tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36426742011-06-08T16:37:09.078+10:00Poetry CottageA small corner within Lemuria, inside the word weaving cottage, where a Lemurian poet, Soul Food's Poet Laureate, comes to read her work to fellow Lemurians.Heather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.comBlogger1361100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1121236846043497152005-07-13T16:39:00.000+10:002005-07-13T16:40:46.050+10:00 Veils I walk this lucent pathway With the shadows of Myself Between the bright veils They brush my cheeks and soothe my Slumbering eyes My fingertips kiss their softness On each side as I walk Sleep is chiffon, melting easily With almost nothing in between The other side and I The breeze wafts fluidly China silk, crepe de chine I am here I am gone The dream veil wraps me round With a Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1120736968496957482005-07-07T21:48:00.000+10:002005-07-07T21:49:28.503+10:00Duende Deluge Call from the chasm, black heart of night Walk backwards into deepness, reaching Yearning shadows paint the Dance of darkness Candle of creation, bloomed bone black Clear, clean, candent Dredged from darkness Sudden flaming fretted fire Up from the depths in breath suspended Throbbing beyond the beat of blood Powerful pounding sable shadows Spellbound, strong and spinning Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1120712467380629472005-07-07T15:01:00.000+10:002005-07-07T15:01:41.340+10:00DuendeEdwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1120712429212484872005-07-07T14:59:00.000+10:002005-07-07T15:00:29.223+10:00Dark Dance with Duende I don’t think I dance with Duende I think it dances me Like a puppet or a pawn Pulling strings in lurching, frenetic movement Or leaving them hanging Tangled, still and flaccid Do I drink darkness to dance? Shall I go seeking shadows? I half sick of shadows, she said I am past half sick of shadows Fully, 100%, in toto sick to death Disgusted with phantoms Repulsed by Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1120712092840061132005-07-07T14:54:00.000+10:002005-07-07T14:55:55.583+10:00I began dancing barefoot,throwing words at the paper like a confetti of joyEdwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1120712057229939572005-07-07T14:52:00.000+10:002005-07-07T14:54:17.233+10:00Remembering who I am, I remove my shoes. Oh no, my partner in this weaving dance I’ve never doubted your pattern, the purpose in your steps The Goddess is, verily, your choreographer The chaos is mine. Indeed . . . inherently, intrinsically, innately mine I was raised on free verse, free movement I began dancing barefoot, throwing words at the paper like a confetti of joyEdwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1120211267234074732005-07-01T19:46:00.000+10:002005-07-01T19:47:47.240+10:00Onion’s Progress Such a small thing, full of layers To have turned us all to vile players Oh! The punsters we’ve become Because of Ascalonicum!! Poor Dilyn’s most nightmarish fears Come haunting from a vale of tears Soon we’ll hear the poor man screaming Chopping ‘til his eyes are streaming Gashing, slashing, cleave and cut Foul memories of Pizza Hut! And Bards who once were all so chic Now Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1120211103256025792005-07-01T19:45:00.000+10:002005-07-01T19:45:03.360+10:00The Dreaded "O"Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1120194065435201342005-07-01T15:01:00.000+10:002005-07-01T15:01:05.440+10:00SCRAMBLED!Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1120194029655621612005-07-01T15:00:00.000+10:002005-07-01T15:00:29.663+10:00 SCRAMBLED! Normal Normal, Norman Doorman, doormat Laundromat, Land-grant, Grant’s Tomb, Trombone, Onions, Bunion, Bunyips, Yipping, coyotes, whole notes, passing notes Passing out, outside, yard, yard-arm, Arm circles, cycles, circuit, CirceEdwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1119804458953516382005-06-27T02:47:00.000+10:002005-06-27T02:47:38.956+10:00Feather-Stone Woman: Lit From WithinEdwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1119804427376787112005-06-27T02:46:00.000+10:002005-06-27T02:47:07.380+10:00Maya “The power of illusion, false appearance The veil that deludes the Divine . . .” Not this Maya Here is a shaft of clarified light More real than any mirage of a dream A bright lazar of understanding Ceaselessly searching meaning Seeking deeper, casting further Questing clear Between spiritual reality And the physical world Not a veil at all . . . A lightening rod ©Edwina Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1119611908311138782005-06-24T21:18:00.000+10:002005-06-24T21:18:28.313+10:00Sonnet to the Lemurian Abbey Be welcomed in these hallowed halls Let all your burdens go Feel peace within these hollowed walls Beneath the lamp lights glow Here time is quiet, time is slow Soft time to think and be This healing gift the walls bestow Unhurried guarantee And in this time creation flows From fingers and from quill Here art is born and words compose Deep essence to fulfil For a Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1119611733033197462005-06-24T21:15:00.000+10:002005-06-24T21:15:33.036+10:00Mermaid and DryadEdwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1119611701756449592005-06-24T21:14:00.000+10:002005-06-24T21:15:01.760+10:00From fish of the seas and birds on the wing Dryads and mermaids come to dance and to sing An earth deep dance washed with bright salt sting Flaming with autumn, while remembering spring This wet double reel filled with each kind of thing That seething sea or stable shore, hand in hand, will bring ©Edwina Peterson CrossEdwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1119611391017645762005-06-24T21:09:00.000+10:002005-06-24T21:09:51.076+10:00Haiga to a Carmichael SkyEdwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1118782579627838082005-06-15T06:56:00.000+10:002005-06-15T06:56:19.630+10:00Memory in a MeadowEdwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1118782184558836042005-06-15T06:48:00.000+10:002005-06-15T06:49:44.566+10:00MEAD MEADOW DANCEMead made from meadows that bloom in my mind At the top