Month: May 2013

The Labyrinth

Image

I made fun of it for years

A jumbled circle of mismatched rocks and stones

rambling in a deserted parking lot

Behind Pizza Hut and the lutheran church

There was even a bench there

To sit and stare at the stepping stone circles

Like watching  grass grow

Passing for entertainment

Waiting for rocks to move

It was me that needed to move

To follow the intricate design of

Passages and tracks

Deadends and restarts

Hidden in the wild pasture grasses and weeds

To the heartbeat center

And out

I laughed at it for years

Called it names

Wondered why it was hidden under

The pines at the old lutheran church

Called it witchcraft, voodoo and cultish

Foolish and illusion

Artifice and conjuring.

A giant pebble talisman

The ores grow smaller through decades

As prairie dust fills in spaces between

But I can still recognize them

River rolled sandstone, granite, limestone, marble, slate

Ancient corals, lava, basalt, agate, quartz

Dolomite, obsidian, alabaster

Placed, spaced.

Now the joke is a mystery that I stare at

From the marble bench.

I showed this inexplicable puzzle to many.

Only One saw and understood.

Apparently the only person

In this county that recognized

The simple spiral of stones

It’s my temple now

Made of ponderosa pines

And their 40 years of piled needles

Sometimes, I pick up a single cobble and study it.

It didn’t come from here

Someone took great effort and thought

To bring it here, place it

In its predestined design

Sometimes, I try to follow the old outline

And replace where the boulders have

Been intentionally or unintentionally disturbed.

A  shed disturbs some of the outline

And I can’t determine a fix for the ancient pattern

She would know.

But she, too, is now lost

In her own conglomerate maze

I wonder how many have sat in my

Temple

Cried my tears

Prayed my prayers

Wondered my questions

And left a fragment of

metamorphic stone behind

Red Headed Woodpecker

Who knew?

I am an internet junkie.

It never occurred to me that my iPad was an appendage without which I felt pangs of a hermitage I have created.

Usually,I check my email hourly. I read the blogs of all my personal poets each day

(I read my own blog too, now that is just not right!) I check the news a dozen times a day, keep the Weather Channel up and running, and watch a dozen or so movies a day.

After Four days lacking cyber link, I have survived the twitches and twinges but am developing the shakes.

The pretty sparkling icons to Fakebook and the Weather channel float across the screen, but I know the emptiness of the message that lies behind them. “Your server cannot be located.”

  And I feel miserably and frighteningly alone.

 Who knew? Because I was born a letter writer, I still know how to write a handwritten epistle, send birthday cards through the mail. This diatribe itself was scrawled across a piece of recycled paper with a bit of flint and ash from the BBQ. The library is four blocks away. I could read a book. But it doesn’t have that feel. That ping that rings across the Ethernet.

I wrote my friends in the Peace Corps letters each month so they could feel the touch of home. (the stamps I order off the net and print em up right off my in-reach printer)

(the post office also gives me the heebie-jeebies) I’m not sure if I can take Xanex and Nyquill, I need WebMD for that.

The gray sky prompts me to tap the Weather Underground icon. Nothing. I know there’s nothing, but  addiction means I keep trying. Even knowing the result will be the same or the same.

I can’t even call the Time and Temperature on my landline because the phone line was vindictively disconnected.

My cell phone has 42 minutes left. I text a friend in Virginia begging him to tell me what the radar looks like in Colorado. He doesn’t know for sure which of the rectangular states is Colorado. He wonders why there are so many cities in Colorado that start with Fort ……. And he’s heard it never rains in Colorado.

I can’t even add minutes to my cheap cell phone because that requires connection to www.getrippedoffonewayortheother.gone

I can’t sleep without my warm iPod flickering Andy Griffith Show reruns along my palm. I lie awake and listen to the only vestige of technology remaining: Some classical music on my mp3 player.

I don’t know how to find out my bank account balance, other than drive down there and ask. I don’t know my account number. It’s stored on one of my links.

My only diversion is a Red Crested Woodpecker who, until this week, I have grown to hate. He has driven me to a daily 4 am wake up and deep desire for a pellet gun.

I envy his morse code-evolved iron beak that allows him to call his friends, eat heartly, and fully entertain himself on a rotting, hollow cottonwood tree. He eyes me as I throw a tennis ball at him but he has no fear, airborne at 25 feet.

Between drummings though, he listens. He hears what I hear.

The silence of non-response. His downy mate has fled or is dead under the claws of my monstrous cat. I don’t even know if Red Crested Downy Woodpeckers are migratory birds because I would have to Google images to see if he is what I think he is.

I want to throw a loop of fishing line around his crest. Wondering if he will take me with him or if he can carry messages like old tin can phones. Maybe he knows how to connect the line to the wires, inches from his feet.

I think I can hear him laugh.

Who knows?

That would take Wikipedia.

leap, leaft, leapt

photo

She leaves then

Quietly as she came

Slowling turning her back

Wincing at the budding

 

garden she coached from clay

 

Stinging nettle and mint

Rising to meet the sun

 

That’s me.

 

a single golden seal

Reaching toward her reiki sky

Scrolling my fingertip

Along her cryptic blog

Wondering where she’s resting now

 

I’ve collected all our giggled lunches

Our sore throat teas and soups

Our crying over spilt milk

Laughing laughing at each other

“What the hell were you thinking?”

 

All together

They don’t fill the singed hole

She leaves

She leaves

52 card pickup

truck

how easily those we love can slip from us

 
Before seat belts and car seats
Mom drove the old blue Chevy Pickup

 
to visit grandpa and grandma
 
with The youngest ones my family  perennially called
 
” The Little Girls”
 
she drove with heightened instincts
The Chevy was hard enough to drive
With a starter pedal on the floor
A one size fits all bench seat
Where legs could barely reach the pedals
A steering wheel the size of  a hula hoop
A stick shift rattling like an old man’s cane
Grinding through the gears

 
I can see the Little Girls
Their tiny selves peering over the dash.
As mom turned the corner,
The rickety door flew open

 

and the Little Girls rolled toward
Federal Boulevard
Tumbling toward pavement

 

In 1945
Mom, herself a teen, fell from a pickup seat
Through an open door.
And could still feel the scars along her side
Motivation and instinct.

 

She grabbed them
 
pulling them close to the giant steering wheel
As if it was an every day occurrence.
 

But she’s still trembling
40 years later

 
As she remembers
Seeing their  library books
Through the ridiculously small review mirror
Twisting and spinning on the asphalt

 
like 52 card pickup
 
not until Old Blue
Grumbled through the drive
To settle by the barn.
Did she find time to cry.