"Go and talk to your son!". It seemed lately that every arrival at home, in the old section of Glasgow, began with "Go and talk to your son!". "Why?...what has he done this time"...answered Angus' dad. "What trouble did he get into now?". "None...so far as I can figure" answered Mary, mother of the aforementioned Angus.

"Then why am I going to talk to him?". " He's not selling autographs again is he".
"No dear, he's not...you should just go and have a wee chat with him...that's all."

"Alright, I will"...."will I need some hobnobs as ammunition, or should I be okay on me own?".
"You should be okay without them, but, then again, a wee plate of hobnobs never hurt anyone...least of all our Angus"

Dad, poured two glasses of cold milk, set six hobnobs on a plate and ventured up to himself's room. He knocked twice, just above the "No gurls alowd" sign that Angus had put up after last nights arguement with his Mum, over carrots. Angus refused to accept the arguement that carrots gave you better eyesight...while his Mum said they did. A snicker from Dad at Angus' response almost got him banished to the sofa for the night himself, with his own "No gurls alowd" sign going up in the living room. He remembered Angus standing up from his chair, and stating "If carrots give ye such good eyesight, how come so many rabbits get hit by cars at night?". Then he stormed off.

He knocked again, and Angus opened up the door. Angus was still in his blue school shirt and grey pants. "Can I come in?" asked his father. "I've brought milk...and hobnobs".
Angus stepped back and let his father enter the room. The walls were covered with posters, of cars, footballers, horses, bikes, cartoon characters....so much so, there was barely any space left for anything else.

"Yer mum said I should talk to you...son...do you know why?" "Nope"...said Angus..."do you?" "That's why I'm asking you lad....she told me to come see you...do you know why I'm here?"
Angus tilted his head and answered "because Mum told you too?".
It was clear they weren't getting anywhere with this, so Dad asked "How was school today?"

Angus was now in full time kindergarten at St. Martin's in The Fields Primary School in Glasgow. The school was old, dank, smelled of age and was one of the finest in all of Glasgow...for it's age. It was famous for having had two members of The Bay City Rollers as students, one for about three months and the other a little less. They never graduated from St. Martin's, but, it was something to hang their hat on.

"I got all my Christmas Cards taken away today Da." said Angus. "I was giving them out to everyone, and the teacher, Mr. McDonall came and took them away.".
"Why would he do that boy?"...."Where were you doing it?'
"I was outside before school started giving them out...." , Angus sniffed, "and he came over and grabbed them from me".
Dad, remembered Angus working away for the past two nights, printing everyone's name on the cards, as perfect as he could. It only took 43 cards to get the necessary 21 Angus needed for all of his young classmates.
"Why would he do that?"..."did he tell you why?". "No Dad" said Angus through the rapidly increasing flow of sniffles and snot that normally accompany a crying child.

"I didn't find out until I went to the office to see the Principal afterwards".
"You went to the office for handing out Christmas Cards?" . "That doesn't make any sense son, are you sure you weren't doing anything else?"
"I was just handing out cards Da, that's all", said Angus as he grabbed another hobnob, which he quickly stuffed under his pillow for later. He would get in trouble for that one, but, it would be worth it.

"The Principal said something about Christmas Cards that say Christmas on them, can't be given out at school anymore. They can only say Happy Holidays. If it doesn't say Christmas on it, how can it be a Christmas Card Dad?".

"I don't know boy"...."but I am **** sure gonna find out"....and "you'd better eat that hobnob under your pillow before Mum sees it"...smiled Dad.

The pair ventured downstairs for dinner, neither discussing what went on in the room where "No gurls were allowed". Dinner passed in silence, with Mum looking from one to the other to get some sort of reaction. Once, Angus started to talk, but it had nothing to do with what went on between Father and Son, so she continued eating. She would find out later after Angus went to bed.

After dinner, Angus went to the park with his friends for an hour to play football, and tag, and swing on the swings for a while. Mum, took this chance to corner Dad...and corner him she did...."What went on up there? What did you two talk about?" "He won't say anything to me...what did he do?"
"Nothing....he did nothing wrong at all, so as I see it....Angus didn't do anything wrong".
He kind of smiled at that, because normally after being told "Go talk to your son...", Angus had always done something wrong...this time...it was The Principal.

