A Bird in Hand. . . Part II

This is a continuation of my story from April 28: "Rescue Me . . .  Part I"

What to do with a baby robin, in hand, when it is freezing cold and all its little mites have run up your wrists, and your mean old cat has killed the mom . . . leaving the dad to feed and care for the rest of the family on his own - ? 


Well first you call the Audobon Society to find out what to do . .. "Give it damp cat food or egg yolk . . . . and do NOT give it milk. Find its nest and put it back." OOOOKAAY!  Cat food I had aplenty . . . so I used the handle of a yellow plastic spoon to poke some cat food down his big open beak . . . and he ate plenty. I also held him until he felt as warm as he should.

I spent that evening and night looking for his nest . ..  because he cried . .  loudly!  I saw an old bird's nest in the same tree so I climbed it and put him in that . . . but there he was even more lonely and his father, in his comings and goings with food for the brood, ignored his cries . . . It was so sad looking at that little bird watching his dad going back and forth with mouthfuls of food and disappearing deep into the shadows of that persimmon tree . . . The baby's eyes glittering hopefully and his cries becoming louder and more desperate . . . and the sun was starting to go down.


I watched the father closely and tried to guess where the nest was . . . I would climb the tree and perch on a limb (and I am afraid of heights) and watch for any movement or deeper shadows where a nest might be . .  As it got darker and darker I climbed further up the tree, thinking I would be able to find the nest (how hard can it be?) but I was never able to find it. I had to retrieve Baby because his cries were so piteous and he wasn't stopping . . . I will never forget that enormous voice that came out of that little thing . . . so I climbed back down the tree with a re-chilled baby bird and took him inside where I found a box, some materials for a nest and fed him once more before calming him down enough to get him to sleep . . . I was definitely a robin mother.  I put Baby's container in the kitchen and locked the doors against that naughty cat, Bear.

Well, days went by and I was busy. . . We didn't have the Internet in those days so I spent much of my free time scouring the library and watching the other robins. ..  trying to figure out what to do with this little critter. I kept him supplied with cat food but I knew that wasn't going to be good enough as time went on. 


The cats were angry at me . ..  they couldn't figure out why I wouldn't allow them into the kitchen .. . and one day Bear snuck in . ..  and with one claw snagged a feather off the chest of the bird right over his heart. When that feather grew back it was pure white and remained so for the rest of the summer.


To feed Baby I got some big trays and filled them with soil from the garden . . . I watered the yard daily for hours and at night I went out with a flashlight and a big jar and captured the night-crawlers. These are some pretty big and strong worms. Some fishing folk told me about this trick. How to sneak up on them with the flashlight because they are laying outside their tunnels, socializing and relaxing by the light of the moon. My hands would get all slimy and sticky from handling these guys. They always kept their hind-ends hooked to the mouth of their tunnels and when they sensed my presence they would retreat into the safety of their cave faster than I can blink. If I was able to grab hold of one I had to tug fast and contend with this amazing strength .  .  . but I was always able to capture quite a few by the end of the night.


I would put the worms in the trays of soil which I kept moist and when Baby was hungry I would make a big deal out of capturing a worm and pounding it like I noticed the parents did . . . before cramming it down his wide open beak . . 


I took Baby outside, one day, to see if he was ready to go . .  He did fly off to a neighbor's tree where he started to cry. He cried the rest of the day and into the night . . . where I finally left him since he was afraid of the cats (rightly so) and he wouldn't come back to me. The next day I went back outside with his old feeding spoon and he flew right down to my head. I took him back inside and gave him the house to fly in until he was ready to go. 


I watched the robins constantly and since my yard was the dampest in town the robins came often to find food. Eventually I put one of the worm trays outside where I attracted a large number of hungry robins, including a huge flock of youth, about the age of Baby. I took him outside to join his relatives and I always recognized him with his white feather over his heart. He would come down and land on my head if I called him but one day he wouldn't come near me . .  he was now a free, wild creature . ..  hanging out with his buddies and foraging for food for himself . .  Eventually as Fall approached and there were berries and other robin food the flock of youth stopped coming by and I lost sight of my baby robin . . .


But this was an experience. I was successful at raising him but it was so much hard work. It dominated my days and nights and I was glad when it was over. 


