October 2, 2009 - by Di

Grand Lake at Bernice State Park

BIRD BRAIN

When I get still enough

and the thinking stops

I can feel the gliding sensation of the birds just in front of me

If I hadn't come to this very spot today

They would certainly still be here ...

The birds, the fisherman, the ever-rolling waves of the lake on this windy day

Yet, maybe the birds changed their course

Didn't come quite as close to the bank as they would have had I not been here

They stop their wings, point their heads down

And dive head first into the water

It's amazing to watch

So far tho, it has appeared to be a wild guess and produced nothing

But the beauty of the bird brain is, there is most likely no conversation

about how there is something wrong with them or they are not doing it right

Just try again and again and again, it's enough just being alive ...

flying, making noise, diving into the water and catch a fish, or not ...

And everyday is a good day.

LOST 9-22-09

I search the house

Like I’m looking for my keys

She’s got to be in here

She was here just the other day

Round and round I go

Faster and faster

Determined to find her

If only the house wasn’t such a mess

I revisit the same places I’ve already been

She’ll be in the last place I look

I remind myself

Round and round I go

Again and again

Determined to find me

I check the places I’ve already been

If only my life wasn’t such a mess

I know I could find me

Round and round

Faster and faster

Again and again

Round and round

Faster and faster

Again and again

Legend of the BVDs
(from found words in the Wikipedia article on BVDs)

The day was a great
depression of a bulky
tight-fitting garment.
A heavy squeeze.
Hard-hearted lock-and-key blues.
Cellophane next to my skin.

Second verse:
Changes…
Two wild sisters…
Dark satin women…
A supporter stone…
A pocket of electric sound…
A loose lyric song…
An open letter window…
Briefly,
beautiful.

~ Amy K.

Lyrics

Daddy’s Girl

The mountainside is unforgiving and the woods are wild.
A mining town is no good place for a woman-child.

Mama got married when she was fifteen,
‘Round here that’s the way it’s done.
Wore herself out sweeping up coal dust,
Went to her grave only thirty-one.
We hide our lives behind closed doors,
We all pretend there’s nothin’ to know.
No one to trust, nowhere to turn, just
Take it day by day and blow by blow, so

(Chorus)
When you fall, I’ll start running,
Fast as I can on my strong, bare feet.
Down in the mountain the devil’s humming,
Fanning his flame, turning up the heat.
Call it vengeance, call it justice,
By my hand you’ll be leaving this world.
I may be bruised but I’m not busted
And I’m through being Daddy’s girl.

When he leaves at dawn I get on my knees,
I pray the tunnel takes him straight to hell.
But if he comes back, I got my own plan,
So many things I can never tell.
I have to be the woman of the house,
‘Round here that’s the way it’s done.
I sweep the coal dust, I cook the supper,
And then I clean and reload the shotgun.

Chorus

I can’t open my eyes.
I hear his boots drop to the floor.
The smell of moonshine,
The feel of stubble.
I can’t take this anymore.

Chorus

The mountainside is unforgiving and the woods are wild.
A mining town is no good place for a woman-child.

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