"Tomorrow, I'm staying home in the morning and taking himself to school....I'm going to see The Principal". "What for?...if he didn't do anything wrong, why are you going to see the Principal?".
"Well, what time of the year is it?".....asked Dad. "It's Christmas silly, you know that...why?"
"Well, apparently it isn't Christmas at St. Martin's in The Fields...at least not as far as himself's teacher and new Principal are concerned. It's now Holiday time....not Christmas Time, Holiday Time. Our wee Angus got in trouble for handing out Christmas cards at Christmas. Does that make any sense?"...said Dad.

The next morning at breakfast, Angus looked up and asked "Dad, shouldn't you be going to work? you'll miss your train.". "I'm taking you to school and going to see your Principal, son". "Why?" asked Angus. "Let's just say I'm going to give him a Christmas Card....have you seen my bible?".
"It's on the sideboard...but, why do you need that Da?"...asked the boy.
"Let's just say...to make a point.".

Mum smiled as the two men, both wee and tall, walked together hand in hand down the drive towards the school. Upon arrival, Angus went off with his friends, while Dad, went into the old, intimidating looking institution. He could smell the old wood soap and mustiness as he waled down the hall, past the class pictures and the old trophies that get hauled out and cleaned every year for games day, only to be put back again after the awards presentations.

Upon arriving at the office, he announced "I'm here to see The Principal.....where is he?".
A pair of beady, spectacled eyes looked up from behind the front desk...and in a thin, reedy, voice asked..."And who might you be, sir...to come in without an appointment?".
"Ah'm flippin' Father Christmas, that's who I am....I am Angus' Mc Dougalls dad, and I am here to see the ****** Principal. Now where is he?"
"Without and appointment.." she started, quickly stopping when Dad, walked past the desk to the door marked M. Dingwall, Principal on it.

"You can't go in there"...screeched the reedy voice..."not without an.." "I know..." said Dad..."not without an appointment.....well, I've got mine right here, and right now..." he said, waving his bible in needle noses face. He continued in to M. Dingwall, Principal's office....and sat down.

M. Dingwall, Principal...looked up from the papers on his desk, which incidentally had 5, yes...5 Christmas Cards on it, and asked Dad..."and who are you to come into my office..."...."without and appointment"...finished Dad. " As I told your chihuahua out front, all bark and no bite by the way, I am frigging Father Christmas, who I see on 3 of the 5 cards you have on your desk. That's who I am, Father Christmas !!!"

"Well, Mr. Christmas, what can we do for you? " asked a clearly shaken M. Dingwall, Principal. "I'll tell you what you can do for me....you can apologize to my son, for a start. My wee lad Angus, came here yesterday morning and was sent to see you for handing out Christmas Cards, at Christmas. What am I missing here?".

"I remember that....yes, he was disciplined and told no more Christmas Cards, it's against the policy of the school board...it's a religious holiday, and we are not allowed, with all of the various religious groups represented within our walls to favour one over another. So, no more Christmas Cards in this school. That is the policy.", said M. Dingwall, Principal.

"That's nice...then what are those 5 cards on your desk....the ones that happen to have Christmas on them and Father Christmas and a nativity scene, which if I know the book I am holding here, is a religious representation, and the reason we have Christmas in the first place. "...asked Dad.

"Those are private, they were given to me by staff" said M. Dingwall, Principal. "I don't care if they came from Jesus Christ himself " yelled Dad, crossing himself in the process, "They don't fit in with the policy you gave my son a reprimand for yesterday."  He looked about the office, and saw a small, four foot tall tree in the corner as well. "Is that a Christmas tree or a holiday tree sir?, which is it?"

M. Dingwall looked up and said, "It's a Christmas Tree, of course, haven't you ever seen a..." and he stopped. He looked at the tree, and the cards, The eyeglasses out front went back to whatever it was she was doing before Father Christmas arrived. "I see....". "You see what sir,?" asked Angus' dad, looking at the tree, and the cards and ignoring the eyeglasses with the reedy voice out front.

"I see your point....It's Christmas, not holdaymas, or xmas....it's Christmas, and I followed policy that I myself am not following myself. I will change that right now....imagine, it took a visit from Father Christmas to get me to see the light..." laughed M. Dingwall, Principal.

"My boy Angus, will be in class, expecting to be told that he can give out his cards to the rest of his friends as he was yesterday...am I understood M. Dingwall, Princinpal?" asked Dad.