of tall mountains, whispered with wings Where honied winds blow with sunshine entwined And snow weeps down laughing in hundreds of springs Witches Broom, River Birch, Bitter Brush Burdock Brew it in deep vats, seal it in sapphire It will bloom in the darkness growing profound Bubbling with impulse and sure to inspire It Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1118732353363762032005-06-14T16:59:00.000+10:002005-06-14T16:59:13.366+10:00ARTISTEdwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1118732310500179442005-06-14T16:57:00.000+10:002005-06-14T16:58:30.503+10:00Artist I did not believe in the painting The dance, the words or the song But I believed in the Painter A belief that was solid and strong I believed in the Dancer Whose movement was fire to behold I believed in the Singer Whose song filled the darkness with gold I believed in the Actor Who could move souls with her voice And I believed in the Woman When she spoke of a different choice The Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1118732163411444182005-06-14T16:56:00.000+10:002005-06-14T16:56:03.413+10:00The Animus - MerlinEdwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1118732093520100742005-06-14T16:50:00.001+10:002005-06-14T16:54:53.536+10:00~ One of Jung's interpreters held that the anima/animus character was only understandable to those who have known true love. ~ I am no Jungerian scholar I comprehend his thoughts in mist and metaphor His concepts in analogy and image I met him in the Dreamtime, walking But I understand the anima/animus Down to spit, pith and marrow It is a weaving I like, a net for thought I find attractive Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1118731847289772282005-06-14T16:50:00.000+10:002005-06-14T16:50:47.296+10:00Anglication I have been known to rail and fume Stand on soap boxes and wave my arms Over my own blind Anglicized education I studied everything from Bede and Beowulf to ‘Modern British Drama:’ Current, Mod, Contemp And back again and back again and back again From Romantic Restoration Victorian Middle Ages of Anglo-Saxon, Anglo-Norman, Olde English, Middle English, Modern English and Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1118731234228438932005-06-14T16:40:00.000+10:002005-06-14T16:40:34.233+10:00A New DawnEdwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1118731093377130372005-06-14T16:36:00.000+10:002005-06-14T16:38:13.380+10:00The Amazon’s Ride Descended from Strife and Symmetry Warriors of ancient lore To restore health and Harmony The Amazon’s ride to War The Martial Queen with her ivied shield A strong memory of spiritual power Leads her warriors into battle At this essential echoed hour She faces the foe with the weight of love The blazing heart of a swan From the strength of a circle of women Comes the light Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1118730963316528042005-06-14T16:35:00.000+10:002005-06-14T16:36:03.316+10:00Alchemist Lair with a purplish flair In the top of a turreted tower Full of breeze and twining trees A beautiful ivy wrapped bower There she works in earnest joy Writes possibilities, paints with chance It is here in the circling wind She and her Goddess dance Some find their truth in Spartan cells Bare walls for pure Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1118730870295481152005-06-14T16:33:00.000+10:002005-06-14T16:34:30.296+10:00Alchemist At the top of the stair Is the Alchemists Lair But you may find Nothing there The whisp of a whisper The pray of a prayer A split deck spinning solitaire A venerable vintage, old and rare Caught in crystal whirled in air A candle’s breath, that bright hot flare Then suddenly . . . . there is nothing there The students come and they prepare Declare, compare, become aware Then Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1118730781400151432005-06-14T16:31:00.000+10:002005-06-14T16:33:01.406+10:00After Revelation Knowing doesn’t change being What is at this moment splashing in your eyes Strung across your forehead like prayer flags Slapping your face with the smack of the present Shaking your shoulders with the snap of now Is not in any way modified or altered By any kind of sapience Of what will Inevitably be That you will open your eyes one day And find them gone Doesn’t stop the Edwina Peterson Crossnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1108631760397817572005-02-17T19:15:00.000+10:002005-02-17T19:16:00.400+10:00MY HOMES IN LEMURIA~A Lemurian Ballad~Unroll your map, my artist friendAnd spread it ‘cross the tableI’ll point you where my wild paths wendThrough myth and tale and fableI’ll trace you where those lay lines lieWith the ghosts of my footsteps strewnWhere secret sarns run under the skyWith the power to drink down the moonI’ll plot you a plan of this land of dreamBetween Ithaka and the starsWhere Heather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1108240987241172842005-02-13T06:42:00.000+10:002005-02-13T06:43:07.243+10:00As magic melts into mundane?Is a miracle something that cries?As it rusts in a workaday rain?Do creative sparks rip the sky,If they fall to the cold ground unused?Do dreams scream when they die,When the dreaming’s been bruised and abused?What is the sound when Art dies?Can you hear a soul wasting disease?Can you hear breath and bone turn slowly to stone?Can you hear when a heart starts to freeze?Heather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1099094949629642272004-10-30T10:08:00.000+10:002004-10-30T10:09:09.630+10:00Honey smoked wood of Egypt
Turned on a lathe of time
Glossed by oil of a thousand hands
Tear cured in a vat of brine
On the other side of nothing, I,
Sit plaiting barren words
Weaving futile tinctures of light
And counting wood
Dichetal do Chennaib
Hang your harp in the tree, hang yourself, one eyed man
For what wisdom is worth in the end
Bite the apple, bite the sky
Both will Heather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1099094790333337622004-10-30T10:05:00.000+10:002004-10-30T10:06:30.333+10:00Rivers, Bridges and Other Cliché's
Thirty years later
I recognize your handwriting on the envelope immediately
Even without my glasses
You write to say
You are a Grandmother . . .
