Friday, October 29, 2010

Random Thoughts on an Autumn Morning

Autumn Flowers

My vision invites me to concentrate,
as I pick my way through the dark,
lifting my feet like
a ballet dancer . . . I move
through the air,
my vision gives me black cherry mazes,
and the pathway
I choose will do for
tomorrow and the rest. . .
as I dance towards
that day. . .
I am extolled by the lands that smile;

why do you turn your head away
from me. . . when you see me coming
do you see the death in me, or am
I invisible to you. . .
such a skeleton
and lonely scrap of a soul
that you cannot see me
. . .  nor do you want to

I once argued with some guy about the color of a car we saw . . . was it green or yellow . . . and I realized then, that all humans did not experience the very same thing . . . see the same way . . .

When I was way younger than I am now, and very bored with washing all the dishes for a family of six . . . I would daydream about how I was a bear dreaming it was a little girl . . . I actually came to believe my day dream . . . I now know I am that bear . . . dreaming she is an old woman.

you are not alone
I walk by your home
in the dark of the night,
under the moon's watch,
as you sleep, and I wonder
who you are. . .
and if you are happy
or need a friend
why don't you,
you who needs me. . .
reach out
and ask?

I walk by you
under the sun's bright rays, while
you walk with your
face pressed down. . .
a frown in your eyes
and I wonder,
Do you need me. . .
Is it my love
that you desire. . .
can we ever know,
can we ever dream?

I walk by you the. . .
fragility of you in your
car beneath the storm,
while the rain's bright fires
crush your dreams. . .
but I am here and
if you need me
can I hold your hand
hear your tale . . .?

I am here,
I am here, alone .. .. 
waiting for you.


The lonely one
looks at the skies for the company of the stars
and sees their distant faces
reflecting internal fires. . .
fires raging untended
for a hundred billion years -
they, like the angels, seeing only the infinite,
never seeing that lonely one
who looks through the skin of whales
as they fly through
the deepest seas. . .
following their dream-time in the grasses 

of the distant forest as
they drift through
the winds of the storm. . .
and the deep of the depths covers them in the blackness
of time,

sharply cracking as the tides
push at their
fragile sides

she ran through burning bushes
seizing hope
from the drifting leaves crashing
against her . . .
their skin bruising

As Autumn blazes
in glory with
a bright fair-thee-well
to the sun
and the warm tides
that pass through the air . . .
my eyes are filled with the
feeling that I have been here
and that I will pass safely
again. . . through
the days ahead . ..
through the
sharp winds biting my heels
and the gray descending
like a tyrant
on the unwary

I will bring out the colors
of Fall
and the promises from within
the thin walls
of my memories


Sunday, October 24, 2010



            This is my first attempt at a video . . .

I used Van Syla's "Passing Passion" song
which she made for me and published in "Wolfsong's"
I used my poem, "The Heart of the Star"
and my pictures (on earth)
and pictures from the Hubble site . . .


Video by Barbara Wolfsong

Music by Van Syla:  Passing Passion
Stars by Hubble:

Poetry & Earth Photos by Orangeupurple?:
The Heart of the Star  - here on this blog:

Friday, October 22, 2010


full and orange like a ripe peach
she is resting between the open arms
of the black western hills,
which are speckled with the gems of a city's light,
and the black somber arms of the clouds
as they crawl across her wide brow. . .
she is the sentinel of calm,
smoothly sailing across the black skies
which watch with the millions of silver eyes
hungry for the warmth of our planet . . .
and the moon,
she is the goddess of our home . . .
our refuge from the dark as,
so long ago, when we were young
we looked up to her
from our fires,
and in the darkness
and the fear of the night's mysteries,
reached to touch her firmness
like our mother's breast,
a comfort,
so, while in the shadows of her smile
and her ripe reflections,
we trust her magnetic strength
and count our days

beneath her walk, her dance
as she owns the skies for us . . .
and pours on us the generous flow of her milk,
so we can see 
in the dark,
and know who we are . . .


Thursday, October 21, 2010

A Moment in Glory

And what is fall to me . . .
a harvest of bitter and dusty grasses
in the lesser sunlight,
a kaleidoscope of vivid colors
a last good-bye - from a spectrum
of summer's warmth,
a strength in old life. . .
and a lifting up of arms
to rejoice in shifting winds . ..
before the long night
of winter . . .
and the silence of a long rest.