"Yes sir, the mark will be stricken from the record and his cards will be returned....I appreciate you coming in to clear up this little misunderstanding...even if you didn't ..." "I know...have an appointment.". M Dingwall stood to shake Dad's hand as he left, and as Dad reached the door, he said "Merry Christmas". Dad thought a bit, smiled at what he had just accomplished and said to M. Dingwall, Principal...."and yes...It is A MERRY CHRISTMAS".

precipitation's anticipation of change
diffused morning light
the mustiness of first rain
a misty visibility hiding distant hills
a graying of the cityscape
skyscrapers in clouds
construction's crane quieted
in the mix of old and new
a slow rush hour
washing the street's grime
a coolness to my eyes
a slight chill in my bones
Autumn colored leaves swaying with breeze
on half empty trees
slanted raindrops incessantly blustering
a beautiful day
where only seagulls dare to fly

eight peeping eyes with healing hands
too good to help her to the restroom
"I'll call a nurse"
they just poked in to take a peek
feel her leg's edema
and inform me of possibility's progress
a colonoscopy?
a transfusion?
time keeps asking for more time
morning meds
an IV
a blood draw
a blood test strip
another trip to the restroom
a kind older gentleman's help
he thought I was her father

it's raining hard again
gutters like rivers
storm drains splashing white water
more skyline has gone missing
umbrellas wrestling wind
raindrops rilling down a picture window
as afternoon sheds it's light

as I watch sleep's breaths
her hunger awakens and feistiness returns
"Don't they feed their patients here?"
they never told us to call food services
another blood pressure reading
another blood draw
another trip to the restroom
and it's all good
a colonoscopy evaluation
maybe Thursday or Friday...
looks like time got her wish

My world is not like other worlds that sear
My world is more like heavenly wide sphere
My world has no bitter sadness nor tears of tear
My world has no lies to lie nor fears to fear

When I raise my eyes above all the mustiness,
My world has blue skies splattered with whiteness
My world has misty horizon fighting brightness
My world has huge trees carrying greatness

I’m all by my self ruling my world that never fades
Sitting with pride on top of my hill, from gold is made
Like a brave lion holding his shiny sharpened blades
Watching his river filled with precious valued preys

You entered the bar
at the base camp
outside Tangiers

the morning sun was out
like a fresh orange
on a blue plate of sky

some old Moroccan
was in a corner
playing a guitar

your mouth felt like
the inside
of an Arab’s sandal

Mamie was sitting
at the bar
on a wonky stool

you woke up then?
she said
after last night
thought you’d be out
for the count all day

no I can take
a good night out
you replied
taking the stool
next to her
and breathing in
the hashish air
and smell of salt
from the beach

the guy behind the bar
asked what you wanted
and you said
*** and coke
and a salad roll
and he went off

and you looked at Mamie
her tight curls
and snub nose
and interesting
fall into me
eyes

what time
did you leave my tent
last night?
you asked

when your tent companion
turned up and almost
got on top of me

ah yes
sorry about that
Will does tend to come
at awkward times
I think he went off
to a trip to Marrakesh
in the yellow
ex army truck

almost crushed me
she said

good while it lasted
then eh?

no it wasn’t
she said
besides you
were out for the count
after we did things

was I?

you know you were

don’t recall a thing
you said

thank you Mr. Romantic
she moaned

o come on Sweet thing
you know it
meant a lot to me
having you near

she looked at
the old Moroccan
playing the guitar
I am glad
he doesn’t sing too
she said

she sipped her Bacardi
and sat silent

the guy brought
your *** and coke
and salad roll
and you began
to eat and sip

can I have some
of your roll?
she asked

sure
you said
and broke off
half of the roll
and gave it to her

thanks
she said and smiled

you felt her knee
touch yours at the bar
naked flesh
on jean cloth
her jean shorts
ended
at her high thigh

you remembered kissing
that thigh
the night before
amongst other things

the smell of her perfume
and the mustiness
of the tent
the faraway voices
and guitar sounds

some party
at the beach
the night before

hoping no scorpion
had crept in
during the day

feeling her
beneath you
and the sound of sea
far off
and sight
of moon’s glow
through tent’s skin

some one sang
another laughed
some one puked up
away off
too much to drink

but you and Mamie
had a good night
you mused
I think.

