nothing of substance split
an irrevocable rift
these small things
potential chemical cocktails
are consequential
we are responsible for the ripple
behold its reach
as the full moon wanes
the goddess forewarned
but was denied
so it is time to bury
those gifts in the earth
for mother
transforms ill will
while the tree of life
divinely truth-bearing
warms rose quartz
in an open palm
as love
overcomes
Full Moon reflects
what New Moon says
to Old Ways
….Begin again
***
on the dark night
of a new moon
my soul is as the snow
.. full….of….silence
I am home, birthplace of winter, childhood of snow tunnels, adolescence of Christmas carols, adulthood of whiteouts,
home for the lengthiest, coldest, darkest season, greeted by the longest night, a joyous birth, an annual novelty,
home, no matter the wind chill.
December 14, 2009 – Lansing, Michigan, USA
12/07 in Michigan - MDH
12/07 in Michigan - MDH
12/07 in Michigan - MDH
These are poems I’ve been working on in November. Observations and ideas are most welcome!
digging trenches
encircled by expired leaves
pink earthworms wiggle
while the novice digs
crooked trenches remembering
droughts and weeds
foot plunges spade
hand heaves handle
ideas swivel a season
of surviving sprouts
into this harvest
rough gourds
hairy ears
and fiery globes
more precious than
any ideal
Note: I have more material for a longer poem but wonder if this length fits.
*
storm
my feet are lead
the air is glass
and my soul is a cloud
great and gray
pierced by bolts
rocked by booms
there is no navigating
this open storm
pulsing
Note: The final two lines are what leave me wondering.
*
5 years from now
projections will fail
nothing will be as expected
as planned
there is no thread long enough
strong enough to withstand
the span
so why are we crazed with
5 years from now
an image a demand
that strings us along
and leaves us undone
a tasty little phrase
a futuristic gaze
a preoccupation
a distraction from now
the moment
the tangible
the potential
of today
Note: Does the repetition lend to the poem or add excess weight?
Regina Holliday is a health-care reform activist. She is powered by love for her late husband Fred, who was diagnosed with stage IV kidney cancer last spring and died on June 17 at the age of 39. A week after his death, Holliday blogged this self-portrait:
I am a liberal democrat raised in Oklahoma by conservative republicans. I am a Lutheran whose best friends represent many faiths. I am a mural artist in Washington DC and was Oklahoma State Champion in Original Oratory in 1990. I have worked in a factory, in food service, in retail, as a teacher, and served briefly in the US Navy. I am a mother of a special needs son and am the widow of a good man. I am the perfect storm. (See The Battle Begins.)
And Holliday’s words ring true with media coverage of her mural painting from her home base in the US Capitol with the Washington Post to foreign outlets including the BBC and Al-Jazeera. So far her public murals include Medical Facts and 73 Cents.
Besides painting, Holliday blogs about health-care news, media coverage of her advocacy efforts, and real-life stories. She succinctly fuses the political and personal. For instance, Holliday compares her experience as a childhood survivor of violence at the hands of an alcoholic parent to how people are coping with today’s health-care system. (See “The Abuse in the Medical System”.)
Through her blog, we learn that Holliday spoke by invitation at a conference alongside health providers, her flesh-and-blood story dispelling the anonymity of bar charts (see “Thoughts on Medicine and Social Media”). We also find original poems like “The Cleaning of the Brush”, which traces how “art defines life” from her childhood to becoming a marriage partner.
Holliday welcomes people to join her health-care reform efforts. She also invites firsthand stories about tragedies with medical care for her murals. Holliday can be reached by email reggieart123[at]yahoo.com, through her blog, and via social media like Facebook and Twitter.
What especially inspires me about Holliday’s art-advocacy is how she’s following her own vision, carrying out her own contribution. She’s willing as an individual to express her views through creation in the middle of the public eye. She’s enriching community spaces with art that speaks to the everyday struggles and hopes of onlookers. May Holliday’s truth-speaking command a humanitarian response from parties with their hands crammed down the cookie jar of US health care.
Center of the mural 73 Cents by Regina Holliday.
Today I learned about Regina Holliday, a health-care activist who’s painting murals. She’s spurred by the recent loss of her husband Fred to renal cancer. Check out her powerful and huge mural 73 Cents, which depicts her family’s story in the context of the US health care system.
There’s an amazing energy where I’ve visited the Ardennes: thousands-of-years-old caves at Hans sur Lesse, the Ourthe River near the village of Bérismenil and the ancient Celtic camp of Cheslé, the large old stones or dolmens of Wéris. Turning off the cell phone, putting aside immediate worries of daily life, and sitting among these forested old mountains gives the opportunity to be quiet . . . quiet enough to hear the wind blow, the crow squawk, the hawk shriek, the life force pulse within one’s self and the earth at one’s feet.
Last weekend I attended my second meditation circle in Wéris to observe Samhain, an earth-honoring tradition of the New Year. Continue reading
I’ve been thinking about bellies and mine’s recent expansion. In the year-plus since I moved to Belgium, the baggy pants have become snug. There’s nothing permanent about my belly’s current contours, though they could persist. And though not the only ‘site’ of growth over these months, the belly is most striking to me, its prominence heightened by certain waistline cuts.
What I’ve been thinking about bellies is how they are ‘sites’ of shame for too many women, including myself. Continue reading
Along fields sewn on hilltops, sentinels of valleys lined by houses, families nestled in womb curves. Up the hill of Stockemstraat to the lane between fields, and then the forest and field. Long grass saturated with dew, fat drops on wide blades, orbish cobwebs between strands of grass. And the silver ladies wrapped in ivy gowns drink the morning nectar. Continue reading
Before the pain
King Kong fell down
the interior wall,
courage failed
to live in small ways,
and memory forgot
to deadhead the roses
..
What I Wouldn’t Have Learned in the Womb
some of us forget
our lines cross
we all are relatives
cousins fed by waters
dark and rough
salty and fresh
yet the continents sweat
and upon birth mark us
with their different scents
..
Time to Dance
despite the swaddling of memory
i am fat with forgetting
and tired of the weight
of anchored heels
desperate to run
despite paralysis
it is time to dance
to the constant rhythm
of crackling mantle
and the lava flow
