Insisting on a sacrifice towards a future together
Warm memories nostalgic in part but put on hold

What of uncanny acquiesce?
The winter of their life together devoid of fears
Meant for each other a relationship so blissful
What kept alive little anecdotes of yesteryears
Two hearts locked in place exquisitely beautiful

Sherry: I always admire marriages that have stood the test of time. I love this poem, Hank, and the loving story it tells.

Hank:  There comes a time in a man's heart, the recollections of those moments in time. It has been said. one remembers only too well an odd moment of grazing one's knee in a fall, more so the sweet moments of being together. 

Reflecting on such nostalgic moments together of times long ago can be therapeutic to the lonely heart. It culminates in this poem!

Sherry: And does it so well! Thank you, Hank. Buddah wrote a poem recently which also speaks to marriage, and the wonder of seeing the beauty of one's mate, growing richer with the passing of the years. Let's read.

(Frasier, Phillipe and Mosk)

THE WOMAN I MARRIED

I spied them
from the kitchen:

she was with him,
my beloved grandson,
and she was
so respectful,
and warm
and fun.

She was always
the woman I married,
but somehow,
I’d never seen
this woman before:

someone who consented
to share my life
and my fortunes,

a woman with a bounty
of lustrous eyelashes,
inviting curvature,
and an oasis smile.

She gives him
her truest,
most unguarded
laughter and joy,
and he is forever changed
one lesson at a time.

I see her expressing
the purest version of love
I’ve ever witnessed,

and the thought comes,
unbidden:

“That’s the woman
I want to make love to.”

Sherry: I love just knowing that marriages like this exist, Buddah! This is so heartwarming.

Buddah: The poem is about my wife playing with our grandson, and it brought out such love and desire, well, it's hopefully self-explanatory.

Sherry: I love it! Lee San's poem is addressed to his wife, also, in a much sadder situation. 

YOUR EYES

the eyes
are the open windows
to the soul
and in the moments that i look
deep into them
though they are clouded
because of the pain
they still burn with a flame
of fight

your eyes
smile like the first day
i met you
though there is a flicker
of regret
knowing that our days
together
will be like sand out of
our fingers

my eyes
are the dikes breaking
please don't
let her see my weakness
my fears
but a single tear
warm and salty rolls down
my cheeks

and then a frail hand touches my face.

Sherry: This is so moving, Lee San, the tears, and her frail hand reaching out to comfort you.

Lee San: I wrote this poem more than ten years ago, when on an idle day, I was thinking about my late wife. She had radiotherapy treatment for cancer, and the side effects were awful. I was thinking, she had put up a good fight, but why was she still taken away? These flashbacks  happen, I guess, even though I thought one had gotten over it. Anyway, the poem was sitting in my PC for some time. I thought it might be too personal to publish, but recently, I took it out, edited it majorly, and, yes, to push the publish button.

I think our memories and experiences, heartaches included, are deep wells from which we can dredge materials for our poetry.

Sherry: Thank you for sharing this, Lee San. I am so sorry that happened to you and your wife. I don’t think we ever get over such a loss; it just comes to live inside us. 

Sigh. These poems move me. Thank you, gentlemen, for writing and sharing them. Do come back, friends, to see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

POEMS OF THE WEEK: BY KIM R., LINDA AND COLLEEN

This week, we are featuring three beautiful poems by Kim Russell, of Writing in North Norfolk, Linda Lyberg, of Charmed Chaos, and Colleen Redman, of  Loose Leaf Notes . We're sure you will enjoy them. Top up your cup of tea, and pull your chairs in close. You won't want to miss a single word.

Poetry As a Cry in the Dark

I call out to you in the dead of night.

Dawn seems so far away.

Enlightenment is shrouded in shadow.

A moment of solitary despair.

A moonbeam of ecstasy

and words appear.

The hoot and screech of owls pivot the changing light.

Even a poet feels the weight of sleep heavy on her eyes, when it was poetry that roused her from her bed.

To rejoice as a poet, you must learn to mourn with bluebells and violets, roost with rooks and crows in tall trees, where a nightingale might sing yet.

Sherry: This is so beautiful, Kim. I especially love a poet needing to learn to mourn with bluebells. 

