~

a stone rolled down a steep embankment. it was the size of a small child’s fist, and was the color of ruddy-brown bricks with gently sparkling patches of ebony here and there over its surface. on top of the embankment all the stones looked pretty much this way.

the small stone landed in the ditch below the embankment unharmed. the stone looked around and saw that all the stones here in the ditch were colored yellow caramel-brown. and there were not so many stones here as above. the stone tried to say hello to one of the stones nearest but the odd colored ditch stone did not answer.

after a couple of days the embankment stone felt lonely. and in its want of companionship it came up with an idea. the embankment stone surmised that no one was speaking to it because it looked so different. so the stone rolled and rolled and rolled and rolled so it was covered with the dirt from the ditch. and this worked just as planned. covered in dirt, the embankment stone looked quite a bit like all the other stones in the ditch.

soon after this, one of the ditch stones tumbled by. the ditch stone asked the embankment stone if it had noticed what had happened to the beautiful newcomer with the shiny black spots. the embankment stone delightedly replied ‘oh yes, I am that stone. I rolled down from above.’ and the ditch stone laughed and laughed saying ‘silly, you are just the same as us all.’

the ditch stone rolled away tittering. the embankment stone could hear the sniggering from the other ditch stones as the story of their conversation was told and retold. the embankment stone felt even more lonely then. and try as it might no matter how it rolled or scooted, the dirt covering it stayed firmly in place. it had done a great job with its camouflage.

so many lonely days passed that the embankment stone lost count. all the ditch stones made a wide path clear of it in their rolling about the ditch. sometimes the stone heard whispers of ‘crazy’ and ‘dangerous’ as the rough shaped ditch stones went by at a distance. for a while the stone tried to say hello when new stones came near. but no one ever answered and at last it gave that up too.

the sun was high and hot for most of the time and the pale-brown dirt now covering the embankment stone felt permanently baked on. and sometimes, for just a moment, the stone forgot what it really was underneath.

and then dark clouds came. and the rain fell so hard the stone could not see if it was night or if it was day. and when the sun finally broke through the clouds, the embankment stone was washed clean and gleaming.

and in its surprised happiness, the stone began to call out. the stone called to the ditch stones. asked them to look and see what had happened. to look and see that it had been telling the truth all along.

but only quiet returned the calls of the stone. and so the stone took its view away from itself and looked in every direction—finding there was no stone anywhere in sight. the rain that had so splendidly washed the stone clean, brought it home to itself, had washed the ditch stones entirely away.

~

inspired in part by the SES prompt: falling slowly

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Sometimes, I do not want to write what I am supposed to be writing. Not for lack of inspiration, or passion, or even words.

I should be doing the final edits on a stack of mostly done poems. There are about 40 in the stack currently, and new poems go into the queue every week, so I really do need to get caught up. Which is what I really should be doing right now. But obviously, I’m not.

For the record, I really enjoy the revision & editing process, hair-pulling though it can be.

I love to see a poem find its full expression. I love to take the raw writing and craft it into a smooth shape, glaze it just so. I love those inevitable moments when the writing circumvents me entirely and at last draws from my keyboard what it was trying to say all along—I love the reminder that sometimes, I just need to get out of the way and let it happen.

But, there are times (like now) that I don’t want to craft anything. I just want to write about a moment.

The return of the barn swallows daubing new mud on the winter wear of their nests, the rise of the creek with its fast waters and river otter undulating along the bank, the delight of reading books of poems and letters by E. Bishop over breakfast.

My tremendous joy at having breakfast and doing this reading cat-like in my favorite chair, moved strategically into the sun in front of the window where I can glance up now and then to watch the creek flow by. How the warm sun somehow fits perfectly with the warmth I’m finding in Bishop’s poems and letters.

These are incredible things. Moments that reveal the perfection of all things. I am endlessly, deeply, grateful for them. And I just wanted to acknowledge the gift that they are, write a little bit, and share them with you.

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She parked her pickup close to the sagebrush. Acutely aware of the quiet.

The February air bit her skin with the dry chill of desert morning. Her stiff cold fingers threatened non-compliance as she laced and tightened her boots.