A soulless body she was
Pale skin, chapped lips, dreary eyes
Her ribcage filled with soil
Flowers sprouting from her mouth
Her veins like vines,
Wrapped around her legs
Her skin, ripped
Corrupting was her flesh
Worms coming out—
Out of her senseless ears
As unfathomable as nadir—
She buried herself,
The insignia and rosettes,
The books she read,
The verses she chanted,
Her dreams, her fears—
A forgotten temple she was
Hidden in the middle
Of a busy city filled with people
She never knew
And at night, she would write
About nothingness,
Her cats, the mustiness of her youth
Tasting the divinity from the salt
Flowing from her eyes
She wanted god, she wanted sin
Pondering on the elusive thought
Of life and of death—
She just craved for sleep
Lay her body on a casket,
Be one with dirt—
So she drank the ink,
Poisoned her senses
And with her pen, a dagger
She stabbed her core
Rejoicing as she bled magenta—
She decided to die,
She decided to die
Before the monsters inside
Would have feasted on her meat

Isolde looks from the window
of her old bedroom,
she's not been in there
since they took her
to the asylum years before.

Tristana, her lover,
is sitting on a white chair
on the lawn
talking to Isolde's mother.

Her mother has the same
pinched features,
thin lips as if drawn
across in ink,
the narrow nose,
peering eyes.

Isolde smells
the mustiness
of the room,
the curtains the same,
the wallpaper fading.
Her mother's eyes  
have a look
of fear in them.

Her sister sits
beside her mother
hawk-like,
hands on the arms
of the chair,
eyes fixed
with that steady stare.

Isolde recalls
the last time
in the room:
the night they
came for her,
men in white coats,
the ambulance waiting,
flashing lights,
voices shouting,
her sister crying,
her father ordering
this and that
(the prat).

Father's dead now,
good riddance,
she muses,
running a finger
down the pane of glass,
seeing her lover
sitting there,
gesturing with her hands,
head tilted to one side.

Not once
did her mother visit her
in the asylum,
not a word sent
or love or concern
expressed.

She sits on the bed,
the springs complain,
the bedspread
pushes out dust.

She remembers Tristana
that first time
in the asylum,
that first meeting,
the side ward,
the nurse dragging her
along the passage,
cursing, gripping
her nightgown.  

The fat nurse let her
drop by the bed;
Tristana sat on the floor
wide eyed,
opened mouthed.

Isolde had struck the nurse
with the flower vase,
smashed it,
flowers spread
across the floor.

The nurse's head bled.
Looked worse than it was.
She smiles.
They locked her up
for weeks for that,
saw none,
except the nurses
who fed
and bathed her
cruelly.

Worth it.
She moves on the bed,
the springs sing.

She gets up
and goes
to the window again.

Tristana is subdued now;
the mother is talking,
moving her hands in the air
as if learning to fly.

Her sister sits crossed legged,
hands on her knees.
Dumb expression.
The mother mouths words,
moves her head
to one side bird-like.

Isolde recalls
the first kiss
on Tristana's lips.
In the toilets
off the ward,
evening time,
overhead lights
flickering.

Lips meeting,
soft, wet,
eyes closed.

They slept in
Tristana's bed
in dead of night,
close for warmth,
hands holding,
bodies touching.

The mother looks up
at the window,
her eyes empty,
hollow dark holes.
She gestures to Isolde
to come down,
her thin hand
moving icily.

Isolde walks
from the window.
On the glass,
where she had breathed
breath to smear,
she had finger written,
Isolde's mind and soul
once died here.

Fairy Tales!

Force open the pages of aged books.
Take care they don't tear.
Read tales for children.
Tales of ladies,
With very long hair.
Stories of fairies .
If enter you dare.

The pages are yellow.
Stained by age and tobacco.
Fragile they are.
Must handle with care.
Smell the mustiness enter the air.
Pages feel dry and crusty to touch.
While the listener is agile.
Memories of sitting on Grand-papa's knee.
Listens to stories not read to me.

Face of the child.
Angelic so pure.
Trapped inside.
Fairy stories lure.
Safe and secure
No big bad wolves here.
She's safe indoors.

All the bad wolves live outside the doors.
The fairy princesses wear satin dresses.
Wings opened to soak up the sun.
Bad witches discarded.
As yesterday's news.
Frogs become princes.
The men of her dreams.
Fantasy fairy tales only in dreams.

By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

We woke up in Oslo;
the sunlight seen
through the slit
when the zip
of the tent was opened.

I breathed in the air
trying to get through
the mustiness of bodies
and stale night air.

How did you sleep?
Dalya asked.

Disturbed mostly.

Why?

Well you were there
and and I was over here,
and you slept so peacefully,
your breathing so regular,
so neat.

She looked around at me
from the zip
and said,
how did that disturb you?