It isn't the end . . .
it is a beginning .. ..
a circle of life's goals . .
a glowing moment
in the darkness of our understandings
and we see an eternity
in the splash of a fresh new moment.


Just a tiny space . . . within a short block .. .. colors so blinding and perfect ... rich and only from Mother Nature!

And I can't stop looking and gasping in awe!

Life is too short not to walk through with senses wide open . .. and defenses down . ..  just a little:

Magic happens in just a split moment . . . and then never returns . .. so the capturing of memories is for that second only . ..  and the value is endless .. . for our road can be through that beauty . .. and that magic, giving joy.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Be Kind to Spiders!

Amber . . . Late August 2010

This is an excerpt from my journal, which I was keeping in late August . . . in regards to my experiences as I walked to and from work. One of my interests was dealing with the beautiful garden spiders and their gorgeous webs. I took many pictures . . . including a video, which although not very good I will upload here.

August 25, 2010
I adopted a spider!
I acquired her yesterday when I took several pictures of her. She’s a busy beauty . . .  and today I noticed her making a new web, so I decided that this time I would make a video of her creating her wonderful art. She never minded me taking pictures so I though surely she wouldn’t mind me filming her. She was really great under the eye of the camera and was dancing away on her web, but she was a little further away than she was yesterday so I tried to get a closer shot, and unfortunately I fell into the bushes and my camera went right into her web and broke it. She stopped moving and just sat there, sadly, contemplating the damage of all that hard work .. . .. I slipped quietly away. I’ll check up on her a little later this afternoon when I am walking home . . . oh god that walk home . . .

Well, even though I had two bottles of water, I thought I would die before I got home . . . the heat is too much for me .. . my house is nice and cool though . . . at least our temps are going down starting tomorrow.

I checked on my pet spider. She was fine. She had finished her web and was sitting, pleasantly hunched over an insect carcass. I thought she was so lovely and the way she glows in the sunlight makes me want to call her Amber, so I will. Plus, I like to think of all that genetic material that makes us tick and makes Amber tick too, like all her grandmother’s through generations and generations and the wisdom of the mothers are all passed on down to her . . . lovely.

When I was a kid, my mother, who was terrified of spiders, would yell at me to kill the ones that made their appearance in front of her sharp blue eyes. “Kill that spider, Barbie, kill it . . .” (God how I hated being called Barbie .. . grrrr) . . .. and she would stand there and scream until I got a piece of tissue and smashed that poor thing and checked, I HAD to look at the squashed carcass and make sure it wasn’t moving and then throw it in the trash can outside.   

Usually they were hairy and black and nearly as big as my little child’s hands . . . at least those are the ones in my memory banks . . . and they ran fast too. They jittered when they ran, like some kind of space alien or robotic things.  Terrifying . . .

This went on for years and eventually I started having dreams about all those dead spider’s relatives coming to get me. Millions of spiders crawling across the floor and ceiling and walls .. . coming to get me and . .. . that’s when I would wake up. I finally had to make a conscious effort to stop being scared of spiders . .. They are not out to get me . . . I think . . .

Well, that was the beginning of my spider obsession . . . I did have a tarantula once for a few years .. .  I originally got her so I could try to encourage my students not to be too terrified of spiders. But, I had to bring her home from the school because my students were too terrified of her. I fed her crickets . .  now they had more fun in life then she did . . . they sang all night and ate each other all day . . . nice crowd . . . it reminds me of High School . . ..

Garden Spider

This spider is one of my three lovely ladies . . . she is pretty huge and one of the summer survivors. She is getting fat so she can lay her eggs before winter . .. . which she will not survive.  I have learned how to duck below her web so as not to break it . . . There are two other ladies with their traps set up in my yard . . . I walk carefully! . . .  Notice that this one has an aphid in her web . . . remember that spiders help keep down the annoying insects which choose to chew on your roses . . . and remember that spiders don't bite you if you don't poke at them. Although this one could take down a small boy if she chose . . . she was always polite to me . . .               
- October 8, 2010

Garden Spider

This is a picture of the biggest of my three girls . . . she has some sort of prey in her mouth . . . 

 I believe that this one is a male garden spider . . . I may be wrong. . . but I do know that the males are much smaller than the females and not as interested in hunting as they are in mating.