The nail biter 4×4 roll down a thousand feet of snowy dirt had not brought her the warming canyon floor she’d hoped for but, it was early. The was day not likely to get colder, so she layered on everything she could find in her pack, grabbed her poles, and set off.

Not enough snow for snowshoes, but enough to chill her feet so she moved quickly.

The small dusting of fresh white had fallen last night, making the coyote track pristine and distinct in front of her. She hadn’t expected company. Was glad though for the four footed steps marking the path. It felt right. Brought a warmth into her skin.

Copper sandstone rose around her as the sagebrush scrubbed her pant legs fragrant. Nice the cold season, no deer ticks to worry after at the end of the day.

New trails were such a special kind of delight and about two miles in, she found herself transfixed before an unexpected beaver pond. The beavers here had done an excellent job and she was forced high off the trial to find a way around the marsh that had formed.

Not difficult routing, the coyote had found a path walkable for two legs also. Once again, her gratitude for the canine’s presence was sent out to the universe—a silent salute.

She walked on for some time. The trail rising and bending along with the canyon, its creek now below her carving the earth.

She watched the sky gently push blue into the gray clouds, coaxing shadows from the cold hills and stunted trees.

She listened to the wind and the water. Allowed them to brush away the heavy thoughts she was carrying and gently lighten her mind. Listening too, when the low yellow sky light told her it was time to head back.

On the return, she found a dry place near the beaver pond and fetched out her small meal of dried fruit and day-old bread. As she munched quietly, she listened to the rhythm of the pond. The small gurgles that would soon call the beavers back to their task.

The slow trickling water sang in a special voice. Carried its wisdom through the land, feeding and quenching both moving feet and rooted souls.

The water rinsed clean any angst still lingering in her. Reminded her of what was true. She heard a rustling near and behind her, but felt no fear. Knew it was her guides sweeping the last of the dust from her thinking.

As she came clear in her soul once again, she remembered the grandfather’s teachings about darkness. She remembered how all people carrying darkness had a most terrible burden.

Arms laden and leaden, they dragged with them everywhere baskets of pain, sorrow, and regret. When one basket became full, another they readily picked up. Filling it also as they journeyed through life. Weary and worn, from the weight of it all, they trudged on.

These shadow warriors had only to set down their baskets and turn down a new road to be free. And yet they did not.

The grandfather’s teachings did not praise or criticize these dark basket carriers. The teachings told that each human soul carries a basket of dark pains. But in one lifetime or another every human will awaken and simply set the basket aside, and will then step naturally into their freedom, realizing the truth of their inner being. This was the teaching.

Send blessings. That was what the grandfather’s teachings taught also. Send blessings to all who are burdened.

The teachings taught that a blessing is made of a special kind of light.

And any light, is light. It will push on the shadows, help make the way clear, set feet to stop stumbling.

The eyes must only be open, ready to see.

The grandfather’s teaching stressed too, that the more blessings sent, the brighter the light becomes. The easier it is to see. Taught that this is the true heart of compassion.

A light breeze picked up as she moved surefooted toward the trailhead and her truck. The wind now blew the coyote prints soft and invisible, but she no longer needed them. Her eyes were again open, seeing clearly in the available light.

…

inspired in part by the SES prompt: ‘The Hill‘

…

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I’ve been given this lovely award by the immensely talented, Selma of Selma in the City and Search Engine Stories. What a dear!

The “BFF” award is passed on according to the following rules:

1. Only five people are allowed
2. Four have to be dedicated followers of your blog
3. One has to be someone new or recently new to your blog and live in another part of the world
4. You must link back to whoever gave you the award.

So, I’ll pass this award on to the following great folks, in no particular order. Oh yes, I’m not entirely sure what qualifies as “another part of the world”, down the street? next door? another state, country, town, star system? So, I didn’t list any bloggers that live in my house

1. To texasblu whose engaging fiction has motivated me to start liking the fantasy genre, which is no small feat.

2. To Geraldine at My Poetic Path who writes a lovely blog with everything from recipes and photos, to wonderful hiku.

3. To tball at Because I said so… A great blog that features tball’s diverse writing in both English and Italian (too cool!) along with her artwork and the charming Mica.