I was wake
and couldn't sleep
and seeing you sleeping
disturbed me.

Why couldn't you sleep?

Too much *****,
too much heavy food,
I don't know,
just couldn't get off.

You oughtn't
to be here anyway,
she said,
if the Yank girl
hadn't gone off
into your tent
with the Aussie guy
to do whatever,
you would be there
with him.

What was I to do
sleep out
in the cold night air?
I would have caught
pneumonia or such.

It shocked the ****
out of me
seeing you there
in my tent
when I woke this morning,
Dalya said.

Then I realized
the Yank prat
wasn't here
and put one
and one together.

Don't make a habit of this.

Well, you tell her
to keep out of my tent
and I’ll tell the Aussie
to have his *** elsewhere,
I said.

I'm going for a shower,
she said,
I’ll call out to her
to get out of your tent
on the way
and then you can get
your gear
to shower and dress.

She went out the tent
with her towel
and changed of clothing.

I lay there
in yesterday's clothes,
feeling yuk and tired,
gazing at the scenery
through the slit
of the zip area.

When I entered her tent
the night before
she was asleep,
so I crept to the other side
of the tent and slept
on top of the sleeping bag
of the Yank girl,
only I didn't sleep
too well,
but I watched Dalya,
the sleeping beauty,
sleeping
in her sleeping bag
zipped up and tidy
and blew a kiss
from my palm
which touched
her shoulder.

I always smiled
at that
as I got older.

dark clouds blowing in
rolling with ocean's westerly wind
large gradient gray splotches
randomly dispersed by natures asymmetry
sunlight filtering lightly
through a background of confusion
an afternoon's surprise
soft, steady showers
hardly offsetting 40 days and 40 nights
of Winter and Spring drought
but still inspiring happy dances
walks with umbrellas
and ice cream cones
in the fresh scent of sea air
and the mustiness of Summer rain

What good and what tragedy will come of it?
To reach back through murky time
to air out our togetherness like winter sheets,
in hope the mustiness and dust will disappear.

To wrap you back around my skin,
a blanket of familiarity
so patched, so frayed.
Will the cold shiver through old comfort?

Bury your head in the fallow field.

I will come later, when the leaves have fallen
to cover you whole in a fertile cloak of yellow-orange.
I will find you, sniffing like a dog
for your sweet scent in the mustiness.  

I will **** you gently until you stir,
alert and ready.  
I will speak in tongues of what I do not know;
suggest things I cannot give.  

We will walk,
your world reduced to a searing red of capillaries
Under the low Southern sun.  
With blind faith you will know
that my eyes are also closed.  
I will absorb the nectar of the sight of you,
falling on me like dew.  

I will lead, though you walk ahead,
into the field of poppies.

I like cracking the spines of books and smelling the mustiness in its pages. I like how the lines run down the leather binding when I bend it backwards. I like how it falls open to a certain page when I flip it open, highlighting my favourite passages.

It's like I shaped this book. This object here, was influenced by me. And if I'm not able to make a big impact in this world than at least I know that I've changed something from the creases left in the covers and wrinkles in the papers.

The train is full of strangers

I am not looking at them yetI know they are there
Bodies pressed close to mine
Eyes closed I breath in their lives

Old leather shoes, perfume, hair gel and peach lotion

The stranger in front of me smells of a wet January afternoon
Cold and sharp, yet with a familiar damp mustiness that lingers in his absence
To his left is an early morning breakfast smell
Oatmeal and sugar
Brown sugar with heavy caramel undertones that melt into the memory

He steps past Wet January, past Hair Salon and steps off
Wet January follows on his heels while Hair Salon remains , now on my right

We are joined by English Sitting Room, he is made of cigar smoke and wooden matches, leather arm chair and stone fireplace, beside him is Darkened Movie Theatre and Old Gym Bag

Everyone shuffles; hive minded away from Old Gym Bag
Hair Salon is muttering.
English Sitting Room rustles a newspaper
Movie Theatre brushes my shoulder, apologizes and disappears.