An unexpected gravity shift
In my mind, you are definitely
At incongruous angles with the word
I remember you holding the tiny newborn son
Who must be this baby’s father
When my own jigsaw childhunger was still
Heather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061717150377874252003-08-24T19:25:00.000+10:002003-08-24T19:27:05.423+10:00Coyote
Witch Dog . . .
Give me your night
The shatter of sinews
The split of flesh
The creeping of the wind in your veins
Brush Wolf . . .
Give me your shadow
Swallowed in spectral sage
Silent phantom ruler of the range
Give me the rip of the howl in your throat
Give me your gold wax eyes
Live . . .
Tomorrows teeth in your spine
Hunger hounding your belly
Run . . .
Your round glass mind Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061715530777847002003-08-24T18:58:00.000+10:002003-10-01T17:10:53.250+10:00ASHLAND LIGHT
Looking Out My Back Door . . .
There is a different kind of light in this valley. It is a light that must be savored by more than just one sense. Of course you can see it, but in this valley, you can touch the light as well. It is a light full of texture, fragrance and clarity. If you are lucky, sometimes you can even taste it.
Rogue Valley light; perceptible, palpable, tangible.Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061703022996090072003-08-24T15:30:00.000+10:002003-08-24T15:31:36.593+10:00Considering Philosophy of a Saturday, I turn to my bookshelves. I could reach for
A. Schopenhauer OR A. Saint-Exupery
Isaac&Isadora/Asimov-Duncan
Robert: Frost-Graves
Bechett*Machiavelli*Hitler*Nostradamus*Plato*Sophocles*Voltaire*Bulfinch*
Allan: Ginsberg/Watts
OSCAR&OMAR/WILDE-KHAYYAM
Arthur: Clarke, REX, Miller=Henry
csLewis, bfSkinner, hgWells, fmDostojevski, mcEscher, jdSalinger,Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061638834529176112003-08-23T21:40:00.000+10:002004-04-09T14:51:20.873+10:00A STREAMING TALE
Goblin spoke to Ternerhooks
“Beware! Be long, Be gone!
Something foul is seeking
The girl with the clear blue song!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A narrow eyed man, all cloaked in black
Limps up from out the sea
Carrying a slick and leaking sack
And a spiraled iron key
He has come to make an offer
To a face without a name
And he carries his dripping coffer
With a quiet, patient shame
DownWinniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061632915978346132003-08-23T20:01:00.000+10:002003-10-01T17:12:28.903+10:00Son Rise
I surface from the depths of sleep
Swimming upwards
Dreams still clinging like water lilies to my liquid thoughts
The night is full of hush
Cathedral silence
Except for the clear singular sound of your call
Firm, insistent summons
Wordless meaning
I flow through the shadows on some sixth sense
Until I find you in the dark
“Shhhh, I’m here . . .”
My arms were made for your roundness
I Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061632718472661762003-08-23T19:58:00.000+10:002003-08-23T19:58:38.326+10:00Soccer, Five Years Old
He has a hard time understanding
someone asking him to
“get aggressive” and “fight”
He has fought
to learn peace
He has a hard time caring
About the black and white spinning sphere
Or the swarm of kicking legs
There is an airplane in the sky
Weaving a trail of marshmallows
through the blue
A butterfly almost touched
his upturned face
And halfway Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061632555612064862003-08-23T19:55:00.000+10:002003-08-23T19:55:55.490+10:00 Mothers
(For Leita)
See how we build
My wise greathearted friend
Ours are not the rewards
Of dollars or praise
A babies sated milk deep sigh
A toddlers sticky kisses
Fleeting moments like butterflies wings
That touch between our fingers
Brush bright against Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061632231567574132003-08-23T19:50:00.000+10:002004-04-09T14:55:57.640+10:00Lullaby
I am woven of lullabies
Spun of sleepy magic
In this tawny tired end of day
Heavy with hours
My eyes will close before yours
Still shining black bright with ideas
In this cave of night light glow
How many eons have I sat here?
My cheek pillowed cool against your sheets
My song a current of surprise
In the sweet stillness of the night
True love is frozen in time
They say . . .
And so Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061632078410412152003-08-23T19:47:00.000+10:002003-08-23T19:47:58.310+10:00Taran’s Lullaby
Little Man
Little Man
May you grow to be strong
May you have joy and happiness all your life long
May you grow to be gentle and thoughtful and kind
May you grow deep in wisdom
With a clear, questing mind
May you grow to see beauty
May you grow rich in love
May you mirror the light
Pouring down from above
Little Man
Little Man
Little Man
Little Man
May God bless and keep you in Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061631490977967622003-08-23T19:38:00.000+10:002003-08-23T19:38:10.910+10:00Impatience
(April, Six Months Old)
Impatience . . .
Before she was born she wanted to dance
Before she could roll over
She needed to see what was on the other side
Before she could crawl . . . she rolled
Because she had to get from here to there
Before she can walk
Something tells her to run
She cannot talk
And she has so much to say
She is a reaching arm
With her hand stretched out
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061630631978881722003-08-23T19:23:00.000+10:002003-08-23T19:24:41.730+10:00First Flight
The nest outside my window is full.
Last week they were tiny, wet
with fine, fuzzy, down-covered heads
eyeless, mewing for something
not knowing what or why.
Back and forth the mother soared,
life focused, never stopping
filling the need of the open crying mouths
then flying straight for more.
In just one week
they have become
birds.