4. To Karen at Ms. Karen’s Place whose blog examines day-to-day life and the far corners of a writer’s mind, via her true gift for story and rotflol humor.

5. To j at Tittle 8. A fascinating & wonderfully eclectic blog from a multi-talented writer/artist/musician.

I’ve of course had to leave out all sorts of folks, and want everyone to know that I appreciate beyond description that you come by and read what I have to say. Thanks, thanks, and more thanks to each person putting eyes on this.

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Well, o.k. This has taken me way too long.

First I wanted to put the picture in my right column, but I couldn’t figure out the php code that is driving that part of my site. And so then I was going to call my designer and get some advice on this, but I didn’t.

And then I was worried that some/all of the blogs I wanted to highlight with this on were not very much like any of the blogs on the other awards lists folks were generating, and I wondered if that was o.k.

And then about 97 other things came up in my non-blog life. And of course there were the rules for how to pass this on…As a rule, I’m not so into rules.

So enough of all that. I’m just ignoring the rules on this one and I’ll endeavor to do better on that score in the future.

The effervescent and diversely talent Ms. Karen gave me this wonderful award for which I am truly delighted and most genuinely grateful.

And I’m passing the kudos on to these folks.

Lucio Menegon at Kingtone is a spectacularly talented full-time musician who is also intelligent, politically astute, and takes some darn nice photographs. On top of that he is a genuinely nice, interesting guy with his head facing the right direction IMO. In addition, the implementation of his blog is just plain inspiring, at least to me. He is using WP and has implemented blog categories exceptionally well to achieve a website that covers a great many aspects of music and the buisness thereof. The whole presentation is polished and professional with just enough cool to make it all hum. And he did the whole thing himself. Listen to his music and read his words; I think you’ll find something truly unique at this site.

Ron Silliman publishes Silliman’s Blog and it is one of those blogs I can’t imagine ever keeping up with. But, I’m a pretty slow reader. Ron Silliman is one of the old guard of language poetry, though his site covers a great many aspects of poetry / poetics and is an excellent resource for poets/poetry fans. A few of my recent findings include: a link to a book about experimental women poets of Canada, a collection of essays on Miyung Mi Kim (whose work, Dura I just love), a link to a recent Rae Armantrout poem published in the New Yorker, and a great review of CAConrad’s Deviant Propulsion. And that’s just scratching the surface.

Spencer Selby is a word and visual artist whose work just knocks me over. His site isn’t a blog, but like I said the work is really special. Selby comes out of an experimental writing background and he seems to be one of those true modern day renaissance people that keeps expanding their skills to facilitate their talent. I think the artist statement #1 link on his site is most informative, while his CV is nothing short of astonishing - though frankly none of that would mean squat if the work weren’t so incredible.

CAConrad is a poet that a friend of mine just called to my attention a couple of weeks ago. I find his poetry nearly universally compelling, and his somatic poems in particular are fascinating and very visceral. I’m sure I can’t really explain the somatic thing, I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it, but one series of poems was generated by immersing himself in a single color for an entire day (clothes, food, etc. of only that color) and then writing from that space. Which gives a bit of an idea of what it’s about anyway. Here is a link that points to his site that explains somatic poetry, and this link points to his site with poetry exercises. And that’s only one little part of his immense poetry world.

This next highlight is a political analysis blog, Scholars and Rogues. It isn’t a minute by minute political wire - that’s next. It is analysis and opinion. And quite frequently some really darn good writing. It is pretty much impossible to encapsulate more than that - check it out if you are interested in such things.

For up to the minute political news from all over the US, I find Daily Kos to be comprehensive, typically well written, and sometimes really entertaining. It is another blog I can’t possibly keep up with, but is worth scanning through for what I am most interested in.

For tech stuff, my first stop is always Ars Technica. Again another one of those multi-writer blogs that is nearly impossible to summarize. Everything from the latest Microsoft hose job, to what the next version of Firefox is looking like, to problems to look out for, to philosophical and practical discussions of coming trends on the web and computing. And lots, lots more, and yes most of it is quite well written, and it isn’t a tech jargon fest written for the programming crowd, most of it is in English, though you may find some stuff you will have to Google, at least I do anyway.

Thanks again ms. K.

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