This is my video that I took in August of Amber as she spun her web. She was so beautiful dancing across the air on her silk and she glowed so beautifully in the sunlight . . . 
I am sorry about the traffic sounds . . . so turn off the sound if you don't care to hear . . . there was nothing very interesting when it came to sounds anyway.

UPDATE: All my spiders have disappeared by now. We had heavy rains which washed away the webs and perhaps it was time for them to go. After the video incident, I saw Amber for a couple of days and then she disappeared. These particular spiders usually change their web site daily until they get so big, nobody dares to knock them down . . .

May 2010 - We begin anew . . . life!

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

The Red Leaf

The red leaf,
                                            released from her tree,
was cast adrift                  
in the still
                         and the calm
of the solemn air . . .
a sharp coolness touched the                                      
                                               of a small dusty sparrow
as she paused in her search                      
                    for that hidden meal
lurking beneath the bark         
                                             of the old tree. . .
                                                                   and as the leaf
fluttered and rocked on the                         
                                          breath of ancient gods,
the hunter's eyes of the little bird caught    
                                               the shadow and flash
of when life collides with death . . .                                         
the ultimate hunter. . .
                                         in that moment
as she was snatched up,                                        
a fraction of a second's inattention,
and the hawk's grasp
was loosed, while
                                               a few brown feathers joined the scarlet leaf
floating through the passive atmosphere,
the little sparrow was gone                                         
to rejoice in the shadows of the
                                                    nearest shrub,
while the hawk flew away hungry. . .                                 
                                                          and the sun hid his amber face
behind a lonely cloud
                                                             drifting on the crisp blue sky  . . .


Gerry Davis on Jamendo

A new favorite of mine . . . music to suit my latest moods . ..  relaxing, beautiful and an all around enjoyment to listen to as I take my walks or daydream in the evening . . . perfection!

Friday, October 15, 2010

The Bunnies

the bunnies in the fields
silently gathered to
gaze at the planes
rolling along the tarmac
readying to leave the earth. . .
taking lovers
away from lovers,

and lonely people
from their homes . . .
and so nobody aboard that plane noticed
the bunnies solemnly watching. . .
except the woman with the trembling tears in her eyes . ..
as the throbbing of the plane engines
matched the percussive rhythm of her hurting heart .. .
and just before the heavy wings lifted
her into the air,
she saw all the bunnies disappear
into a mist, which
floated along the emerald green fields,
covering the little creatures
like a blanket,
as if they had never been
anything but a dream or
a wisp, or a fragment of time
torn from between the covers
of the book of life
and scattered into the mists
of timeless mystery

and the mountains and the valleys

and the rivers below her
pushed her further and further away
from the places and people she loved . . .
and as the mist covered more and spread deeper ,

her world
disappeared. . .
becoming nothing but a stream of blank white,
like a piece of paper,
onto which she drew the colors of her love . . .
a rainbow streaming from the corners of her mind,
and it filled the world beneath her
drawing thousands of bunnies
to run free
and be


When I was sitting on the plane, in Paris, and as we taxied out toward the runway, I looked out the window and saw all those little rabbits.  I was so charmed and moved . . . also feeling sad . . . but I wanted to shout, "Look at all the bunnies!" . . . like you would on a school bus (being a school teacher)  . . . and I expected others to do the same . . . I guess a part of me is still a little kid . . . and it just made me feel so strangely alone to witness all those bunnies and not hear a word about it . . .

Sorry about my pencil drawings looking so faded . . . I just can't get them scanned right and I do use only the no. 2 pencils, because I start drawing at school and that's all I have handy when I feel inspired . . .. I am not sure that those are good excuses . . . but I have been enjoying drawing and feel a calming come through my little sketches . . . and then I share them here . . . most of them. . .  

Thursday, October 7, 2010

What is Love?

On the Oregon Coast near the Wreck of the Peter Iredale . . .

What is Love?
How do we find it in this eternal universe
without getting lost in the dark. . .
has Love the glory of a fragile, dying star,
a brilliant flare, to guide us through this darkness?
What is Love?
Do we find it in that most precious of gems,
the human heart,
shining in the darkness of the breast. . .
pulsating and moving
with the sound of thunder rolling and calling
across the shaking mountains,
like a symphony for creation. . .
What is Love?
is it a tiny precious seed planted in the blood of the heart
and given nurture, grows
then expands and reaches out beyond the cage of bones
stretching toward the light of joy?
What is Love?
is it an oases in the desert of our lives,
each step we make alone an agony
until we find our heart's desire. . .
does it quench our thirst

yet keep us longing for more?
What is Love? 