I wish, vaguely to ask what I might seem to them in my own internal context if only to satisfy the slow bubbling curiosity that wells up in me from some deep hidden place

But my stop has come and I am stepping off now
Knowing my existence will pass silently from their thoughts all together as soon as the doors close behind me

Goodbye Hair Salon and English Sitting Room
Farewell Old Gym Bag, until next we meet if ever again

Madness lies on that path
outside the realms of the box
where ignorance falls to the facts
I’ll not suffer from this fate

words are held to defend
collection kept in a bag
selected when I’m attacked
comfort found in talismans

‘what of this thing in the past’
is my favorite I’ll trot out
once this was fresh and bright
now it’s tattered from overuse

‘this other person is more bad’
if only they still mattered
in the present they’ve dissapeared
no consequence as I retreat

‘squirrel squirrel squirrel’
look to dank past I embrace
all I have to save my soul
diatribe of mustiness

it matters not that people laugh
in sad pity of my state
I’ll disregard they whispered words
when my own are talisman

staleness marks my repertoire
it matters not when doors are barred
madness waits if I relent
from shaking past in future’s face.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180310.

Politics in a happier hand
Salt and salacious minds
To work in the evening sun of the land
Tried and true, the irony of vice to distinguish the times

Politics deciding to give at most, a wonder, a try...
Through a peering shadow, we accepted was a rancor
Timid is and if a ruling thought, nowhere but shied...?
The loft to a rolling voice, that has it to serve...

Politics knowing utmost is the whole, dominion
Taken to beauty, and serenity, notes of comprehension
Compassion is an adding wait, of sincerity to come again
With the dole of rendition, edicts of forces we see, reagent

Politics of friends and lovers, with the guidance of decency
Met erudite, the cold versus the heat of problems...
That suggest the kindred of speed, and the reasoned empathy
In our hands for vows, that come and go like angels, whim

Politics of offering a host of charisma
The time of day, and the mustiness of night
Where one decision for the many, is made in heed's behalf, dilemma
We know and care for, like a curiosity was the other half of might

Politics of poise, and a surreal appetite
Privilege before a sunny honor, the future of ought, energy
Long in truth, and chosen for bright minds that saw a sight
Of worth in the worlds grasp, looking one more time for sought anarchy...

I saw a blood red paper flower today,
barely nourished by a forgotten stain,
it’s leaves blackened in shadow.
Too much neglect will do that,
slow the sap’s passage,
blacken the leaves,
dry the green to gray,
and the heart.
It may have been saved,
If only someone had listened.
But nobody I told believed,
in its odd color or scent,
or the way its leaves grew,
in fragrant splayed rows,
down the entire length of the page.
In fact, the very page itself,
smelled faintly of spilled red wine,
dark chocolate, and treachery.
And something else,
something hard to describe,
the mustiness of the sea,
on a foggy day perhaps?
The odor of truth it was,
Wilted words in shades of red
so familiar,
yet so strangely new.
Words you could have almost,
wrote yourself,
if only in your dreams,
there had been a pencil,
a pen, or even a paintbrush,
a thought presented paper thin,
If only there had ever really been,
a flower to see.

The breath of the mountain fogs around her as she flows over mossy rock. I have to duck to enter the grove of manzanitas guarding her banks. Crouching, I enter a womb-like space of moss-covered rock beside her calming, swishing, gurgling banks. I climb the rock and sit, reaching my toes to the surface. Cold and clear and rushing by, the water touches me and sends shivers to my spine. I bend, bringing lips to the surface, and drink. Lie back.

Only five minutes' walk from home, this secret place quietly lives.
I haven't told my... partner.
It feels too sacred here. Like the inside of the womb. I feel that I can come here to escape, and to rest, if I carry reverence in my heart.

The creek refuses to take my loneliness, though. I offer my tears and she swallows them. I dream of becoming a river creature and diving into her, being carried away.

What is that perfect sound? How her water is shapeless yet becomes circular as it moves around the rocks, sending bubbles to the surface; somehow together the water and rocks ring out a sweet song. A softness that catches silence and invites listening.

The river is like the rhythm underneath my heartbeat. The song of my bones.

I can feel it, and a drumbeat dances out of my hand to my chest as I sing:


My body is the Earth
Mother, I can feel you crying
My body is the Earth
Mother, I can feel you dying


My voice has picked up the richness of the forest's dank soil, the mustiness of the moss and decaying manzanita leaves, and somehow too the clarity of the stream itself. Tears roll down my cheeks as I sing and drum to an audience of trees, moss, and creek, where my voice feels heard and safe and my heart is cracked open, one with the forest.

The hardest part is leaving, though I am more whole than before. I give my thanks to the water and crawl out of the mossy creekside womb, emerging at the edge of a gravel road in Southern Appalachia, North Georgia. Gravel crunches beneath my feet as I make my way homeward.

I never share my song with a human.