The boy on the mountain trail

Onavigates the new yard jib

photo of 6 year old by Owen Poland

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The boy on the mountain trail…

wheel-y punctuated, standing on the mountain bike, breaks through the dawn. Birds tweet a chorus of applause. Squirrels line up to front the parade with their drums. A wood chuck struts his majorette moves! And the chipmunks pump the trombones, whooshing their slides. The green uniforms glitter with spring color pushing the evergreens to a more lustrous  vivid spring green.The colors turn brash in the bright light of the Easter parade. Crocuses pop! All else quiets for the ride of the “pied-piper on wheels.”

Earth Song

Between the waters abides the earth...

Between the waters abides the earth…


Earth Song

They call me sod
loam, dirt
clay, turf, dust.

In cahoots with rain, rocks and roots
worms and grubs
perforated by ants and moles
aquifers and oil

veined with lead, copper, gold
and hiding diamonds and coal
cables, wires and pipes

I hold your huts and your tents
your houses and barns
anchor your bridges, apartments and high-rises.

In beds below rivers
lakes and oceans
I slumber.
In the open I bask in sun’s warmth
sprout and nourish your food.

Sometimes I seizure
shudder and quake
vomit magma
belch steam and ash

or slump and ooze
tongues of brown porridge
smothering your villages and roads
in mud.

But mostly I am solid and safe
keeping you upright
with my mysterious magnetic powers.

Feed me wisely
for I ingest
without discrimination

and someday soon
you will join me.
I will reclaim you.
You will again
become mine.
© 2014 by Violet Nesdoly (All rights reserved)

Inhabiting a Song

Somewhere back of my throat a tune
hovers. My voice or the ghost of my voice
follows, repeating words and weaving
a record of my life into waves and hesitations.

Suppose our chorus, people and animals,
rises and falls in intervals of breath:
in sleep a dog’s paw twitches; a rabbit’s
dream follows its heartbeat all the way
through some ballad that its life is.

Parts of my song disappear, fade out
except for a beat that spans a known
part to another known part, and on.
Even in silence when shadows pass
my throat is full of the sound of the world.

(William Stafford in Crossing Unmarked Snow:

Further Views on the Writer’s Vocation)

Blink or Wink?

Meditation Circle
Do you want to BLINK or WINK?

The wink is deliberate.
A humorous communique.
Recognition.

A blink is a shock.
Wha’ happened?
Where do I go from here?
Reconfiguring.

Flutter your eyelids.
Attract some compatibles
And then, in chorus
WINK WITH CONVICTION!

Jeanne Poland
5/21/2013Meditation Circle

A Pavarotti Visit

Romeo&Juliette

 

Calligraphy by Jeanne Poland

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Honda Pavarotti

by Tony Hoagland

I’m driving on the dark highway

when the opera singer on the radio
opens his great mouth
and the whole car plunges down the canyon of his throat.

So the night becomes an aria of stars and exit signs
as I steer through the galleries
of one dilated Italian syllable after another.

I love the passages in which the rich flood of the baritone
strains out against the walls of the esophagus,
and I love the pauses
in which I hear the tenor’s flesh labor to inhale

enough oxygen to take the next plummet
up into the chasm of the violins.
In part of the song, it sounds as if the singer
is being squeezed by an enormous pair of tongs

while his head and legs keep kicking.
In part of the song, it sounds as if he is
standing in the middle of a coliseum,
swinging a 300-pound lion by the tail,

the empire of gravity
conquered by the empire of aerodynamics,
the citadel of pride in flames
and the citizens of weakness
celebrating their defeat in chorus,

joy and suffering made one at last,
joined in everything a marriage is alleged to be,
though I know the woman he is singing for
is dead in a foreign language on the stage beside him,
though I know his chain mail is made of silver-painted plastic
and his mismanagement of money is legendary,
as I know I have squandered
most of my own life

in a haze of trivial distractions,
and that I will continue to waste it.
But wherever I was going, I don’t care anymore,
because no place I could arrive at

is good enough for this, this thing made out of experience
but to which experience will never measure up.
And that dark and soaring fact
is enough to make me renounce the whole world

or fall in love with it forever.

“Honda Pavarotti” by Tony Hoagland, from Donkey Gospel. © Graywolf Press, 1998. Reprinted with permission.

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