To describe . . . to create an analogy,
to give the invisible a shape,
What is Love to see,
to hear, to touch,
is it a feeling we define. . .
is it a sudden awareness of another?
is it a hope,
a passion so sublime,
or a forbidden burning desire?
is it a way to fill a gaping hole
within the soul
of loneliness?

what is Love but the final step
away from the self
and into the other . . .
to become one. . .
and finally a part of the whole. . .

what is Love?


The Wreck of the Peter Iredale . . . Oregon Coast

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

A Mere Wisp

how transient a life is. . .
like the crisping leaves beneath my feet,
mere husks of their former selves . . .
after a blaze of glory they
gently float down to their final rest
and to evaporate into Terra . . .
my bare feet move with trepidation
along the seams of the ground,
and I watch the vibrations of the air
as I push my way through slowly . . .
The leaves peel away from the pavement. . .
and run before me in their
last dance; a moment of movement,
and I see them fling themselves
against a nearby fence as if
begging for freedom or
perhaps showing me the way
through to the infinite
galaxy, where the stars blaze
in glory as they give
life and light to the eternal tree. . .
and as transient as the leaves of Terra
they too leave behind mere husks
blowing about at the whims of the gods. . .


Sunday, October 3, 2010


This is an epic style poem I wrote many years ago as a way to deal with a rough childhood:


The beginning, we had the pictures,
the images that told a story
--only part of the story
in a prevaricating way.
A pretension...A laughter,
perhaps a sparkling eye.
The sunlight shining
on the side of a round little face
like a waning moon
forever floating in the space of time...
But a stunned people stand
beneath the singing skies.
Telling each other lies
that dance like truths
that were once believed.

The city gleamed over the darkened world
like a hovering collection of lanterns
It spewed forth
its light effortlessly
as if a million dams
were holding forth
                            the energy
to make a world run
and yet
the darkness puddled
as hardened as molasses
outside the boundaries of
                the golden towers
The city masqueraded as a
gold and silver fairytale castle,
calling out with its magic fingers
to come, come into its
its arms, its delightful fantasies
to take away the evil monsters
of the night
                                It beckoned me
and time stopped
as I was drawn,  
Compelled to enter its           
hiding light                           
 its glory, my demons pushing
me, my fear propelling me
    as ordered and mechanical
                    as a driven machine
                  and yet time flowed soothingly.....
The tall buildings reach up around
me with stiff, cradling arms
and the gritty floor with its
millions of freckles of eons of
pancaked gum---forever indelible,
moves its way beneath my feet
                        Up on the hills
                                of the city. . .shine
                the suns
                             of the high tides
                            riding the waves
                                        of the petrified rollers;
                              down on the town.
A river                   
and silky,                 
quenching the thirst of
far away,
slips by beneath its golden mantle,
sparkling, singing
sending back whatever it takes.
    he is a road. . .
he is a road.

Time slides by me.
                        The morning pounds
far away frightening
the night creatures
on a distant planet
Where children cry and hunger - -
                                                                            the sun bears down on their thirst.
Time flows by
The bridge rustles
beneath ancient sighs.
A span of ages
over the ruffling
                    water where
fire slides                       
                    and glides
and streaks,
beneath a trough,
a disappearing
a song
wrenched from an anguish too deep
to be real
or to heal;
         becomes a light,
                           an eternal life that flutters
         and lives forever
                                      like butterflies in summer mornings
Long ago                                   
Time sighs by. . .
                                                                                                The paper whispers, its clarity
marred by dirt and sanding it
receives in its flight over the
floor of the city.  The wind
lifts its corners, peering under,
the wheezing, giggles at the
illegible markings, marching
like ants across a sterile background.

Time creeps by. . .
                            The sound of creaking
             reaches my
                         over straining ears.
Streetlights flipping in the wind
Electricity sizzling
Through old neon signs - signs
that say:
                                                    "buy, buy, we're the best
                                            we sing the loudest
                                           we make you laugh
                            buy, buy,
                                            The meaning of life
                                 here, here."
Some one's humming
in the breeze.
in the distance
the sound bounces
against the corners
of the buildings
in the city
which rip
                and tear
                                        at the edges
                                          of the song --
it reaches me
in tatters
torn and weary - -
lonely soul,
Song at night
in the bright city.