Speckled breasts and fluffed up wings,
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061630173047372892003-08-23T19:16:00.000+10:002003-08-23T22:28:10.380+10:00Forty-two
It is my birthday
and
I am forty-two.
A ponderous number
unheard of
by the will-o-the-wisp spirit
that once was me,
who lived by the moment,
glittering, invincible, immediate.
A strange fragile ghost
to have given birth to
forty-two.
Midpoint.
This is where you analyze,
evaluate, appraise, diagnose,
judge
Who am I?
What have I done?
After all of these miles
Where in this life have I Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061629818638935972003-08-23T19:10:00.000+10:002003-08-23T19:10:18.680+10:00They tell me to embrace the pain
To give it a kind and soothing name
To stroke it until we all agree
It’s just another part of me
This tyrant that splits my bones apart
I should invite into my heart
Get it a chair and fix a drink
As it tips me slowly o’er the brink
I’ve blood to give and time to spend
With this my cuddly new found friend . . .
******
My bones with clouds Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061629636447836812003-08-23T19:07:00.000+10:002003-08-23T19:07:16.496+10:00Stream Pantoum VII
Sing a song of lightening
Fire in the sky
The viscous air is frightening
Thor’s hammer passing by
Fire in the sky
Dry as tindered weeds
Thor’s hammer passing by
Explodes the fire seeds
Dry as tindered weeds
The viscous air is frightening
Explodes the fire seeds
Sing a song of lightening
Edwina Peterson Cross
© August 2003
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061629433850732012003-08-23T19:03:00.000+10:002003-08-23T19:03:53.786+10:00Stream Pantoum VI
Back from the brink of tomorrow
Carrying a unicorn horn
To stir in a caldron of sorrow
The question of why I was born
Carrying a unicorn horn
Of silver and adamant made
The question of why I was born
I gave to the goblins in trade
Of silver and adamant made
To stir in a caldron of sorrow
I gave to the goblins in trade
Back from the brink of tomorrow
Edwina Peterson Cross
© Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061629002843241942003-08-23T18:56:00.001+10:002003-08-23T18:56:42.676+10:00Stream Rhyme III
Break and mend the lost forgiven
In your turning way
Flattened grass by hard rain driven
Still at break of day
What should be cannot be broken
Or it would be sown
Until you find a final token
Taken on your own
Words cannot remain as simple
As they are twisted there
Bow your head beneath the wimple
Shave your raven hair
Edwina Peterson Cross
© June 2003
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061628962939590312003-08-23T18:56:00.000+10:002003-08-23T18:56:02.780+10:00Stream Rhyme II
Given this and other sorrows
Words I cannot speak
Cast upon the blank tomorrow’s
Tears upon my cheek
Things that must be lost, forgotten
Are better left unsaid
Planted when the seed was rotten
In the moldering bed
It cannot be what should be other
Than what will be then
Give your vision to another
Take it back again
Edwina Peterson Cross
© June 2003
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061628878182558622003-08-23T18:54:00.000+10:002003-08-23T18:54:38.033+10:00Stream Rhyme I
Building webs of gossamer
Building webs of grey
Spinning pieces of tomorrow
Through threads of yesterday
Pieces of a dream unbroken
Black upon the strand
Building webs of thoughts unspoken
Dry on flooded land
Take a word and break it under
Take a broken drum
Spinning webs of distant thunder
Thoughts that will not come
Edwina Peterson Cross
© June 2003
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061628322895826182003-08-23T18:45:00.000+10:002003-08-23T18:45:22.780+10:00Stream Rhyme Pantoum V
Find a spiral, walk it home
Beneath a silver marking stone
Never more the seas to roam
Broken here in blood and bone
Beneath a silver marking stone
You will wait for death alone
Broken here in blood and bone
It is a thing you’ve always known
You will wait for death alone
Never more the seas to roam
It is a thing you’ve always known
Find a spiral, walk it home
Edwina Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061628109008016742003-08-23T18:41:00.000+10:002003-08-23T18:41:48.903+10:00Stream Rhyme Pantoum IV
Tremble like dreams on the out-cusp of sight
Bemused and forgotten, a twirl of unrest
Pieces of nothing still-paint the night
Black knight come in question and quest
Bemused and forgotten, a twirl of unrest
Etched in acid the front of the moon
Black knight come in question and quest
To the song of a thin, haunting tune
Etched in acid the front of the moon
Pieces of Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061627487509831892003-08-23T18:31:00.000+10:002003-08-23T18:31:27.440+10:00Stream Pantoum - III
I wait for rhyme with patient pain
Unfeathered by the day
What should be stopped cannot be slain
Or withered straight away
Unfeathered by the day
I curl and quail and ache
Or withered straight away
A promise I would make
I curl and quail and ache
What should be stopped cannot be slain
A promise I would make
I wait for rhyme with patient pain
Edwina Peterson Cross
© Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061627413071176662003-08-23T18:30:00.000+10:002003-08-23T18:30:13.020+10:00Stream Pantoum II
Daylight is broken in patches of pearl
Undone on the floor of the sea
Mystery shined on the slide of a whorl
Unbroken again is the key
Undone on the floor of the sea
Salt spread for Neptune’s blue bed
Unbroken again is the key
Abalone bones of the dead
Salt spread for Neptune’s blue bed
Mystery shined on the slide of a whorl
Abalone bones of the dead
Daylight is broken in Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061627287363595112003-08-23T18:28:00.000+10:002003-08-23T18:28:07.313+10:00Stream - Pantoum I
Here to find the sides of morning
Stretched out by the night
Knowledge cracked without a warning
Hidden out of sight
Stretched out by the night
The windswept swallowed stars
Hidden out of sight
The world’s untreated scars
The windswept swallowed stars
Knowledge cracked without a warning
The world’s untreated scars
Here to find the sides of morning
Edwina Peterson Cross
© Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061627084410624122003-08-23T18:24:00.000+10:002003-08-23T18:24:44.380+10:00Stream Rhymes Turn To Stream Poems
Somewhere back in lines of streaming
Rhyme did a morph and flipped
It’s now a “Poem” of circled dreaming
My unconscious changed the script!