Here is a link to a great site which provides tons of information regarding the American Robin . ..  how to help an orphaned one and everything you could possibly wish to know in regards to these cheerful little birds.  I adore robins and look forward to hearing their vocalizations in the early spring . . .
http://www.learner.org/jnorth/robin/


********************************************

Hours of excellent music to play and relax to . . . just simply good flowing ambient to calm your wild child . ..The Music is good and there is lots of it:

Royalty free music for professional licensing

    

Rescue Me . . . Part I

House Sparrow, somewhere in Portland

One summer, my two cats and their friends, the neighborhood felines, decided to harass a family of robins who had taken residence high up in one of my persimmon trees.  My large orange tabby, Bear, the main instigator and leader of the gang of cats, was a birder . . . and his main commission in life was to catch and destroy birds. He had no idea of what to do with a mouse. I saw him with mice several times .. .  he would lick them fondly until they were nice and tidy and he would pat them gently with his paws and then let them go.


This particular hot and dry summer, Bear closely watched the comings and goings of the parent robins as they flew back and forth with groceries and other necessities for their growing family. These parent robins were well aware of the activities of the cats and they kept a sharp eye on those ruffians; and often would shriek and scold as robins do in vain hope of discouraging any intrusions. These poor birds were so stressed with the five or six cats milling around at the foot of the tree. But the trees were very tall and dark with foliage and seemed safe for the most part.


At the peak of this adventure, I was baking cookies and keeping an eye on the cats. There was quite a ruckus going on and I would run out from the kitchen and yell at the cats and chase them off. The robins were often on the wires near the tree shrieking in high pitched voices. Something was going on and my assumption is that the cats had narrowed in on where the nest was hidden in the tree and the birds knew it. . . 


At one point I raced outside to see one of the birds flapping its wings against the ground and suddenly the cats pounced and commenced tearing at the unfortunate creature. I turned the hose on the furry murderers and yelled at them but the damage was done. The mother had sacrificed herself to appease the army of cats. My cookies were burning so I ran back inside and forgot about the incident . . . life goes on.


Later that evening I walked outside and found the shreds of the mother robin. I took her remains for disposal and watched the father taking care of his babies on his own. . . I decided to look for the rest of the mother in the bushes at the foot of the tree and there I found a dead looking chick. When I picked him up though, he came to life and began to shriek . . . his body was ice cold and his pin feathers were shivering and rattling . . . and all his little vermin ran off onto my hands .. . 

of course I had to rescue him . . . and thus I became a mother robin . . . 

Part II to be continued . . . .


************************************************************************************
A Forest Lane
Music by Nelson Jenstad

Royalty-free music for professional licensing

a peaceful walk
on a forest lane . ..
the dusty city left behind . . for a moment ...
the chatter of worries and sorrows
drop away like tattered and worn
garments that no longer are needed . .
and though we are naked and vulnerable
against the wiles of the world
we find a retreat in the trees .. .
we breath the freshened air . .. cool and moist
and feel the shadows of the trees
cover us like insulation against the storms
we must face . . . for a moment's  reprieve . .
this sheltered sanctuary is our strength
and our calm . . . and our grace for the future . . .

The beautiful piano and instrumental music of this album is as fulfilling as the true
nature of a wooded walk . . . 
***********************************************************************************

Goodbye - Hello

Saying Goodbye to Paris

My refrigerator holds an assortment of photos and clippings . . . comics that made me chuckle, stories that resonated with me . . . and poems that moved me . . . . Here is one. Its been on my fridge for a very long time . .  It came out of the Oregonian and is cracked and yellowed with age. So I copied it here for you to enjoy:

TO HOLD

A poem:

by Li-Young Lee, Chicago

So we're dust. In the meantime, my wife and I
make the bed. Holding opposite edges of the sheet,
we raise it, billowing, then pull it tight,
measuring by eye as it falls into alignment
between us. We tug, fold, tuck. And if I'm lucky,
she'll remember a recent dream and tell me.

One day we'll lie down and not get up.
One day, all we guard will be surrendered.

Until then, we'll go on learning to recognize
what we love, and what it takes
to tend what isn't for our having.
So often, fear has led me
to abandon what I know I must relinquish
in time. But for the moment,
I'll listen to her dream,
and she to mine, our mutual hearing calling
more and more detail into the light
of a joint and fragile keeping.
********************************************************

Poetry is a delicate creation, always personal . . . For it means something slightly different to each and every observer . . . our pathways are our own . . . our moccasins fit only our feet . . . and we interpret the artistic communications of others through the lens of our own understandings . . . It is always a challenge to understand perfectly . . .