Time wandered by. . .
                                    I had drunk a pot of coffee
and my eyes were plastered open,
feeling like refrigerated marbles
they stared out over the glossy
taffy coated river and I stand
alone at the edge of the peak
of the bridge, alone, beneath
the shadow of its web I peer
out over the city, its heavy solid
mass gleams back at me; only
my eyes capture the light of its unrepentant being.
Alone, I stand not lonely, contemplating on my last days
without sorrow and I hesitate without fear. I reach
for the life within me,
and not of me
Sympathetic enough
that its heart
beats my rhythm
and that of the city:
                        the song coming,
                      drifting my way
I see in the far reaches

     a wind-up toy
     a brightly broken walking child
     stepping delicately
     over debris
     she comes to me
     bubbling a song in her
     clear belly voice
     She peels away my shadows
     with her lustrous eyes
     She sees me
     As if I were a spider
     in its web
     She was so small
     a fragile, porcelain
     mantel art
     She flew like the breeze 
     when she saw me
     looming over her
     like the monsters
     out of her time . . . .
     her hell
     her hideous space in time
     that wrenching
     bone cracking
     lump of time
     The agony of fire
     and the drowning
     in the well
     that time
     that time of hatred
     the oar shaped hand
     that ripped
     her flesh
     with its tools
     of evil genius
     that mouth
     those teeth
     that wrenched
     away her very soul
     That body
     that battered hers
     against the wall
     and created 
     where there
     were none
     And pain
     which was
     burning in the pits
                          the core
          of her existence
Time dragging by . . . . . . . .

I saw her home
her place of refuge
the streets
glowing goldly godlike
with cement
all around
like a cave
a well lit cave
and a sewer that runs
like clear running
where people die
when they dive off bridges
     but live
when they chase
          the child
          that runs
     like clear running
          down the face
          of a stranger

Time runs, running like a river . . .
     In that space of time
     slipped sideways.
The lights dimmed,
a shadow swept across my brow
a gentle tap
it was gone.
          I flew after the child, stumbling,
I swing around the street sign pole
on the corner, a fat, cold, gritty
pole holding proudly a tiny green
sign to name the way.
     I flew up the avenue, a
bed for children, for wandering
slugs, for nightmares that
stumbled and reeked of failed
existences, for people with no hope
no home, for fragile invisibilities
and singing preachers looking for
eye contact - - no hope on the
streets of the city -- no down
comforters, no bedtime prayers,
no tucking in, no teddy bears.

But the alternative, god forbid
the alternative which is the evil
spell that defines the boundaries
of pain which is infinite,
          The streets
          with voiceless reminders
          of daily crowds
          it was loud
          it boomed
          it roared
          it bellowed
          my signal sound as I ran.
I slowed -- I stopped
          to look
          for the child
          Who was gone
          -- hidden
          in the bright places
                                      of the city
          where she had given
                            away her soul
          where it was taken
                    from her by force
          where she lost it
          and watched in pain
                    that somehow
          it was a dream
          hidden away
          in the darkness
                      of madness.

Time hides away . . .

     Walking slowly now, turning, I 
gaze into the face of the 
nameless, pointless buildings,
brightly lit. My breathing
is gasping, burning fire as
I quelled the cells within my
universe with oxygen and 
hopefulness . . 
     Time stilled . . . 
     My eyes saw a car, half on
the sidewalk, like a crab
scuttling sideways over large
pebbles. A bubble of space,
metallic and defiant --
     a scar on the ecosphere,
But there were faces
     round faces
     small faces
     very still faces
     looking up at me
     from beneath
     the mechanical creatures
          They told no story
          no expression
          no emotion
          Just still
          as if they were
          little bubbles of glue
          binding together
          the shattered
          the light
          off the membrane
          of their structures
One by one
they stood and stepped
                            before me
          poised for flight
          their wings outstretched
          their heartbeats wild
They glowed there, in that
gleaming night city
They had their own source of energy;
     yet stolen if given freely;
     yet taken if hidden away
it was their own light
in their own space
of time.
Like planets, or galaxies
they circled
around me
reaching with their eyes
their ancient eyes
their predator, weary
wise and wary
          eyes in the night
          reflecting sorrows
          and untold stories
          and watching
          for nonexistent
          to reach
          the stars
          where all is glory
          in the story
          and the pain
          is unnamed
          and never more
     They never believe
     in happily evermore.

