Here

 Here,

Sitting at this desk, and yet,

Not here at all…

I find my home in the waters

Of the deep blue sea,

The sanctuary of a holy sky,

Lit by the embers of time.

The candle burns brightly

As I imagine a life beyond this desk.

Am I really

here.

—Ivory Smith

Hungry But Loving Grackle

—Kim Mosley

slow dance

slow dance—

beats pass through

the d.j.’s hands

—Melanie Alberts

dress rehearsal

dress rehearsal

for dying leaves—

Monarch butterfly

—Melanie Alberts

To our Cat Mika

I'm sorry you had to leave, Mika,

I think you were ready, stumbling splay-legged, 

no place soft enough to rest your bony body,

though we fought hard to keep you,

to say no to the shot that set you still at last.

Set you still and set you free.

Just days before you died

we took you to the trees beside the lake.

Waves splashed the rocks below, 

amber-clear and full of light, 

the air, too, full of light

slanting from the rise and fall of the water,

a shimmer of possibility

that jostled into being and subsided.

The leaves glistened, rich,

each acorn cap, cactus nub, full of meaning.

You lay on the leaf drift

above a ledge of red grit sandstone

in the sound of the waves and the wind off the water,

and I thought this is what heaven is like,

thought this is what my father's death was like that day, 

why I knew before I climbed the stair that he had gone.

Thank you for that, that glimpse.

We can call it heaven or the primal void

or the vast bright water that brings forth cats and men and stars.

All I know is that it shines.

—Sarah Webb

Beyond Pickleweed, with appreciation to Peter Coyote

pickleweed

haberdashery

incremental

amphibious

momentous

miniature

albatross

hullaballoo

foppish

lardycake

avuncular

smithereens

words between

underneath

just beyond

other words

words words words

all the way down

a name of a thing

we take as a

bona fide

a characterization

we take for 

character

but beyond

the mouth feel

and mind grab

there is 

no thing

no name

no form

no sight, no sight consciousness

no sound, no sound consciousness

no suffering, no ending of suffering

no birth, no death

no being, no non-being

useful

            and abused

beautiful

            and harsh

transported on a 

magical carpet

of words

gone now

gone

to the other shore

fat crows

in the picklewood

skedaddle!

—Nandiya Nyx

Bumblebees

So very long ago

there were bumblebees here

slow and ponderous

like old World War II cargo aircraft

buzzing through the skies.

They loved the asters and the frostweed

the goldeneye and palafoxia.

In the prairies

the bluestem rose tall,

turning terra cotta in the cold.

The switchgrass massive and light,

interwoven with the fall air.

The Indiangrass bringing its yellow flames 

to the darkening colors of the autumn.

The big bumbly bumblebees

flew slow from blossom to blossom

slurping up nectar,

muddling in the pollen with their big bumbly feet, 

tracking it everywhere they flew,

to the joy and delight of the flowers.

They were here with their cousins, 

the solitary bees.

Ascetic, tiny, sipping like anorexics.

But still the pollen grains on their feet,

transferring them to new flowers 

to cycle life into the next season.

So very long ago

there weren’t any honeybees.

Those upstart European imports, soft,

needing amenities and care.

There were just the wild prairies

grown over ancient seas,

the savannah trees intermittent and burn-hardened.

Then the honeybees came

and elbowed their way into the frostweed and goldeneye

but still there was enough

and all lived together.

Then we came, European, soft, needing amenities.

And, too smart for our own good, we discovered too much

in the name of science and progress and commerce.

How to clear the land with the napalm of the bulldozers and shredders.

How to kill the weeds with carcinogens

that seeped their dark death to the innocent grasses.

How to kill the bees with neonicotinoids

and find their little bodies, stiff and dead, by the water.

The bumblebees grew fewer and fewer,

and as I tended my land, I found less and less of them,

buzzily muddling their way into the flowers.

But I gardened organic, banned the potent ugly toxins

on my little piece of land, and hoped.

In the last year or two, they have started to return.

All sizes: huge snuffling hogs of bumblebees

Medium moderate bumblebees

and even diminutive daintyish ones, though still

unmistakably squarish and bumbly.

The honeybees live here too, in their hive by the edge of the woods,

underneath the spinning fan sculptures.

But they do not fight the bumblebees 

or harass the little solitary ones.