This story was like a dream itself ... .... reminding me that we are but temporal, and all that we think we own . . . is just momentarily in our grasp . . . our existence, and what we love, is beautiful and delicate and ephemeral as life, a mere wisp of mist streaming over the dew laden grass before the rising of the heat of day . . . and occasionally we remember that everything we have and we give is not ours at all . . . but something like the mist, which will return to us in the end . . . 

Royalty-free music for professional licensing

. . . . like music . . . each note a sensation. . . like the touch of a feather that glances off the shoulder, where the wings once appeared, with strength and courage .  . What is music but the tender expressions of a being trying to become real and visible through the misty shields that come between beckoning souls. What is art, of any style, but the longing of an angel to say . . . "I am here . . . together we make a whole . . . the picture will be clear . .  if together we stand . . . " And in the meantime we make the beds and share our dreams . ..

I like this particular musician, Score Creationism. This is what he said in regards to this story-telling album (Let There Be Notes): "In the beginning music was created.  Man learned this and was punished.  Scores/Soundtracks for movies, games, or your life." That tickles me and the music gives a story of creation involving a little more than we are used to hearing . . . . Its worth listening to because its quite beautiful, and moving . ..  and I enjoyed it very much.

Hello . . .  Portland

Royalty-free music for professional licensing

 
Gorgeous . .  surreal . . . uplifting . .  flutes . . . bells . . . song that welcomes the listener into the new day .  . lifting up into beautiful melody .. . harmonious and adventurous . . . A wonderful listen. 

Frank Harper

Top of Frank's page with his song, "Would You"

       
This lovely page of Frank Harper's:  http://frankharper.bandcamp.com/track/would-you

On this evening I came home . . .  tired after a long day. And even after buying a new pair of shoes and taking another ton of sunset and Autumn color pictures, I was feeling very low, depressed even! But sometimes surprises happen when you least expect them, because I found a lovely email from Frank Harper, one of Jamendo's best, sharing a link to his web page where he had put, for free, a download of a song he had created for the album, Wolfsong's:
http://www.jamendo.com/en/album/70915
The song is called "Would You," a folk song with a gorgeous acoustic guitar, sung and played by Frank. He had used one of my poems for this song and on his web page he had created an album cover from a photograph of mine that he found here too . . .
http://orangeupurple.blogspot.com/2010/02/glorious-weekend.html
Well, Frank is such a talented musician . ..  with gifted fingers when he strums his guitar . . . I believe he could take anything and turn it into a beautiful song . . . but he said such kind things about me that it brought the tears to my eyes. . . and sharing this song like that on his blog is very heart touching and meant more to me than I could say.

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 . . .

LATER
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!

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
loved.

## 

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. . .  

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
sprinkled
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
lace
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
and
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  . . .
then
was

gone

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

LAUGHTER IS AN ART!!

I have just decided - an imperative - a vote from one - and I hear others join me in this campaign.  HA! What is Art exactly?!?: Somewhere in there must be Joy - and Joy includes laughter.

Yesterday I finished loading all the computers in my lab with a new word processor:  OOo4Kids.  Its got a lot of cool features which will just work better with kids than Word, such as: the ability to use the mouse to move objects around on the page. Cool!  Well, I never really had the time to give it much of a test run so I decided to introduce the application to the third grade classes and then just let them explore.  That teaching method worked so well with Stykz - I was astonished and pleased that the children surpassed me in their skills. Even the little ones - so being the lazy teacher that I am  . . .

The kids were wonderful with OOo4Kids. They asked me how to use it and I shrugged my shoulders, "Click around, read the Help section, see what happens and then share with each other."
The resulting activities were fantastic to hear and watch. The kids discovered so many unique features, such as draw, stamp, shapes and other items. They were able to change the backgrounds and headers, fonts and other cool things appeared as if by magic. The favorite was the music feature, where you could add sounds, music and your own voice. Children were running around the room helping and encouraging and I mostly just sat back and watched and enjoyed.

BUT - I live in a universe run by time. Time rules - clocks are Hellish - plus they are never correct but that's another story. I realized I had another class on my schedule. I needed these students to stop doing whatever they were doing and go through the closing procedures I have structured for my classes. "Apple-Q; close your folders and log out of 'Students'." Unfortunately, the sound volume of children's voices is usually pretty high and although my voice can carry across a playground and quite possibly the city I just couldn't get their attention. So I blew my whistle.

