At Ease

This is not the river, but it is the only photo I have of a river:

At Ease
(with homage to Whitman)

Once I was naked
on a rocky river bank
sweet flesh on granite
tender curves
over rugged stone

Chorus: And I was at ease
and at ebb with the ebb-tide
At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide

Once I was a stoic
baking in a summer sun
squinting at the world
and wondering why
why am I still
at water’s edge
while fine spokes of light
glance like shimmering gems
off the River Klickitat.

At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide
At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide

Once you told me
you like to read the obituaries --
“Not ‘like’ as in it brings me pleasure
to read them,” you said,
happy to be alive and 50,
“but take this one, for example:
Only 23 years old, dead, gone…
makes you think, don’t you think?

At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide
At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide

What if you only
had 23 years, or five
or just a 3-hour river run?”
Makes you think,
don’t you think,
about the choice
to flaunt away the day,
and just receive the summer sky.

At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide
At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide

“Are you ready?” you ask.
Are you ready to pass through the rapids?
“You know, it’s okay to back out,” you say
to suspend here and everywhere,
but then I go nowhere
so I know it’s not okay
to stop short of the finish line
shy of sunset.
It’s not okay.
So I catch one last gaze
from your thirsty eyes
and dig my paddle
into the white water
drenching me
I follow you
into the V
into the splash
of canyon shadows
and fears
and mere seconds pass
before I am soaked and grinning
the moment splendors me
then spits us out
from the river’s tongue,
alive, ALIVE and

At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide
At ease and at ebb with the ebb-tide

by Wendy Thompson

I Asked God

I asked God if it is ok to just write w/o thinking + she said, well you better 'cause if you're thinking, you ain't writing a thing!

So I write + write + don't think + what comes is what comes + what does not will if it's important in its own time And whatever I say will mean something or not.

I asked God, but what if what I write is just nonsense + she said there's no such thing as nonsense if it's sounds + syllables + spaces + sounds + syllables + spaces + space + space + space + space + space + space well then you're probably thinking again! So just write + enjoy the process.

Ok here I go God. I'm writing writing writing writing writing rhythms, sounds, syllables, do do do doo doo, doo da da, doo da da, doo doo da doo da wah wah wah wah, wo wo wo, don't u go don't u go w/o saying hello goodbye don't u stay w/out saying hey hey.

Well I'm writing God, I guess. I'm writing writing writing And she say yes yes yes you sho is. Write write write Let your thang go

And then God added, she said, you know, space is ok too, silence is sometimes the hardest to do well.

--By Maria Johnson, 5/11/09

Thigh Dwellers

Now that I have your attention...some of you responded to this potential song title, so here is the poem (Fortunately, most of my photos were already on my computer, so losing the camera in the lake wasn't horrible). I know that some of you might not relate to this poem and have your own joys and concerns about thighs and other body parts. This poem is not a dis to you, but a celebration and poetry therapy for me. :-):







Thigh Dwellers

We are the thigh dwellers
peasant ankled worriers of bathing suite weather.
Suitable? Never!
Log-legged and land-locked by Gucci, Vercace, and Calvin Klein
we wish for elephant stampedes
along slender runways
to flatten fashion designers before next year’s line of micro-minis.

We are the thigh dwellers
who purchase nylons according to height and weight
and still must pack our legs in like pork sausage
and hear their rub, squeak, squeak amidst the skirt pleats
or stare at thread-bare, Blue-Jean crotches. Friction speaks.

We are the thigh dwellers
our fists fit into waist bands while pleats plot
and pockets crease at 45 degree angles
and “loose fit” is not even an aspiration.

We are the thigh dwellers
sturdy ancestral legs of Swedish descent.
Logger trees, “widow makers” that split wrong and fall toward men.
Pillared against pairing yet ample in love.

We are the thigh dwellers
fecund rounds of flesh wrapped round your hips
Quiver thick with passion.
Dance deep and wide as rivers and raw earth we spread
and give more than any bony-hipped, knobby-kneed lover, we do.
We do give all,
We do. We are,
we are the thigh dwellers
and we wish,
we wish
for no less.








I hear a raw, lusty drum beat...:-).





-Wendy

Frustration on a Zafu

I put the palms of my hands together, close to my body, thumbs touching my chest. I bow to my little Buddha, the one I had to paint because it didn't coordinate with my bedroom. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. I'm going to meditate, damnit, if it kills me.

I'm uncomfortable, though. My wonky right hip is splayed out too far, and the place where my tailbone used to live still aches with the pressure of spine on newly grown tissue. The lone ovary is bitching and moaning, and the shoulder blade that always has better places to be is trying to run away again, taking a vertebra or two with it.

My tongue finds a tooth with a bit of leftover glue where a bracket was adhered for two and a half long years. I hate Dr. Wisdom. I hate Dr. Wisdom. I mean, I love everything. My heart is an opening flower, or some shit like that.

Hmmm...that candle smells nice. I can't believe I made it, or rather, that I actually finished a project. I wonder what I should start next? Wait, I know - new music for my iPod, because this song SUCKS! What's up with all that wailing?!

Uh-oh, I'm thinking too much again. Screw monkey mind - I must have gorilla mind. ADD/GAD/OCD alphabet soup mind is more like it. Bassett hound mind, now that's what I need. Where can I find one of those? And what was that thing, something I wanted to order from Amazon...

Oh, fuck this! I want a cup of coffee.

~ Amy K.

Brave Voice 09

Wild Women ride the Hay wagon... Working up an appetite for our last supper together at BV.

A Poem a Day!

How about starting the new year ( I know, I know... I'm a little late) by writing a poem a day. Some of us are doing just that! We will review, revise and rewrite in February and then possibly have a reading in March and put out a small chapbook. Join us!
Nancy

Thinking of you.

I hear voices in the dark yard.
sounding like the last day
we sang together,
chirping high sweet songs
filling the grass and trees with
our children of the heart.

You are twirling around.
Words spin like silver sparks
shooting from your fingertips.
Each page
floating up like the flag
of a new country.

I think of you
and you,
and especially of you
walking fast d0wn the street
of your town. Never looking
down but only up.

Knowing today is your day
to gin-rummy, find love,
sew the first doll, write the
next poem, sing a silly song
that leaves us all breathless.
Ah! I can hear ....
You are singing now!