‘tis not enough to rhyme in sleep
A ‘poem’ must now be made
There’s import in this quantum leap
For the words must now be weighed
But I don’t want to weigh streamed words!
The point is they are flowing
Like soaring, Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061626277822429202003-08-23T18:11:00.000+10:002004-04-09T14:56:42.810+10:00Why The Gates Make You Shiver
When you enter Lemuria through the stone gates, a shiver will trace your spine. It happens to everyone; it is supposed to happen; if it doesn’t happen, you better back out quickly, because something is drastically wrong. As you pass under each of two shadows, there will be the barest second of ice water down your back; the hair on the back of your neck will lift. Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061625742477576882003-08-23T18:02:00.000+10:002004-10-30T09:41:46.546+10:00MY HOMES IN LEMURIA
~A Lemurian Ballad~
Unroll your map, my artist friend
And spread it ‘cross the table
I’ll point you where my wild paths wend
Through myth and tale and fable
I’ll trace you where those lay lines lie
With the ghosts of my footsteps strewn
Where secret sarns run under the sky
With the power to drink down the moon
I’ll plot you a plan of this land of dream
Between Ithaka and Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061625269175948772003-08-23T17:54:00.000+10:002003-08-23T17:54:29.033+10:00VEILS
I walk this lucent pathway
With the shadows of
Myself
Between the bright veils
They brush my cheeks and soothe my
Slumbering eyes
My fingertips kiss their softness
On each side as I walk
Sleep is chiffon, melting easily
With almost nothing in between
The other side and I
The breeze wafts fluidly
China silk, crepe de chine
I am here
I am gone
The dream veil wraps me round
With a Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061623591370369412003-08-23T17:26:00.000+10:002003-08-25T11:30:48.883+10:00Spirals of Time
Sonnet Five
(Irene’s Spiral)
Smooth swimming spirals in pale blue
Whispered echos of your hands
I feel this circling full of you
Soft brushed, revolving bands
I trace the spiral between my breasts
My throat, between my eyes
Your weaving mirrors the Muse's
Crystal waters to baptize
Your swimming spiral in water starts
Then is lifted into air
By six wings of Goddess Earth
Who Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061623364461772702003-08-23T17:22:00.000+10:002003-08-23T17:22:44.423+10:00Spirals of Time
Sonnet 4
(Mandala)
Mandala wrought in secret, a spiral of three
Maze of myth, softly woven of words
Drawn with a branch of the blest hazel tree
Elegant, wise, ever circling birds
Bird, and then bird, in pattern they start
And so spin in the spiral they build
Each with a piece of the next in her heart
The promise will then be fulfilled
With a dream at the center they circle theWinniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061623216469362032003-08-23T17:20:00.000+10:002003-08-23T17:20:16.450+10:00Spirals of Time
Sonnet 3
(Labyrinth)
A spiral that was hope conceived
Gaia in her dreaming
Traced a pattern she believed
And offered as redeeming
Past the goal the cast path leads
Past patience must it walk
Sewn with soft returning seeds
Its seasons to unlock
I walk these spirals each beginning
With solemn gladness glide
A new year slow, soft, spinning
The worlds swift turning tide
There isWinniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061623069290099312003-08-23T17:17:00.000+10:002003-08-23T17:17:49.273+10:00Spirals of Time
Sonnet 2
(Helix)
This helix bounces, bends, fulfills
The curves of times bright coil
Dim the valleys, lucent the hills
Slick with infinity’s oil
Will you step where the ribbon curves and twists
Sharp between dark and light
Will you slide through the swirling helix mists
Imperceptible day and night
Yesterday turns to tomorrow
As the helix is stretched and compressed
Tomorrow’s Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061622289777854362003-08-23T17:04:00.000+10:002003-08-23T17:05:17.676+10:00Spirals of Time
Sonnet 1
(Unicorn Horn)
The time path spiral is a unicorn horn
Where will you catch meaning?
On the coil or the point will the past be reborn
A yesterday, full of sweet greening
Will you walk to tomorrow on crystalline stairs
That twist in a wind that will crack
Will you dance to next Thursday on gossamer air
Knowing you cannot come back?
The path is wreathed and honeycombedWinniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061620094129872112003-08-23T16:28:00.000+10:002003-08-23T16:33:51.666+10:00
Lemurian Woman’s Dance
(a Shakespearian Sonnet)
I entered the world through a mystery door
Etched with circles, painted with dream
A blank book waiting for blessed lore
A dancing leaf in a crystalline stream
Cycles of moonlight, cycles of blood
I danced as an opening flower
The rhythm of river brimming to flood
The dawn of a clear, singing power
The moon rose full in a midsummer Heather Blakeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16569556563400820006noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061600083525721172003-08-23T10:54:00.000+10:002003-08-23T10:54:43.373+10:00Ritual of Gratitude at the Moonlight Water Garden
*April 28, 2003*
On this day of remembrance, I come to the stone doors of Lemuria. These doors of stone which were made of my bones, my bones which were made of these stones. I trace a spiral on the lintel of the outer door and then lay the flat of my palm against the rock and speak.