Just a couple of light breaths through my whistle and I thought all would be calm - so I took a sip of tea. The children quieted down for a second and then I heard someone say, "What was that?"

And another little girl said, "I don't know but it sounded like a Dollar Tree whistle." Which made me start laughing so hard that I snorted tea out of my nose, and I knew I was going to choke to death in front of these beautiful people. I haven't laughed so hard in years and I would have enjoyed it more without the mouthful of tea - but I was quickly surrounded by a mass of concerned little people, all hugging me and laughing also. A good time was had by all . . . since I lived, and procedures were followed  . . . and although it sounded like a riot in my room and the other teachers were peering through the door (a little fearfully) . . . I think my class was very successful.

So what did I learn from all this? Not to be insulted when someone says that my very expensive whistle sounds like a "dollar store" item? How about, not drinking tea around eight and nine year old people?  Its OK to be lazy? Keep my eye on the clock always? I think maybe I learned that I am right when I say - Kids are born to learn and they learn best when they play.
PLAY IS AN ART!!

Grownups play too:

My review:
Bringing me back to the day - what fun we had in those golden California days - what a blur they were - but fun. Riding around in our convertibles, with the radio up loud - LOUD - and singing, and rocking, bouncing down the freeways totally oblivious to everything else but each other and our exhilaration at living such a free and easy existence.

Yes - smashed would be a great word to call that existence. I just love this album for bringing back that free wheeling life-style and giving us the great guitar work - the outstanding singing - the lyrics - the adventure, the SUPER music. Although this album is not entirely like those golden-olden days - it is close enough to that groovy spirit that it makes me visualize - ah - my younger days. You guys are the best!

Warning: Sadness Here Below!

So now I have a sad poem - which flew into my mind when I was thinking about Jamendo and the issues applied therein - and dealing with my strong "rescuer" self-image and how truly frustrated I become when I can't fix things - so if you are looking for laughter please don't read this poem unless you are easily amused.

When bodies began to fall

when there were bodies falling
while the fire raged
and the wings did not appear
as promised by our dreams
who was there to catch
the burning bodies . . .
our hearts turned in despair
and our eyes glazed over
as if not to see. . .
that the bodies were falling
into a tempestuous sea

##

This little poem is about 9-11 and how I felt at not being superman.  I was traumatized for two years and unable to sleep without dreaming that I was one of those people who had to jump from the heights of those burning buildings and I would waken in the middle of the night with my heart flying out of my chest.  Every single night the very same dream of reaching out a hand to someone else, standing by a broken window, and leaping together as the flames stormed up around us. . . . every single night.




 

A Huge Giant Blog & Happy 2KX

No explanations or reviews. Just listen and enjoy:

The music pours through me
         clinging to the edges of my being
connecting my existence
to the entity which forms shape
completely surrounding me
                 guiding me. . .
conceiving tears
            from my face
    collecting them like so many spare parts…
to forge on its anvil  . . .

a trip through time
and lost places - long known - long forgotten
electronic beings embrace
running toward fear, outrunning the shadows that salute them
                       finding joy and . . .
                                     always the sorrow

uh - the light is too bright
                    it hurts my heart's eye.
She looks with her fingers
                 finds

longing is forgivable

but the fluttering in my ears
             is
       your voice. . .
your warm brass entices me
         further
                  further. . .
where there be  danger
                 apprehend
the wide open spaces
the dark engulfs the light
in a chasm
so deep
so hidden. . .

                 loosed by the flow of the music
like spring's waters breaking the ice
from the creek

give her freedom to run
down the easy way
to the sea
where her tears are stored
and waiting for her



##

1-5-10

go fight against the coming storm
ye who scrabble on the darkened hills of Earth
Her breasts can not abide you. . .
She wishes yet to destroy your abodes upon Her cold tits. . .
you are nothing more than
an irritant . . .
a molecule
 
She shrugs you off with a twitch of Her shoulder
and yet you cling as a lover
with hatred yet returned

the stars gaze without care
and the sun tries to burn your very bones to ashes.

You little thing. . .
All alone against the storm
the tide that turns against your back
you seek reprieve and finding none. . .

turn and kill each other.
You turn to kill your Brother. . .




