July 1991

must’ve been the driest, thickest day of July

when we dismantled the tipi

dust rested on plants and sitting-logs

thick and gray

like some hellish frost

come to blight our paradise

dogs were walking powder puffs

of earth’s sloughing off

95% humidity sent sweaty rivulets

coursing between women’s breasts

drew smooth steady patterns

on kids’ dirty faces

paintings on tipi canvas

looked faded and dull

 from six years of pounding weather

and six weeks of no rain

teenaged son shinnied

up and up

like some four-legged creature

at home in his jungle

tugged each lacing pin from its moorings                                                                                              

where canvas was lashed together

some slid out just right

others took yanking, cussing

before they let go

one after another, till all were out

he roared as he grabbed the top edge

of tired, mildewed canvas

            awakened it from its comfortable resting place

and with one mighty shove

sent it sliding down slick debarked pine poles

like a giant skirt

slipping slowly, provocatively

            around the ankles of a mountain of a woman

it landed in folds and heaps

on the dry cracked ground

someone beat a drum, someone cried

someone  moaned—I think it was me

dogs and cats ran

someone played a flute

someone howled like a wolf

strong-shouldered husband and neighbors

heaved loosely rolled  tipi canvas

to edge of tree-line

seventeen poles stood naked and strong

skeletal remains of our Brown County era

they sprawled in a circle 28 feet wide

leaned into each other at the conical top

bound together with thick sisal rope

thirty feet above hard clay-packed floor

above plywood platform

where beds had held our family

close to earth’s steady heartbeat

someone played guitar

someone hooted—crazy, insane

like barred owls carrying on psychotic

conversations in the dark of the night

someone yip, yip, yipped

like coyotes on prowl  

daughter and friend arrived

full of  young woman sensuality

            began dancing on plywood platform

pounding feet drummed steady rhythm

more feet, more drumming

more feet dancing, drumming

hoot, hoot, hooting

kicking up dust

sweating, laughing

crying out for rain

drinking cheap wine

smoking last year’s harvest

stomping, thumping

with bare feet, booted feet

on hollow wooden floor

wild and free

caught up in primal celebration

the moving of the lodge

the feasting of the tribe

prayers for rain, rain, rain

distant thunder, was it? did you hear it?

was that lightning? did you see it?

thunder again—closer

we danced harder, faster

drummed, sang

drummed, danced

rain sprinkled, showered

poured from the skies

mothers and others carried drums

guitars, babies to nearby shack—

door and windows swung wide open

storm-crazed dancers

undaunted by nature’s pelting

perpetuated rain-soaked plywood vibration

with unrestrained ecstasy  

we slung off dripping clothes

to rhythm of pounding feet

everything

everything

t-shirts, shorts

jeans, skirts

tossed into one colorful

soggy, sloppy heap

naked skin like naked tipi poles

shining wet, clean, cool

thunder boomed

dogs barked, babies cried

we drummed our moving-on dance

till slippery plywood threatened to break fragile bones

and massive electric bolts

too close for comfort

shoved us indoors

pounding rain continued to drum

the rusty metal roof as we

panted our thanksgiving

and fed one another

from the multi-purpose

stainless steel dishpan

heaped to overflowing

with July’s ripe, juicy blackberries

                                  Glenda Breeden

                                   2005

I Am Gannet

Photo: Seabirds /VisitScotland

I Am Gannet

I am gannet, seabird,

soaring with my gray,

white and yellow-feathered body

off the volcanic shore of Iona.

The sparkling waters

in Martyrs Bay

tempt and tease me

as they race over

their bounty 

hidden deep below the surface.

I climb skyward high

over the bouncing waves

as they strive for shore.

Now. Turn. Spiral.

Beak first, speeding straight down

wings sleek along my body,

needle-like.

Capture one shiny silver fish.

Burst up through the waves.

Slowly and steadily I balance

on top of the water. One gulp.

Fish gone, sustenance begins.

As I’m being nourished

rich nutrients coursing through me,

my mind clears, my eyesight sharpens

I open my beak to call out gratitude.

Rebekah for The Poplar Grove Muse

She was a Tough Old Broad

When I die, I want to be cremated

And buried in an urn

That will turn me into a tree

I don't really care what kind

My loved ones should grieve

However they need to 

That is their chore to complete

I won’t have a gravestone

But if I did, I would want it to say;

“Beloved by many,

She was a tough old broad"

Diana, for the Poplar Grove Muse 

More Than Gold

Today I walked slowly,

small hand in my hand,

and chatted with the kid,

who agreed we MUST have kale for chips

and begged for honey sticks.

Today as we meandered crowded aisles of grains and greens,

overflowing crates of yellows and reds,

I watched the people who picked this food-

soon to be piled on our plates-

watched as they chatted and smiled about the food they knew,

like a child they’d raised.

Today as I peered into the overfilling basket hung on my arm,

I knew the extra minutes it was taking to gather our meals,

the extra minutes it would take to chop and simmer,

the waiting time for rising and kneading,

would always be worth more than any minute or dollar I might save.

Today I walked slowly.

~KGS
www.sagetribe02.com

Window Seat To Wonder

It’s been raining for eight days, maybe more.  Our morning yoga teacher offered the meditation: please, notice the cloudiness - then let it go.  It’s good to remember how much clouds affect the mind.  And here, maybe more.  Boulderites are used to 300 sunny days a year.  We are eight days into clouds - residents feel worry.  The woman next to me in class lives in Scotland.  She shrugs, says, “Everyday is like this.”  Another woman adds, “Yes, but this rain makes us nervous for floods.”

