Silence Part 3


Sitting here thinking,
pen laying across the page,
waiting for words
to announce themselves
with something profound to say.
Instead
I count the rain
splattering on the window
until I realize
this will be
another wordless day.

8.18.11

Silence Part 2


I sit thinking,
pen in hand, and wonder
why conversations,
once held,
filled my room
with words, metaphors,
innuendo
have mysteriously disappeared,
seeping innocuously
into the cracks of the wall.
Hidden there, I am unable
to coax them out.

8.18.11

Silence Part 1


These walls speak of books
neatly aligned in rows
on wooden shelves;
pictures hang in portraits
and city scenes;
while the sun enters
through cracked windows
weaving rainbows,
as nervous dust particles
move haphazardly
here and there.
Yet, with all this motion
and occupied space,
emptiness fills this room
except for distant shadows of you.*

*8/18/11

I don't think I've ever heard my father
Tell my mother that she was beautiful.
I'm sure of it.
Never.
There wasn't any positive comments on her appearance.
"Fix yourself up a bit!"
"When are you going to lose some weight?"
"I don't like your hair that way."
When I was sixteen I wrote her a note for mother's day
Telling her that she was genuinely beautiful.
And she cried.

I can't think of any positive comments on my appearance
That either of them spoke to me,
That didn't revolve around losing weight.
And then was only when I was throwing up on a daily basis.
Pocketing lunch money,
And measuring out one cup of cheerios every day
That I eventually stopped eating,
And starting storing in gallon bags hidden under my bed.
"Are you losing weight, good for you?"
It wasn't even that I looked good.
Or that I looked beautiful.
Or even that I looked healthy.
Just good that there was becoming less of me.
And to keep at it.
And I'm sorry sometime I try to fight you when you say you like my stomach.
I was always told it was unsightly and needed to be smaller.

My little sister listens when they call her fat, that her *** is big, that she needs to lose weight.
Constantly.
Not other kids.
My parents.
She asked me why she didn't have a boyfriend.
She's 15.
She thinks she is fat and doesn't like the way she looks.
I try to corner her every once in a while
And tell her not to listen to our parents.
Tell her that she is beautiful.
That her hair is soft, and her eye brows are flawless, and her tummy is gorgeous.

There has to be someone there to do that for her.
Someone to counter the words of authority.
And tell her that she is gorgeous.
So she never has to meet Ana or Mia.
Because she was average to below average weight
When she was in preschool,
and I in elementary school,
And were put on weight watchers by our mother in the summers.
Maybe because she was never told that she was beautiful.
And it poisoned her.

SONG TO THE HAWK, OWL AND WOLF:
SONG TO SKYBRUSH


Inspired by Native American teachings:
“Each life is precious and it is important to honor our beginnings;
to remember that we effect all life.
That our lives have meaning, and
we are known by the tracks we leave.”

~~~

I.  Brother Hawk Soars:

and you paint the sky
with flaming vermillion,
violet, aqua and
shimmering fuchsia;
bold tastes that flow easily
on a summer day
turning the heat and humidity
of Iowan plains into
a cool breeze with
your  flapping wings.
You always did love to fly
and showed us your world
with dreamy eyes.

~~~

II. SkyBrush Rising:

I saw you fly,
brother Sky.
First as the ferocious Hawk, then
as the fearless Owl.
Flying as the spirit warrior
to where Tama first arose
on grassy plains
and you began your this world, journey
as artist, wonderer,
seeker of Grandfather’s wisdom-
of the beauty
above and below.
So long ago, you entered this world
leaving foot prints
among untold words,
sailing down the Oronoco flow,
yet, it was not long enough.
For our world needs so much more
of you
from you.
This is the duty
and the obligation
as one of the people
that this artistic
journey demands.
Yet Dale,
you have given
and given,
and given.
Your have shown us what it is to live
no matter where
those wooden ships sail; no matter
how they impale
our sobbing hearts with pain.
You have shown us how to breathe
in life
as star gazers;
as nomads
wondering on an ever
changing universe.

~~~

III. Howling Brush:

running, roaming, laughing
as brother wolf
when I first met you,
unfettered, on
midnight trails
by the mountain lake.
I was chasing my tail
in contented circles
when you challenged me
to a game of tag,
and then to some of your grandma’s
homemade tea,
while we sat, restless, howling
under the old oak tree.
We told outrageous stories
of dancing with human beings,
and flying with condors
on cloudless skies.
You even claimed to be friendly
with an old, grouchy grizzly bear.
And I believed every word.
Even the moon made itself full
when you would howl
and paint the world in metaphor
at the PoetryCafe,
located just this side of cyber space.
Yes my friend,
as brother wolf
you were a howling Brush,
and I your open canvas.

~~~

IV. Sky’s Mysterious Brush:

flowed with colored psychadelia
and words,
yes words, shaded in pastels
as well as whimsy;
fashioned in chaotic order along
the broad strokes
of conscious designs,
reaching into the prism
of your mind,
refracting the elements of light,
turning each nuance uttered
into the evenings springtime wind
blowing across Iowan plains
and piercing a receptive heart.
It was a magical brush
filled with mystery;
filled with the thrill of sky
seen while laying
on a hill of clover.

~~

I see you flying brother Owl.
I see you running, cousin wolf.
I see you on your journey
moving along the trail
of beauty – above and below,
finally in harmony,
with Grandfather’s brush
showing you the way.
But old friend
I am missing you.
It is lonely under this old Oak
listening to the leaves
singing the old stories of
brother SkyBrush.

~~written 7.20.06