##

1-6-10

  Sunlight sparkles on the teeth of the children
                    pearls on black velvet
. . . . laughter that bubbles and sings like the spring
or a dream
and the eagle lands on the tall black fir
bending low
to see the things that dance and glow. . .

their bodies move like the birth of the breeze
on the stillness of the mountain of earth. . .
yet they bear wings to rise
and the butterflies
flutter near
to see this moving tapestry. . .
a garden of joy

these small soft aliens,
strangers to this fragile planet. . .
enlighten us with their frivolity
and care less with an ease
and the grace of the angels
touching our hearts with a love that is old as creation

and with the songs of the gods of antiquity
and the birds in the trees
they fill our souls. . .
with pure wisdom from the heights of the heavens
and of a profound and ancient peace

##

1-6-10

Orange on a purple tide,
the sun strikes his last note
as a token of return,
a promise for tomorrow
and the hope a new day brings

and through the long long dark of night
that orange purple note remains
within my heart
and lifts me up
while giving joy a chance.

##

All the Kids love Computer Class

A roomful of children
laughing and
playing the games, racing
chasing, running, action,
all computer games, though
perhaps things they should be doing
in reality
instead of the virtual. . .

but for one small lone child
always so intense. . .
straggling hair past his shoulders - a
red bandanna headband
never quite doing the job

yet his eyes shine from behind those strands
as he struggles passionately
over his music. . .
on Garageband.
A song he has collaborated
with a close friend;
composing for months,
on the computer in the back of the room - in a corner  - far away from the rest - even his friend has deserted him
so now he sits alone,
hunched
working out the nuances,
of his tune, his
face so pale and closed in
. . . . dimples flashing as he wins a note,

but
determined
as he tries to find the music
from deep in his heart
to win the peace he needs
to heal his soul.

And yet his song remains unnamed.

A true story as observed by myself. Over the months I have witnessed and loved this child  for his determination to learn how to use Garageband and I dedicate this poem to him for his willingness to teach me what he has learned.  To: Lukas K.

So - I've been enjoying GIMP: 

I call this Thing2

This was a collage I had made when I was into doing such things. I decided to scan it and play around with GIMP for a bit and then, voila. This thing. Poor dear thing - what is it? At least I am learning by doing, like my kids - which reminds me, Monday is back to school and the hardest time of the year for me - t-e-s-t time. For those of you who know me and how distressed I am at being the Testing Coordinator on top of being the Computer Teacher, please give me lots of lovings? No such word, hum - well still. . .

  Thing3

I worked on Thing3 with Gimp also, making it worse and worse. I wish I knew a better way to work with the bamboo pad. It is so awkward with this big laptop as opposed to the tiny one.

I drew this picture when I was in one of the park-facing classrooms, repairing a computer this winter holiday. I was all alone, except for the heater repair guy rambling around that huge building, and bored, so I drew this little brick building in the park. There was this little person there for quite a while as I drew. So I watched her as she was walking toward the school. Suddenly she stopped, bent down to look at the ground and started yelling violently, waving her arms around and scolding something there in her sight. Perhaps it was just a worm.

It was a bad day for me and crazy people. I had an adventure earlier with a totally insane man at the bus stop. He decided to get violent with me, pushing me and commanding me to leave as this wasn't the stop for the likes of me. He also called me an "Oogle" which made me start to laugh. This situation wasn't funny because I had to defend myself, putting my arms out, palms facing him and repeating, "You're in my space. Step back. Step back or I will hit you!"

He was bigger than me and I didn't want to fight;  I'm a Flower Child after all. He would run around the shelter and squat down and peek around the wall and yell, "I still see you. I still see you!" Then he would run back and pretend to shoot me. I tried ignoring him when he had his finger on my cheek pulling the trigger, over and over and over again. Not my idea of fun. When the bus decided to come a million years later he turned into a normal acting citizen. Go figure!

I think I'll Google Oogle.

Found it: From the Urban Dictionary

"Oogles are street rats that don't have street smarts. They are the ICP kids, the tweekers on bikes, the 15 year olds who runaway cause they think it's cool, not cause their lives at home weren't working out. Another good word for an oogle is poser. The kids that pose as punx don't know shit about the scene, don't know shit about the music. Age is often a big part of oogle-ism, you have to be around for a while before people will respect you in street scenes. Some kids grow up and get street cred. Others are doomed to be oogles for the whole time they choose to hang out. Tweekers and 'juggalos' are doomed to be oogles for all of eternity. Oogles don't know shit about squatting. these are the kids that sleep in doorways. You find them in every city.