Very young faces
sunken cheeks
like gnomes
the edge of hunger
          never spent
Their arching eyebrows
told tales of horror
shock and fear
no knowledge learned
          at chalkboards
          or mama's knees
          encircled by loving arms
          graham crackers
          afternoon snacks
          in dusty sunbeams
          lazy laughter
          a warm bath
Story Time
no time goes by . . . 
stories of horror
of dreams gone flat

No tale told

too much fear for that
committed to darkness
                   to death
                   too little
Only paper thin faces
No tales . . .

This poem was written many years ago when I was at one of my lowest points of life and much of it is true . . . 

This poem was never finished . . .

Autumn is turning away from the light
and walking into the darkness . . .
when you are alone . . . there is no love . . .
what are the memories but the chance rubbing of electrons against one another . . . 

what is the music but occasional waves of air crashing against the firmament . . .
when there is order there is music, there is vision . ..
a disturbance in the atmosphere . . .
so ephemeral as to drift into and out of its spaces
and then the brightest darkness
and the crashing silence. . .
what is real ?
Nothing . . ..

The music, dark and broody . . . came through, crashed into my soul and disturbed my existence . . . like death, and then it arose and left . . . left behind this one hungry for one more listen
once more drifting into the light . . . and once more into the sound . . .
and then once more . . . nothing . . .




A Gift to Creix After His Dog, Roseanne, Died . . .

Remembering -

I saw the crows this winter's eve
wheeling and diving
in the tattered
remnant of the sun rays
over the great black fir trees
in the stand on the hill. . .
I watched as I walked onward. . .
my road home

Before me appeared
a wide field of emerald grasses
with the many hued flowers of spring
gracing the edges like
around a pillow - the black trees -
like a wall
in the misty beyond. . .

and meandering through flowed a stream
of clear healing water
singing the music
of joy in the clatter
swirling and dipping
. . . and flowing
the essence . . .
surges and leaps
like crystals poised in the air
with dreams of magic and hope.

I saw her as she ran with the pack
her spirit wolves guiding and leading her
 . . . back . . .to
her home in the mysteries, beyond in the wild,
she ran with a new birthed freedom and joy
cleared of the hurt. . .
the wolf on the right as white as new fallen snow
the one on the left was an ebony flow

They guided her closely
guarded between them
shoulder to shoulder
the three pressed so tightly . . .
yet hearing my sigh
she stopped
looking over her shoulder
seeing my despair . . .

She ran back to my side
said one last good-by
her tongue flashing out with
a smile big and wide.. .
Her eyes were like gems
highly polished with joy
and her peace flowing out in a radiant glow. . .

She laid her paw in my hand
kissed my face as her wont
looked me in the eye speaking love
and . . .then good-by

She was off
with the others
running free as the wolves
jumping and gliding, weaving and flying with grace
then she stopped
wheeled around one more time
gave a bow and a look
turned again

with the wolves her guiding spirits
. . . lept over the stream  . . .


from me. . .


My sister and I were very close. She ate at my home daily and was such a joy to have around. She always had such a big bright smile, her eyes always glowed with fun and happiness. It seemed to me that she would always, always be there, throwing open the door loudly and booming, "I'm here!" What better life was there than to have someone you love around you, bringing the joy they have to your side?
And then one night, late in the night, she was killed by a drunk driver; they said instantly. They said she died as soon as she was hit. He was driving so fast. She was stopped at a red light, sitting on her motorcycle, so close to home.
I never got to say good-by.
Not then.

One night I had a vivid dream. I were standing in a beautiful meadow, the colors so bright and beautiful as to be indescribable. The sun was shining, the air was clear. And there was a shallow river running through the valley. There were trees and there was green, ever so green, grass. It was a fantasy land. A beautiful place. My sister was there and we were eating and talking. Like a picnic in this mysterious place. We finished our dessert, lemon cake, and we laughed as we brushed the crumbs off of each other's face.

Then she said, "It is time to go." I asked "Where?" and she pointed over the river. I said, "O.K. let's go."
She said, "No, I need to go alone." She gave me a hug and wading across that beautiful stream, was instantly gone from my sight.