"I seek entrance at this gate. I am a weaver of words; a Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061599606959979172003-08-23T10:46:00.000+10:002003-08-23T10:47:17.040+10:00 Entering Lemuria:
Paths to the Moonlight Water Garden
*April 2002*
I have been looking for Lemuria. I have been walking long. Walking through a barren, meaningless world; a hollow echoing emptiness devoid of words. Words that had painted my life with wonder since I first discovered them; glimmering like luscious butterflies around my ears, brushing their sweet meanings against my lips, Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061593628936510612003-08-23T09:07:00.000+10:002003-08-23T09:07:08.970+10:00Faeries Food
This is what I want to know
(nosy little poet, a hazard of the trade)
If they had come to you
In that land of living lucent light and real rainbows
With Faery Cakes baked of spunsugar dewdrops
Crisp Cookies shaped like stars plucked from the sky
Dripping with celestial honey
And wine
Clear as the breath of morning or red as sunsets beating heart
Would you have supped?
I know you Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061591986481335232003-08-23T08:39:00.000+10:002003-08-25T20:59:44.750+10:00The world’s largest living organism is a huge stand of quaking aspen trees growing on a hillside in central Utah. What looks like 47,000 individual aspen trees covering 106 acres actually is 47,000 “stems” from a single plant. Quaking aspen, already well recognized as the most wide spread tree species in North America, can now take it’s rightful place as an acknowledged giant among giants.
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061562382064358332003-08-23T00:26:00.000+10:002003-08-23T00:26:22.016+10:00A Poem For The Ever Growing Ranks
Of Sudden Self-styled Zen-Masters; May Their Mirrors Never Tarnish; May Their $150 Meditation Pillows Never Develop Lumps
I will be so
Zen
Zen tuned in
Me
Turned into
Zen tuned into the
Me the Me the Me
Of all Me
Zen
Me
I will be so studious
I will studiously ignore that
There are other people
In the universe
And tend with Compassion and Care
To the
Me the Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061562114732863562003-08-23T00:21:00.000+10:002003-08-23T00:23:15.300+10:00You Just Can’t Imagine
It is amazing that one can remain
After so much time
Still stunned by pain
Astonished at the assault
Amazed at the magnitude
You want to call witnesses
“Feel this! .....................Good God!................................Can you imagine ?!”
But they don’t...............He may be................................but they can’t
Edwina Peterson Cross
©May 2003
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061561956584224032003-08-23T00:19:00.000+10:002003-08-23T00:19:16.563+10:00Winter Comes . . .
Demeter said, and I suppose it is time
Though my heart is heavy and
Aches with a pain that ought to break it
Each and every time
I have at least learned
In these weary years of cycles
To know
The signs
The time comes a pace
Nettled and unsettled
I feel a cold, restlessness in the wind
A rustling, rusting impatience in every leaf
And Persephone is beginning
Once again,
To Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061561670568173472003-08-23T00:14:00.000+10:002003-08-23T00:14:30.566+10:00Desert Drink
The expectation
Is to monitor tomorrow
To constantly walk out of the dry needles of piercing NOW
In homage to the idea
Of the next
Yet, THEN does not exist, nor does WAS
The only piece of the continuum present for packaging
IS
And IS is suffering and insufferable, breaking forth between the razor riveted West and walking the brittle, broken bottles of the North. Braved beyond Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061561540773899862003-08-23T00:12:00.000+10:002003-08-23T00:12:20.766+10:00vANISh
What will you give for a path of sand
That leads to a vast unbroken land
Will you trade your fear and give your blood
To cross a flash and rising flood
Of disillusioned ecstasy
Of split and splintered fantasy
To soar above the empty dream
And cross the temporal stagnant stream
What will you give to mount the stair
Where vanished meets the bright blue air?