Rightly so, the Boulder Floods of September 2013 are fresh in mind for some.  Parts of the city are still in repair, with much evidence of the devastation around the hiking trails.  After two years, some pathways remain completely closed off.  There is evidence of post-traumatic environmental stress.  A good reminder: we are so intimate with where we are.  I left Boulder at the end of August 2013, and feel gratitude for having been able to land safely home.   I’m also lucky to be able to return, each time I gather something more.  Traveling, especially returning to places over consecutive years re-kindles my interest in psycho-environmentalism.   How place shines through, intermingles with person. 

I would describe today as a Pacific Northwest day, a foggy San Francisco moment, a non-humid Indiana summer pre-dawn (after evening storm).  It makes me feel contemplative, dreamy, like I might want to take a boat trip to a small island.  The Flatirons, regular ruddy totems, are obscured in something of a foggy blur. I don’t mind the effect on my mind, as long as I remember it won’t always be like this.  It frees my moment up to consider life past conditions, while enjoying the trip of the time.

Alas, with no boat at hand, nor waters to travel on...I content myself with a latte and window seat to wonder.

Allison - PGM

"Money is a kind of poetry" --Wallace Stevens

This quote was a poetry prompt during National Poetry Writing Month and my first reaction was, noooooo ...... but then I thought, hmmm, IF money WERE a kind of poetry, what would it be? And this is the poem that arrived:

Light verse loose change
jingles in your favorite uncle’s pocket
as he tosses quarters for ice cream
and pulls a silver dollar
out of your ear.

Working man’s ballad of company scrip,
slow beat heartbreak never get ahead
a nickel and a dime and another loaf of bread
foreman says work, union says strike
babies crying through the night

Pieces of eight for a pirate’s shout
storm shanties, drinking songs,
girls in each port, whalers and
sailors and Davy Jones’ deep,
weevils, and gunwales, and topsails.

A few new bills for a smart new verse,
something to impress city slickers,
those literary types in New Yawk,
up on the latest trends, the clubs,
martinis, Broadway bright lights.

The odd tip and free coffee at the slam,
the chance to step up and speak, say my
words, loud, straight, where people hear me
all the way to the back, and onto the street
where they come from, those words, mine.

Plastic for the postmodern,
the not quite real for the not
quite there, what it means to me
and to you and to them, who can say?
Words and balances constructed.

by Mary Pat Lynch

April is National Poetry Month

National Poetry Month inspired an outpouring of poetry from our community, notably from a group who participated in NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month), composing poems daily using (or not using) prompts, and providing readback lines to one another on a dedicated Facebook page.  Great fun!

Here are two from Glenda, for the Poplar Grove Muse.

(Assignment: use five words or phrases borrowed from the poem, “Saying Things” by Marilyn Krysl.  My words: cashmere, harpoon, brown sugar, windmill, cosmic dust)

Cashmere and Harpoons

Who wouldn't prefer

the kiss of cashmere on skin

to a harpoon in the gut?

Who wouldn't prefer

a brown sugar morning

to bitterroot stirred into the cup?

Ah, but the windmill of life turns and spins,

throws cosmic dust this way and that—

harpoon below the belt

when cashmere felt

like it might last forever;

bitterroot in the cup of joy

when brown sugar tasted like heaven.

No need to scream: Unfair! Unfair!

What's fair anyway—in love or war,

in politics or being poor?

There's no one-size-fits-all fair:

For some, three squares

and a roof seem finer

than their wildest dreams;

for others, four mansions,

three sailboats and a private plane

seem woefully lame.

And here's the thing—

cosmic dust surely contains

as much cashmere and brown sugar

as harpoons and bitterroot.

So spin, windmill, spin!

Keep the stuff of life

in constant circulation!

Cup of joy—

enough to warrant celebration!

And, if not cashmere—

at least the kiss of flannel

soft and warm.

                                                                                                            Glenda Breeden (April 2015)

A Dozen Roses to You         (Glenda Breeden  April 2015)

Wear that Medicaid badge with pride!  

Look the receptionist, the nurse,

the doctor square in the eye!

Look me square in the eye!

No shame allowed!

No blame tolerated!

 

Decorate the badge, the card

with flowers and bees,

redbud trees in full bloom,

shooting stars and harvest moon!

Hang hopes and ten thousand

dreams on that card

to ward off the misguided judgment

of the better than thous.

Those who would have you bow your head,

fall on bended knees and say:

Please, please, pretty please!

Who but you can possibly know

the blow by blow

of harsh winds that have ricocheted 

your body and soul

from one government agency to the next,

from applications and oral  citations

to that fistful of IDs, utility bills

and housing confirmation required

as proof of your worth

and the worth of your kids?

Forget the skids that slid your game plan

sideways to begin with!

Or who but you can understand

the choices you've made:

To live your individual truth,

to climb your own definition of success

and lay low the status quo ladder

of oneupmanship and dog eat dog

in exchange for your own chosen work,

that personal song that sings joy to your spirit

and the heart of your home.

(Sad to say, most doctors

no longer accept poems or paintings,

sweet potatoes or rutabagas,

fresh farm eggs or homemade cookies

as barter for their needed expertise!)

No apologies please—

Freeze that frame immediately!

Name the guilt that society has spilled

on almost everyone who needs a hand up.

Stand up taller than the small minded,

refuse to let their attitude

shape your dignity and self worth,

and don't ever doubt from within or without

that the health and well being

of thee and thine

matters every bit as much as these

apple shine cheeks of me and mine!

 

A dozen roses to you!

For stepping up to the plate

and accepting your due,

your share of the pie—

scoop it up and taste the sweetness

of health-care provided!

And, don't forget—

wear that Medicaid badge with pride!

Chin up, shoulders back,

confidence too true to hide!

Look the powers that be square in the eye!

Look me square in the eye!

May each of us earn your respect

as surely as you have earned ours.