Kim: Thank you for considering my poem, ‘Poetry as a Cry in the Dark’ as one of your Poems of the Week. I am, of course, more than happy for you to feature it.

It’s difficult to write a paragraph about it as it was back in April, right in the middle of NaPoWriMo, when we were all writing one or more poems a day! I wrote it in response to a prompt from Anmol on Day 16 of Poems in April at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. Anmol asked us to write a poem entitled ‘Poetry as…’, perhaps in the style of Ferlinghetti, who had just turned 100, and he gave us Ferlinghetti’s poem ‘Poetry as Insurgent Art (I am signalling you through the flames)’ as inspiration. I liked the form of that poem so much that I decided to try to emulate it, while writing about my own experience of poetry, which often keeps me up at night or wakes me up in the middle of the night or the wee small hours of the morning.

Sherry: You achieved your goal wonderfully, Kim. Thank you for sharing it. Linda's poem will follow it perfectly.

Bluebonnet Sky

So you’ve been through the roaring fire 
Leaving you maimed, a soul of charred ashes 
But rising from this molten funeral pyre 
Comes a new woman with scars on scars. 

You must know though flawed, you are beautiful 
for you shimmer with the light of fractured stars
and you’ve heard the haunting mystical song 
of the grey mockingbird in pink light of dawn 
His singing sets your broken heart free to soar–
Euphoria your guide, higher and brighter
while you dance with glee in a majestic bluebonnet sky.

Sherry: This is so beautiful, Linda. I love the power and beauty of a woman who has walked through the fire, and can still dance. Love "You shimmer with the light of fractured stars." 

Linda: After over two years of writing poetry on a daily basis, I have learned that the truest poems come from the heart. I wrote this poem on a day when I was missing my mom and missing my birthplace - Texas.

In 1994, I suffered a terrible personal tragedy. Shortly thereafter, I had the opportunity to move to Philadelphia for a job promotion. Once I moved away, I never lived in Texas again for it still holds bittersweet memories. 

I live in Arizona now and I love the desert, but there are times when Texas whispers to my heart, 'Come home'. This was one of those lonely days. 

The Mockingbird is the state bird and the Bluebonnet the state flower. The Mockingbird's song is one of the most beautiful. And if you've never seen a Bluebonnet field in person, it is the most amazing shade of blue.

source

 Sherry: It is breathtaking! Thank you, Linda, for your beautiful poem, and for sharing your thoughts with us.

I think Colleen's poem is going to finish off this feature very beautifully. Let's take a look.

Medicine Wheel Moon  

The sun plunges low
Jets trail like tribal arrows
 
Vultures circle like warriors
and startled doves cry
 
The moon meets the horizon
like a sacred hoop rising
 
Like a white buffalo omen
Dreamcatcher of hope

Colleen Redman photo

Sherry: Your imagery is spectacular in this poem, Colleen. Wow.

Colleen: I live on the scenic Blue Ridge Parkway and frequently drive to a nearby overlook to watch sunsets and moonrises.  As I waited for the April moon to rise over the mountain, a group of deer came into the field to feed. It was quiet and I was struck by the beauty of it all, but I was also unsettled due to current events and the unpredictability of our current administration.  The “jets trail like tribal arrows” and the warrior vultures startling doves reflects my sense of being in danger and on guard. 

As the moon began to peek up, I first began to think of it as a great white buffalo, a sacred symbol of hope to the Lakota tribe.  I began to think of the moon with amazement and as one of the great hoops of life that would hold us all together. Maybe it was a dreamcatcher that could catch the bad dreams we are having now. I knew it was a good medicine wheel of the natural world that we especially needed now.   I felt restored in the experience and a poem was born. 

Sherry: This is so beautiful, Colleen, both the poem, and your thoughts about it. I have always been fascinated by the legend of Buffalo Calf Woman, who will arrive with a white buffalo calf, as a hopeful sign. I see many white animals appearing in various locations now. Signs, I believe, in these unsettled times, a warning that we need to move quickly, and are in urgent need for good medicine to heal this ailing world. Thank you so much for writing this poem, and for sharing it here. It is not to be missed.

Thank you, Kim, Linda and Colleen, for gracing us with such beauty today. Do come back, friends, and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!