Twined of wishes, tied with Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061561254270988912003-08-23T00:07:00.000+10:002003-08-23T00:08:04.963+10:00Red Shoes
Narrowed eyes
Compressed lips
Shortly shaken heads
Have told me that
Along with teaching her to brush her teeth and
Tie her shoes
I should have grounded her more firmly
Planted her up to her knees and
Packed the dirt down hard
When she was sleeping, I could have
Clipped those wings
That sprouted from her ivory shoulders
Like iridescent fans of lace
Or at least bound them to her backWinniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061560396144561492003-08-22T23:53:00.000+10:002003-08-22T23:53:15.990+10:00Tami’s Poem
She sings of mystery, myth and fire
Sweet flames that light the wine
An ancient bard of modern word
High Priestess of the vine
She sings of grapes crushed in the cup
Of Metamorphous trance
Oracle of the Big Thicket
She weaves the greenwood dance
She weaves a wellspring of wisdom
Wakeless, wide and rich
Deep as Taliesin’s ancient eye
A talisman, bewitched
With words pared hollow toWinniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061560172218861222003-08-22T23:49:00.000+10:002003-08-22T23:49:33.270+10:00Stream Song
Sing me a song of tomorrow
I’ll sing you a song of the sea
Give me green glass to trade or to borrow
I’ll give you the dust of debris
I’ll give you the dust of debris
To bake with the soul of your bread
I’ll give you a pattern of three
To carve in the foot of your bed
Open the back of the moon with a razor
I’ll open the throat of the sky
Sing me the song of whiskey appraiser
IWinniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061559095274164652003-08-22T23:31:00.000+10:002003-08-22T23:31:35.203+10:00Stream Rhyme VI
Sing of silence, sing of rhyme
Etched in beauty, out of time
Watched by midnight, soft and round
Clocks unbroken, circle sound
Time was stretched, the clock was stopped
Bird was broken, door unlocked
Sound flew out, time slammed the door
Silence sang forevermore
Edwina Peterson Cross
©August 2003
Stream Rhyme VII
Quiet sits inside like acres
of pudding still and sweet
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061558182387650662003-08-22T23:16:00.000+10:002003-08-22T23:16:22.383+10:00PEACHES
In the darkened basement
Patience waits ‘til spring
In glass upon the casement
Sealed with a golden ring
Sweet, thick summer’s sacrifice
Pared and sugar jelled
Simmered soft with curing spice
The seasons slowly meld
When the ground is white with snow
And shadows freeze the dial
Here they’ll wait; row on row
Succulent sunshine in each smile
Edwina Peterson Cross
©August 2003 Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061557187185283512003-08-22T22:59:00.000+10:002003-08-22T22:59:47.016+10:00Sleeping at the Keyboard
When I become chilled rubber
In the whir of the fan
My skin stretches and returns
Surprised
My head falls sidewards
Strangely softly
Not with a wrench or a snap
But drifting like proverbial snow
Into an expected bank
Inside, my mind tunnels gently
And floats into grey
My hands on the keyboard merely rest
Except for one finger which drops
And begins to paint a long lineWinniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061556758110387252003-08-22T22:52:00.000+10:002003-08-22T22:52:37.970+10:00Sleeping at the Keyboard Pantoum
Sleep lifts me from my centered place
Into another where
I flow sideward with a balanced grace
And stop, suspended, there
Into another where
Morpheus bestowed this fluent dance
And stop, suspended there
An elegant, drifting, trance
Morpheus bestowed this fluent dance
I flow sideward with a balanced grace
An elegant, drifting, trance
Sleep lifts me from my Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061470077181632152003-08-21T22:47:00.000+10:002003-08-21T22:47:57.070+10:00The Spirit of Sagebrush
My father said
In all the years he painted the American Southwest
He could never mix the paints just right
To capture the elusive greygreen color of
Sagebrush
He said he never painted a sagebrush
That he felt was true
He called his paintings ‘Primitives’
And they were simple . . .
Fresh, elemental, easy, pure
In block forms and unaffected lines
He strung the desert’s Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061468050997032132003-08-21T22:14:00.000+10:002003-08-21T22:14:11.020+10:00(Of Rumi)
Voice
With fresh, sudden
Breath-drawn astonishment, I hear you
Dance out of the year 1207, where it seems you
Cannot possibly belong; a depth of dream, flying
Full ripened truth
Voice
Out of time, your words balance joyfully
On the edge of my heart
Sacred simplicity
A taste of clean, crisp mystery
Eight-hundred-years
So new
Blessings . . .
I hear
Blossoms . . .
Edwina Peterson Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061466762528678612003-08-21T21:52:00.000+10:002003-08-21T21:52:42.410+10:00Rivers, Bridges and Other Cliché’s
Thirty years later
I recognize your handwriting on the envelope immediately
Even without my glasses
You write to say
You are a Grandmother . . .
An unexpected gravity shift
In my mind, you are definitely
At incongruous angles with the word
I remember you holding the tiny newborn son
Who must be this baby’s father
When my own jigsaw childhunger was still
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061466187840962632003-08-21T21:43:00.000+10:002004-10-30T09:46:55.690+10:00The poetry came with breath
Perhaps before: certainly, my mother says I danced
Nourished greenly on watercress and sparkling lemon-lime
The poetry came with language
In that mystic moment when labeling turned
To understanding
Perhaps before: star-fish fingers, sky-reaching to touch
The limpid moon
On a scaffolding of idea and image
I have been sculpting since my fingers formed
Perhaps before: Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061464778265974412003-08-21T21:19:00.000+10:002003-08-21T21:20:49.830+10:00Pantoum to an Adolescent Male
Weasel not away
The long days of summer
For they are short as sweet melon juice
Slick seeds spit between your teeth
The long days of summer
Should be woven into wonder
Slick seeds spit between your teeth
Leave autumn a dry rustling vine
Should be woven into wonder
For they are short as sweet melon juice
Leave autumn a dry rustling vine
Weasel not away
Edwina Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061464690012211442003-08-21T21:18:00.000+10:002003-08-21T21:18:10.026+10:00Insomnia Pantoums
#1
Night fades into day
Black lace edging satin
Bleeding seeping time
From sleep that will not come
Black lace edging satin
Of still silent gray
From sleep that will not come
In the blank sweep of hours
Of still silent gray
Bleeding seeping time
Of still silent gray
Night fades into day
#2
There is something intensely weary about this form