There is goldeneye and aster enough for all, 

and frostweed enough even for the monarchs and emperors

when they migrate through.

It won’t be so significant when I am gone

but I love to think of the bumblebees

and hope I played a tiny part

in their going on.

—Elayne Lansford

I Want

I don't want to be afraid.

I don't want resentment.

I don't want anger.

I don't want to feel helpless.

And yet when you stop me,

that is all I can feel.

I don't want to pray.

“Please keep me alive.

Let me survive

Please lord!

Let me go back home

to my own.”

I want to feel safe,

like you, and him, and her.

I want to be me

and still be safe.

I want you to see me.

I want you to accept me

With all my differences.

I don't want you to be my predator.

I want you to be my protector.

I want you,

yes, you.

You in blue.

I want you to see me

as one of your own.

I want you to let me breathe.

—S. Swan

Inspired from Peter Coyote and Susan Wooldridge discussing Tongue of a Crow

Here's the interview: https://www.bookpassage.com/event/peter-coyote-tongue-crow-online-event

Kim Mosley

A Blessing for the Dark

You asked, What will I do

when I am wild and lonely

and you are not there?

What will I do in that dark?

I will give you a blessing

folded tight for that time.

No, you will not see me—

oh, passing in the street perhaps

as I have seen my brother, 

in dreams, for sure, as I have talked 

to my father at a restaurant table—

but that does not mean that I am not there.

If you speak to me, I will answer.

You will feel my words warm in your heart

as if I had said, I‘m right here,

as if I had put my hand in yours and kept it there

and you will know what I would have said—

what I am saying—

through the shift in the light,

the flick of your cat‘s ear,

through memory, yes,

but by the rush, too, of blood through you,

your softening.

When you think there‘s no way to go on,

know that I sit beside you

silent, but loving you,

that I see how strong you are

as you let yourself steady,

as you choose carefully.

And when you find ones you love,

ones who love you,

I am inside their love,

part of their laugh, their playful pounce,

their hand in yours.

A mound of potatoes, this blessing,

a flower on a spiraling vine,

your breath easing in the soft dark.

Give it to someone hungry.

Give it to yourself.

—Sarah Webb

Language of Place

“To be native to a place, we must learn to speak its language.”

Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer

When I came into this world,

        I was not a native to this land.

At the time, I knew no language,

        no words, thoughts, ideas,

                or even concepts of meaning.

        But I grew and listened and learned.

I spent the next 60 plus years

        learning a language that for all intents and purposes

                barely scratches the surface

                        of communication between people,

        much less with the life

                that surrounds us on this earth.

What good is a language

        where people cannot agree

                on common acts of decency?

        Where a human race can know for certain

                that its existence is not in peril

                        of annihilating each other

                                because we can’t communicate.

What good is a language

        that holds no truth

                to be self-evident?

        For all people?

Perhaps I expect too much of a language

        and not enough of those who speak it.

                Perhaps I just haven’t learned

                        the right words.

I have been told

        there is great wisdom

                in listening,

        and in truth, there is great peace in just that.

                Sitting, listening, breathing.

                        Is there a better language?

The true natives of this land,

        the hawk, the deer, the bear,

                all the lives not human,

        know of a simpler way of living, communicating

                and we still don’t know what they are saying.

                        We don’t have a clue.

Perhaps one day

        we’ll learn.    Perhaps.

Has anyone seen a pig fly?

—Paul Causey

Word Wreck

You sat next to me, in the car, describing

loudly, about how outrageous the 

posting is, accusing you of being careless

by traveling during these pandemic times.

I asked how long has this person 

known you, and you responded 

“I only met her once.” I suggested

you could just ignore her, or consider

that perhaps she doesn’t know another

way to say she cares about you.

My words agitate you further and

yelling, you say there is no reason to 

continue to talking to me, I can stop 

and let you out of the car. 

This is the first time you have spoken

to me like this ~ how did we get to this

intersection ~ wrecking any opportunity

for dialogue, conversation?

The silence that settles between us

feels like a balm, yet too weak to 

ease my feelings. I breathe into myself,

I breathe into you. 

I let the words of silence to say

what there is no room to say, 

no way to say, to speak into your pain, 

and mine.

—Martha Ward

Gratitude... and Sorrow Fill my Heart

—Kim Mosley