"Yeah, that oogle got murdered cause he was too stupid to find a safe place to sleep, some jock rolled him in his sleeping bag outside of the library.""

Hmmm - I pass as a street kid??? I don't know whether to be flattered or alarmed.

2KX - look it up in the Urban Dictionary!

Thing4

HA - I'm learning stuff. Like my globe? - made it in GIMP - WHOO - WHOO - love that GIMP - boy I'm excited. Back with more stuff. Stay tuned. Well - whatever - I know its not perfect - I'm half asleep after all.

Loneliness - the Entity

Yawning abyss - that black hole in your soul

like a gaping wound you try to stanch the flow

of hope and dreams

escaping your grasping fingers

as you wrap your arms tighter around your heart

Big black hole - like a ravenous mouth eating at your heart

hungry for more

hungry for your soul 

you alone stand to battle

with bare hands

against the dragon of your very being - your  own creation

the dragon's mouth the yawning abyss

the fire inside

the fear

the fear

You stand in that big empty black cave

no sound but the insistent  plop of the distant water

or blood. . .

Your ears strain to catch the sound

of happy voices

others

even one sad cry. . .

someone

where are you . . . where are you - anyone?

No one is there but you alone

trying to appease the dragon inside you. . .

you inside the dragon

Is it love that contains you there 

ensnaring you behind the sharp teeth

like prison bars

dripping with poison and contempt?

Is it hate that embraces you with skeletal arms

enshrouding you in its violence

its hatred sneering at your tears.

No one to hold your hand and walk your walk

No one to hear your words and share the talk

Oh - God am I the only one

the only one

so alone

so cold

?

I hope so

for the pain is too great to bear

the heart wrenches itself from the breast

and tries to escape

with its life-giving rhythm

like a precious jewel

falling away and lost forever.

OH
I pull myself together wiping away my tears
put some color on my pale cheeks
Put a big smile on my face
Don't forget the crinkle and twinkle in my eyes -

and go out to meet my friends
in the places of light and sound
for
I too can laugh and play
always being the clown
They love me there
hugs and kisses
in that world



But still -      NO ONE is in that hellish place with me
No knights in shining armor - nothing - 
No life raft to float me away - nothing
No big shiny happy ever after ending - nothing
No rescue from the burning building - and again I say - nothing. . .


So - I turn inward
and thus I am truly lost. . .

This one came streaming out of me like the crystal stream my sister and I found once - pouring out from under an old tree in the beautiful wilderness of Eagle Creek - where we hiked for days and slept under the open sky and saw such heavenly beauty that it is indescribable. Perhaps the dark ugly stories are sometimes easier to explain.

Joy and Peace for all of 2010!

Dark Days - I HATE YOU CANCER CELL!

I wrote this a few days ago and wasn't going to finish it but it suits my mood today:

Petty things
anchors with leaden chains
dragging you down
through the fathoms
away from the glazed lights . . .
down into the murky depths
where nothing remains clear
but ominous and deadly
sea serpents and monsters
gloating at your fear
turning you against yourself
against your own flesh
you try to gnaw
away your limbs
as the dire threats rejoice
and others rebuke


and yet you never escape.


you. . . .never. . . .escape!

###

I hate you cancer cell:

 

 

How dare you be so beautiful?

by what hand were you created

do you have a lease on life?

I ask 

because I am willing to listen

right now I am hurting

and I hate you

but then

perhaps you have a family

and long to exist like all the rest of us!

I just ask right now

go

I do not want you in my friend

what good are you?

except to make room on this godforsaken planet

for another wretched human life

again I hate you. . .

but where does that lead

except perhaps to a point of no return

so should I embrace you

and all you represent

death?

No - she fights on

with a brave smile. . . 

me 

I sit and cry

with a prayer on my angry lips

will God listen. . .?

stay tuned.

So - maybe the doctors are wrong. Perhaps they hallucinate or get the wrong results from their tests and pictures. No. I know better - deep in my heart - I know that I lie to myself. I do that a lot. I fucking lie to myself, but it doesn't solve anything. What would? 

