Living the Dream

There’s hot jazz in spring’s symphony
in the boogy of newly budded leaves
as sky blues gives way to a syncopated
strobe of southern strum and drum.

Weaving like Medusa rising from her brown down,
a thousand arms scrolling a new symphony,
she leads the uprising of this parade
coming over southern horizon
riding Pan’s New Orleans trumpet
to get dressed and join this climatic cabaret.

Move, without question, to dancing notes
rising from their cold covers.
to join a surge of color winding
through the streets and of all the lands.

What makes this ruffle of seedtime rouse
castanet jingle of season?   Man, if you gotta ask
you’ll never know what freedom is
or why we move to music’s sensual seasons.
“Man, if you gotta ask you’ll never know.”  – Louis Armstrong

Tags: Natural Nuances, Poems by Shewolf
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even sister moon shivers
blanketless
these drilling days
of winter’s last cold

there’s funeral, up where land
has to be chiseled
to make room for her

such an art; ice sculptures
like jackfish, pulled from deep
unfrozen lake, to freeze
immediately upon reaching air

earth opens her brain-freeze mouth
to swallow another dear far-flung friend
and I am afraid of spring

these thoughts, stacking up
like mourners over a grave
know sinkholes come in spring

I can not feel my fingers
as I place a freeze-dried
seed that will sprout
crocuses before all else
dares to raise their dirty-snow heads

Tags: Natural Nuances, Poems by Shewolf
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Ice is no friend of mine, great grinding gray ghoul,
spitting out bones, come spring. I know their names:
Bowee, Jonathan, Jared, the winter road builder,
our Janitor’s son. Do we not grow cold fast enough
in our little last houses with no heat?

Tags: Journal Blog, Poems by Shewolf
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She could strip meat off caribou ribs
in less time than it took
to lay the peat for the smoking.

Bowee, Fond du Lac woman,
born just below barren lands,
who broke the mold
of women going out on hunt.

“Nabarrio,” she called as if
there was nothing but having fun
that could be had in that grassless place
where cold comfort came
from such open spaces.

She handed her love
out by the  bowlsful,
to community children
crawling to school for  a warm place
and rich moose stew
smell of her clothing.

Oh, Irene, my extra heart,
hands busy touching heads
as if blessing to them.
Ah, blessed we were to have you,
to know how far
your soul traveled
to my remembrance.

 
For Irene, from Fond du Lac, Father Gamache School, 60 miles from the barrenlands of NWT, my T.A., my friend.  Getting stuck when traveling across the great Athabasca Lake on a long winter road cutline leading to LaRonge through stumpy tree-lined winter path, was a cold end for a dear heart.  My heart hears her name Dene name, “Bowee”, and I hear her happy Are we having fun yet” (nabarrio) ring all the way to Maine.

Tags: Journal Blog, Poems by Shewolf
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There are some songs that simply take one’s breath away. I have never heard this song before and I happened on it as I was searching for inspiration poetry to listen to while I write my book. It speaks to me of so very much. I wish to share it.
(Tim Buckley/Larry Beckett)

On the floating, shipless, oceans
I did all my best to smile
‘Til your singing eyes and fingers
Drew me loving to your isle
And you sang, “Sail to me, sail to me,
Let me enfold you,
Here I am, here I am
Waiting to hold you”
Did I dream you dreamed about me?
Were you hare when I was fox?
Now my foolish boat is leaning
Broken lovelorn on your rocks
For you sing, “Touch me not, touch me not,
come back tomorrow: O my heart,
O my heart shies from the sorrow”
I am puzzled as the newborn child
I am troubled at the tide:
Should I stand amid the breakers?
Should I lie with death my bride?
Hear me sing, “Swim to me, swim to me,
Let me enfold you,
Here I am, Here I am,
Waiting to hold you”

Song to the Siren

And by This Mortal Coil

Tags: Journal Blog by Shewolf
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