Two pileated woodpeckers chip away on a dead fir. Where I stand
it is raining bits and pieces of the old tree as long sharp beaks
hammer with precise repetition in the solitude of the forest.
These two with their red-crested heads continue the hard knocks and
go on to climb higher, the noise of beaks and feet and falling
wood chips still heard in the distance as I go on towards Gazzam Lake.
Prose Poems
Creperie Ty Couz
In a village outside of Pont Aven we are greeted at the creperie
by the family Valmes. Mother and father, sister and her husband,
their daughter and her husband Faberce, and Danielle and Fabion.
It is a surprise to see all of the family together.
The mother and father do not speak English. The brother-in-law
is retired Royal Navy officer and he has been to New York, Los
Angeles and New Orleans. He knows some English. We talk using a
small dictionary Francais Anglais English French. He shows me
his hand that once held a lance in a war in North Africa.
I want to know more of this French war he speaks of but I do not
know the language and the little dictionary we hold will not contain
all the words needed to talk of wars and ships, the economy of
governments or imperialism in Africa.
Monsieur of Brest sits next to me eating his crepes with lanced
hands holding the knife and fork. He shows me how to eat the crepe
and recommends the saucisson campagne, the sausage of the farmer who
makes it in the countryside. He translates the phrase as sausage
of the farmer. I look to the book for a word to word translation
sausage of the countryside. With his healed hands he demonstrates
the act of the farmer stuffing sausage. We drink the cider that was
also made by a farmer from this countryside.
Here the daughter of Angeles carries on the traditional business
of her mother as her mother before her did. The batter is poured
on large flat heated plates and spread with long spatula in a circular
motion until it is amazingly thin. At just the right time it is
flipped and the egg, if an agg was ordered “crepes oeuf”, is opened
over the crepe and the egg falls in the middle. The white is spread
over the crepe until it too is very thin and the heat permeates the
crepe and cooks the egg. Cheese is sprinkled over it and then folded
from all four corners. Served fresh from this woman of the countryside.
Metalsmith
Learn to take metal, this time copper, texture the surface with heat and
design. A simple beginner project to cut your initial out of the piece with
a jeweler’s saw. My J not a plain J, a big J with curves and a slant to the side.
The edge most be filed and made smooth. My mind is in trance from this
method. I keep filing until I almost cut myself. What a surprise to create
a weapon instead of jewelry. I ask the teacher, “What came first, jewelry
or the sword?”
Bridge in Alabama
Short drive ahead to the bridge in Alabama. Structurely sound destination after all morning at the museum in Montgomery. State flag criss cross in red paint, the hands of children.
A group of students move quickly through the displays, the guide stopping for a moment at the cotton gin. In the next room a KKK robe complete with hoodie.
Follow that cotton trail down to the market square, dressed in cotton shorts and tops, to profit from the unknown. Slaves were traded here under a necklace of lock and key.
On the other side of the street is the state capital building. One block to the south, the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, where plans were made.
Where others walked not so long ago, we drive the Freedom Trail, and finish where they started, the Edmund Pettus Bridge, named for a Confederate General and KKK Red Dragon.
On a building wall situated in the middle of town is a huge sign “Honor the past. Build the future.” Forgive the past and know that there are many dishonorable events.
Job No More
My last day of work was Wednesday. I am saying farewell to twenty eight years of coaching. Next to nothing compared to life. Always telling people what to do. Now the real life begins. Farewell to the people was not easy. Some said goodbye to me and some did not. No tears, just smiles and recognition. Will I recognize you later on the streets, riding the ferry, or in a pool?
Walking with Greg to the Bridge on Lightning Lake
After breakfast I want to show Greg the lake. It is late in the morning. More people have put in boats. The sun is on the lake where we stand to decide our day. We can walk the loop around Lightning Lake. No, that will be in the shadow, Greg wants to be in the sunlight. Let’s go this way I say, we can go to the bridge. Not if its in the shadow, Greg says.