That matches my dragging days Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061464486395675922003-08-21T21:14:00.000+10:002003-08-24T19:46:19.686+10:00Pantoum to Soup
Comfort found in hot round soup
Filling corners with being warm
Willing noodles snuggle the scoop
Nestled safely away from the storm
Filling corners with being warm
Childhood lingers on my lips
Nestled safely away from the storm
Mid savory, salty sips
Childhood lingers on my lips
Willing noodles snuggle the scoop
Mid savory, salty sips
Comfort found in hot round soup
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061463688123619122003-08-21T21:01:00.000+10:002003-08-21T21:01:28.020+10:00My daughters were raised in
Snow
Cold-chalk, lilly-ice, drifting to cover the windows, sifting
The woods full until the twenty-foot Aspens looked like
Bare bushes
Pale bleached bones on alabaster
white on white
They played on top of fifteen feet of diamonds and pearls
Crust frozen to hold their slight weight
Angels on eggshells
Their voices ringing singular notes
piccolo, flute
In a vast Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061463359507133332003-08-21T20:55:00.000+10:002003-08-21T20:55:59.376+10:00A Certain Light Over Cache Valley
(Not To Be Entered in The May Swenson Poetry Award Competition)
They would never give me your award
This prize established with such sober gravity
Amid the quasi hallowed halls of learning
Where we both trod
Here they have set you up in sacred, sacrosanct sequestration
And honor your name with worshipful lowered voices
Because in your life time you achieved
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061463178565671902003-08-21T20:52:00.000+10:002003-08-21T20:52:58.443+10:00Marta’s Box
Here have I
An inexplicable, unaccountable,
Bottomless box
Without corners, without center
Unexplainable, unfathomable a depth
Without end
You can pour it full until it fills to the brim
And it never fills, for there is no brim
No brim, no brink, no border,
No bed, no base
No bottom
Into it’s depth pour your
Questions, uncertainties, doubts
It will offer no
Answers
But only Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061463007567925712003-08-21T20:50:00.000+10:002003-08-21T20:50:07.450+10:00Swans Lullaby
I’ll sing you to sleep on the feather of a Swan
Ebony, lilac and rose
Where hushed twilight opens the back gates of dawn
And the sage and the heather grows
I’ll sing you to sleep from an enchanted cave
Ebony, lilac and rose
And I’ll weave you a tale of three sisters brave
Where the sage and the heather grows
I’ll sing you to sleep with a song of the Muse
Ebony, lilac and rose
IWinniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061462602985068412003-08-21T20:43:00.000+10:002003-08-21T20:44:07.226+10:00Lacquer
In her carseat carrier in the doctor’s waiting room
Her starfish hands seek her mouth
Like two celestial space flowers, opening and closing
In a liquid, arrhythmic flow that is purely, impeccably
Almost two-months-old
“Almost two months”
You tell me when I ask, raising her from the seat in a
Single, smooth, seasoned step to your shoulder
Where a receiving blanket waits with prescience
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061462370930429712003-08-21T20:39:00.000+10:002003-08-21T20:39:30.856+10:00In a brief pain-stilled moment, beset by green:
Heavy and green, this well-being of brief duration, a moment of niap, concise, too short, but enough, to experience. Experience, as a thousand shades of green glisten the summer trees, polished malachite leaves turning front to back in a scintillating verdant choreography of gushing wind, soft as green glass against my skin. Niap is the inverse ofWinniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061462218942109702003-08-21T20:36:00.000+10:002003-08-21T20:36:58.880+10:00Genesius
Spirit
Who dwells within these ancient walls
Listen soft
and come
I recognize your essence
in the smell of grease paint and sawdust
I feel your song
in the swell of an overture
echoing from my arches to my breast bone
as I stand waiting in the wings
I have learned to feel your presence
in the clamor of shared laughter
in each clear well spoken line
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061461741568636862003-08-21T20:29:00.000+10:002003-08-21T20:29:01.530+10:00BUILDING
There in your fullsnow moon
The lucent light
Will glide on silent snow
Gold-dust on diamonds
Sweet cream on pearls
Build a Snow Goddess there
With the cold, dry powder
And your bare, dreaming hands
Mold round her milkwhite, resonant breasts
Mellow, full of moon;
To nurture a starving world
My garden
Glows moist with the same moonlight
Here it is deep and damp
Serene and saturated
Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061461503356349792003-08-21T20:25:00.000+10:002003-08-23T21:01:50.776+10:00For Lisa
Little golden haired girl
I can still see you so clearly
Whispering childhood secrets
Skipping and dancing
Skimming the ground like a butterfly
Bubbling with laughter
The radiant high-country sunshine
Sparkling on a sweet, clear-water stream
Can you possibly be old enough
To have joined
This sad sorority of grieving women?
My heart aches
As I offer grief of greeting
You, who were my Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061461274682498902003-08-21T20:21:00.000+10:002004-10-30T09:57:33.773+10:00Following Campbell
I have spent
Many late nights
With a need to know
That twisted and burned my reaching fingers
Assailed by fluttering, besieging wings of questions
Massive questions like caverns of swallowing thick black wonder
Trivial, niggling questions, pulling at my sleeves in anxious, breathless mutters
Obsessed, unsettled questions, hovering, gibbering, and moaning
Quiescent Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-1061461014113844422003-08-21T20:16:00.000+10:002003-08-21T20:16:54.126+10:00“Florence is a gift”
(Chaim Potok: “My Name is Asher Lev”)
In wide still streets of Sunday
She dreams in ancient silence
coral and ivory walls of lace
cupped in green Chianti hills
Like a mouthful of moon, names echo
Round and hollow throughout my heart
Bargello, Pontevecchio, Duomo; Arno
shimmers sonorous under summer stars
Bright birth of beginning, elegantly rocking
Renaissance roseWinniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3642674.post-106146089948704002003-08-21T20:14:00.000+10:002003-08-21T20:14:59.500+10:00Existence etched in lines of ink
Emerge from the nothing of none
Features positioned, aligned, in sync
In a mouse click creations begun
Flavor and feeling, essence and thought
An ego of leather or lace
The mystery of being in seconds is caught
In the lines of one human face
Edwina Peterson Cross
©January 2003Winniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15694426046058040786noreply@blogger.com