No, I grieve, but it is too soon. They have only begun the remedies to try to fix the breaking body and heal the pain. I remember when my mother had lymphoma and went through their healing methods for ten.....count ten in years and all the pain that that represented. Their chemo therapies are excruciating. All that pain, and only for her hope that life will succeed. I am sorry - I can hardly see through the tears that persist and fill my eyes. I hope my friend never reads this - to see my distress - she needs only the positive right now and her little ones to hug her. 

I remember when my mother, struggling on, said she would fight until the end. I remember when her doctor said, "Go home and die. I have nothing more for you." I remember when she died in my arms, screaming and fighting against death and that dark night. I remember . . . oh God I remember . . . I remember when her pale blue eyes turned electric blue. She was gone. I ask again and again and again. . . how can there be a life one second and none the next. And the body is left as if it were a pile of dirt. 

My sister died suddenly - one moment she was happy on her motorcycle going home late at night. She was always happy. Not like me - she was sunshine. A drunk driver, 85 miles an hour on a residential road - ran into her while she was stopped at a red light. She died instantly. She didn't have to struggle. Happy for that but that is all.  That she didn't have to struggle against the end.

I am sorry - this blog is supposed to be about art - but how can there be art if there is no life. Do we create to leave a little of  ourselves behind - when we are gone - like all the famous painters who became rich from the grave? I don't know. I don't know anything. . . so why am I saying so much? ...and yet so little.  

Ah - I lie to myself again. I apologize. I know everything. I know enough. I have no more questions. What is . . . is. . .perhaps it isn't important in the end we are all just dust. Something as profound as life and it all just ends in a second. Any second.  

This morning I am shaking with the cold. The snow covers the ground like a shroud . . . I don't care . . . let me feel the cold while I still can. There will be warmth again. I know. I have been here before . . . I recognize the sign posts pointing the way to the cliffs . . . I can stumble off or find my own way back. I have done this before - and will again. 

I remember when my Dad died. He was on his honeymoon with my stepmother. They were so happy when they were swimming in the ocean. Splashing and laughing with joy. Then he said: "Swim for your life." She reached out for his hand, asking, "Where is the shore?" for she is blind and cannot see anything but the sunshine. They floated together face down in the tide, together, holding hands. She went to that place, where there is peace, she tells me. She almost died. The man who rescued them brought her to shore first and then went for my dad. It was too late. Die happy - I say. Die happy - let the tears that flow - fucking run from the eyes of the living. 

So now my anger is somewhat dissipated.  I run out of emotion. But never the pain. In all these years the pain stands out as bright punctuations in my life - scarlet punctuations - end of sentence - stop. STOP! 

Well, I realize at this point that I may have said too much, so I will stop my rant. I will now turn completely around and say, "While there is life, there is hope." And the hope remains strong in me and with all my love and prayers, I sincerely hope that Mary doesn't read this post. 

Addendum:

On a lighter note - We had snow last night, which covered the city and ground down the traffic to a halt everywhere. Some people were spending much of the night in their vehicles. The television news went on and on ad infinitum. It is the weatherman's hay day. That was ok because it melted by the end of today. It was hardly anything. Not enough to stop a city.

But it reminded me of the last day of school for the children before Winter Break. I stopped by one of the breakfast tables where there is a large number of the older Somali boys. They are always a gaggle of fun and naughty antics. A teacher's headache. But very endearing. I asked the group what they were planning on doing during the break, fully expecting, "Play video games, watch tv." But no, that wasn't the case. One little boy popped up and said, "Throw snowballs." Yes, yes, was the shout in response. Throw snowballs.

"OK," I said, "Are you going up to Mount Hood with your parents?"

"What! No mountain. In the yard"

"It snows on Christmas."

I laughed and explained that it rarely snowed in Portland. We are too temperate between the ocean and the mountains. We got a horrendous snow and ice storm last year that ruined a lot of family plans and kept most of the city home bound for days on end. I explained that that was a fluke. An aberration. 

"Oh no, Ms. Wolfsong - it always snows on Christmas."

Bless those little boys, with their short lives here in our state, how would they know any difference? They wouldn't listen to me and shouted me down, so I just laughed and said - "So be it" and walked away to talk to other children.

Lucky boys. It snowed for them, just for a little while, but probably enough for them to remember this snowy Christmas.  And to remind me that I don't "know everything, Ms. Wolfsong."