Along the trail there are patches of shade, there is grumbling along the way. We go beyond Rainbow Bridge where there are spots of sun. Greg wants only to be in the sun. He stops by a boulder on the shore and falls asleep. I walk further watching the shore and Greg, then turn back to join him. Around his boulder are plants, small seeds of sedge and lupine, and tiny birds that come to eat.
Suddenly there is a piercing sound almost like a coyote in the distance. It fills the woods with its call, startling me from my study of flora and fauna. It collapses back into silence. There it is again, this time the mind memory of the loon, the unforgettable voice of the loon. Across the lake it glides along the water, stretches its neck to call again.
hear the sound of a loon
that calls to its mate
waking the dawn
Lightning Lake is in the E.C. Manning Provincial Park in British Columbia.
A Garden or Not
It is fun planting a garden in Texas. Then the rains come and wash it away and what was a line is scattered about. See the little sprouts making their way especially the beet sprouts which are gone the next day. Keep the deer away, the slugs and raccoons, all the other garden predators that will be coming here soon. The garden was planted, I had taken great care to aline all the rows so I can watch it grow, or not.
NaPoWriMo prompt to write a story and run it backwards. Either way I have trouble gardening in Texas.
Cold Case
by Briar Pipe, Sherlock Holmes’s pipe
I, the briar pipe of Sherlock Holmes, was made from briarwood
a wood most difficult to burn. Revealed on all surfaces were the
ornate carvings of a London street scene, Thames Street, to be
exact, on the stem of one side from Blackfriars Theatre, follow-
ing along brick and mortar, the London Bridge wrapping around
my bowl, and spanning the length on the other side the
River Thames, with Shakespeare’s Globe a large speck on the
shank.
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes’s requests so I
allowed myself to be smoked repeatedly. On one occasion his
friend Watson could hardly breathe in the room. Holmes could
smoke all night “lost in tobacco and thought” and frequently
smoke three bowls in a matter of fifty minutes.
From my place between his lips when he stood it was near six
feet in the air. My close proximity gave witness to sharp
piercing eyes, a prominent chin, curved and hooked nose,
and at times a flush of color on his pale cheeks. Sometimes his
eyelids drooped as though he were asleep.
When not perched between his lips, my place was in the left
side pocket of his tweed suit coat. As was the fashion of the day,
both pockets were huge with the right pocket holding
his pistol. Accompanying me, so as to leave the pistol un-
encumbered, were a tobacco box containing the strongest
black shag tobacco, a book of matches, tape measure and
a large round magnifying glass. When the matches were not to
be found he would light up using tongs to hold a glowing ember
from the fire, “the blue smoke curling up from him”.
There were incidents where I hardly recognized him at all as he
was a master of disguise and would put aside his overcoat, ear-flapped
cap and riding-crop cane to become a priest, beggar or
salesman.
Before the year 1900 the smoking stopped. Some suspected
it was his enemies with whom he met his demise. The case is still
open. I like to think he is sitting “silent, motionless, with the
light shining upon his strong aquiline features.”
On Division
Abram split an animal in two
a form of divination in his day
watched it carefully and kept vultures away
Moses brought down the word of God
split the stones in two
seeing what the people would do
Saul was their choice for king
when he didn’t hear God
went to the Witch of Endor anyway
The Family Portrait
The old frame that holds the family portrait is removed,
separating it from this photograph of another time, another place.
The place is Red Rocks National Park in Colorado. The family sits
blended into rock landscape for that single instance of togetherness
that we can never repeat. I search for a smile, or a half frown on any
of the faces. I, a new mother, in full smile, hold my first born Anna
with my hand held firmly over her heart. Two blonde sisters’ dimpled
smiles are framed by a huge red boulder. The men are outnumbered.
My father, last to bare his name, is big and on the edge, like in life.
His mother stands close to him and between dad and mom, symbolic
of many a rocky marriage. All three, mother father grandmother,
are dressed in beige and seem to fade into the earth’s bright colors.
Now they are gone. The husbands are bearded and beautiful.
The children sit, knowing and vague.
——————————-
Family portrait taken in the winter of 1980, poem written in 1989 and
revised for the NaPoWriMo prompt of 2016.
wordshophop 