I was walking home from work, through a very stormy night, a few evenings ago. The wind was whipping so strongly around me that it was hard to stand upright. The lights were coming on in the buildings around me and I was wet from head to toe and beginning to shiver - but then I felt this warm glow in my chest. I looked up and saw the vision in the poem, the crows, the stream, Roseanne and the wolves. That is all. Just that quick little sight and then came the bones of this poem.


Barbara Wolfsong
January 17, 2010

Saturday, October 2, 2010


or Threads Woven Through the Eternal Tapestry . . .


     Secrets I:

    We all have a story . . .
    She says, "I will write about the day my daddy got out of jail.
    and maybe he will read it . .. because I was so happy."
    And here was her story:
        {my dad got oat of jell i wus so hap that my dad came
        ohm to me i gave e he a big hug and i gave him a kiss
        on the cheeks i lug e hi m my mom }. . .

    and what is in a child's blood that tells the tale of
    the seed of the man who did not father her
    after all . . .
    and although ten years have gone by,
    will un-father her. . .
    and where an ocean grows from the tears
    of this lonely fatherless child,
    swims a frightened wingless angel . . .

    what is the shape of those bruises?
    mysterious like a Rorschach puzzle,
    and then. . .
    a feather drifts across the light of the moon as
    a simple wind lifts your hair from your face
    and what is that shadow,
    my little friend, .. .. who broke your wings
    and took away your smile . . .  ??

    Secrets II :

    the song of integrity,  faith, and trust belong to you alone . . .

    Secrets III :

    There in the darkness and the cold in the Valley of Despair
    lived the last unicorn.
    His greatest wish was to travel to the top of the mountain
    where the stars lived and danced to the music of the wind.
    His eyes would stray to that peak day and night
    and his desire played on his face like a shadow
    and gave away his wishes to the moon . . .
    In the night a dream came to him
    with the voice of the moon, who rested on that distant peak,
    telling him
    that he would grow the wings to fly
    if he could find a virgin who would give him her heart
    without being asked . . .
    So the last unicorn roamed through the valley and found
    that many were willing to give him their heart
    but these were only the lovers who were able to read the shadows
    on his face and understood
    what he longed for. . .
    and sadly he continued to search,
    but the virgins
    had not the knowledge .. ...
    nor the experience to understand
    his pain . . . 
    and so, kept their hearts to themselves . . . 

    and so the last unicorn
    withered away in despair.

    Secrets IV :

    Give your friend an empty box
    and in it they will put their heart's desire . . .
    Secrets V :

    By the side of the dusty road
    lay a little gray bird with beautiful feet
    and a broken wing,
    and as she lay there she became quite thirsty
    for she could see a puddle of water on that road
    a short distance away,
    and she wished that she could go there to drink,
    but though she tried to flap her wings
    she could only go in circles,
    as the broken wing would not move. . .
    and so her children called to her
    from their nearby nest, telling her to walk to the puddle,
    to ease her thirst. . .
    yet she refused for fear of damaging her beautiful and precious feet . . .
    and so she wept
    until she drowned in a puddle of her tears

    Secrets VI :

    The man walked quickly down the street towards me
    and sat on the bench in the bus shelter. . .
    reaching down behind him
    and staring at me the entire time,
    he unpeeled a small white
    package from under the seat . . .
    then he
    got up and
    running past me
    without a word
    crossed the street and disappeared into the park

    Secrets VII :

    I was walking by a table of very young children in the cafeteria, 
    when one little boy suddenly turned around on his seat to face me 
    and opened his arms wide.
    I asked him what he wanted and he said . . . "I want to give you a hug."
    So he stood up and gave me a really big hug, a very nice, long hug.
    Then the girl next to him did the same thing
    and when I was finished with that hug I got two more,
    delivered in the exact same manner . . .
    we were all smiling and we felt loved. . .
    so hugs are infectious .. .. .. like a virus but
    way more pleasant to participate in.

    Secrets VIII :

    All I really need to survive is a cup of water, a loaf of bread . . . and love. . .

    Secrets IX:

    Art -
    belongs to the living . . .
    the expressions of our tired souls are
    values of color, shape, words, sound,
    through every pore of our being we
    absorb the thoughts
    of others

    where we find harmony
    and where
    one soul resonates with another. . .
    we connect,
    as I pull you
    into me
    you speak to me through your song

    Secrets X:

    How not to clip the wings of a child:
    give them knowledge
    give them tools to create
    give them freedom . . .


All these secrets are true . . . and the pictures were taken on the same day within the space of one block.  B.W.