Serendipities & Synchronicities… or, Why I prefer to run on Indian Time:

The Universe has a way of planning that is organic & apt beyond ‘logical’ comprehension. Unexpectedly saw several dear friends in the Co-op last night and was invited to join them to Luz Elena’s “Gathering in Gratitude” in Brattleboro.  It was lovely to spend time with three amazing women, and to be a part of the audience for such a Beautiful, celebratory show… we left & quite literally danced back to our cars… the Milky Way was painted brilliantly across the clear Vermont sky… quite a journey, indeed.

Wela’lin, wela’lin, wela’lin…

Wela’lin,

ej

Tuesday, February 10th, 2009:

A Starry Night of Poetry featuring em jollie

Hosted by Lori & Eli @ Word in Westfield

Preceded by an Open mic (sign-ups 6:30)

more information forth-coming.

Love,

ej

Happy 13th…  Thirteen: the number of the Sacred Feminine. The number of Moons in a year’s worth of cycles. The day I mailed my manuscript to Perugia Press. The very same day my Pine drum arrived from the Drum People. It’s aesthetically gorgeous, and its song is a strong heartbeat. Here’s to dreaming & drumming in Beauty. And here is a poem inspired by the emails I’ve exchanged with Cheryl & Keith.

Love,

ej

*****

Picking Up: Poem for the Drum People

Bottles of yellow surprise
strategically left for Cheryl
by someone who knows
her habit of clearing the wake
of garbage left by humans
motoring through lifetimes
asleep, as if they are not part
of the land
they drive over,
is one discordant chord
in a world of off-key songs.

But listen:
she was able to tell me the story
and I was able to hold it in my heart.
Sharing our griefs, we learn to weave
each thread back into the tapestry
of Creation, and to sing softly as we work.
Our song of joy & sorrow is an old one, older
than the Snickers candy bar wrapper trash
that covers this fourth world,
older than Gas Stations & Seven Elevens,
older even than the Ghost Dancers.
It is an ancient song and, in human time,
a slow one.

But listen:
the beat, it is picking up.
The beat is picking up,
like Powwow drums in the distance
getting louder as we all stumble closer
to Beauty. The path is steep,
so on the way we must
cradle each other with kindness,
and carefully pick up the pieces
of our aching gorgeous human selves
like those who devote time to clearing
the litter left on Mother Earth’s skin:
as if every single piece matters,
because it does.

The River Valley Market, Northampton’s new local food co-op, recently had a poetry contest to celebrate their Grand opening. There were three categories; my submission took grand prize under the “your food co-op” designation. Last night, amidst the cheeses, all winners read their poems. Everyone did a wonderful job, and the co-op’s grand opening month long celebration had a splendid finale.

ej

*

Rainbow Love Sonnet for the Co-op

Mauve and crimson red of apples dear,

orange pumpkins ripe for this time of year,

yellow bananas & lemons smile at me

as I enter the store and see the green

of organic veggies beyond the fruit scene.

Those blue skies over the Quarry Cafe

also watch over local farmers each day.

Purple colors my re-usable bags,

& purple potatoes with lime green tags.

Black, brown, white of rice, boxes, and beans

to wine, cheese, fish & everything in between.

My senses thrill at the co-op experience,

but my favorite part is our shared events

and the smiling faces of our community.

The Power of Never, Squared
for Joy Harjo

Today is December 11th of an El Nino year,
and this is my morning walk:
snowless clouds watch over Squirrels
who still wear their fall colors
as they sashay down the runway
of brown leaves, collecting lingering
acorns. They are Native here
and have nothing to prove. Like me,
they live wild, protest colonization
(which includes the term New England)
and have accepted the inevitability
of several inches of snow fallen
by Thanksgiving.
We are all falling fast

towards the border between worlds
What happens when it draws this near
is that even the children are aware
of the veil, lifting. Of the amalgamation
happening between truth and magic,
a process that reveals
the inherent metaphor in everything.
And the fact that nothing is ever as sudden

as we like to believe. I ask the Squirrels
if we’re going to be OK and they say
we will never make it
if we keep thinking of hurricanes
and Earth as the enemy,
if we don’t move past this idea of progress
that packages plastic hearts
like tiny ten cent machines
whose violated valves produce pollution
and beg us to erase ourselves.
If we don’t stop the plague of forgetting

what it truly means to be human.
I lean against a nearby Oak,
letting her hold me & love me
for a moment
while I watch the Squirrels dig holes
in the barely-frozen ground and
my trembling flesh-and-blood heart knows
they are right.

We are rising up, but still, it’s December 11th
and the afternoon is warm enough
that I grab only a windbreaker
on my way out the door. Seeing my niece
waiting by the car, I remind myself to change
a line of this poem, it should read:
especially the children are aware.

“We’re never going to make it!” I cry,
this time referencing the clock
and our scheduled hour of arrival
in Boston. “Never say never,”
offers the girl with a smile.
These words of faith are a gift to me
as are her eyes: two shining lanterns –
Sun and Moon, showing me the way.

*****

Kwe’ Everyone,

My dear friend Susan Deercloud submitted this poem of mine on the sly and, lo & behold, it is now in print. The Fall 2008 edition of Yellow Medicine Review ( http://yellowmedicinereview.com/index.html ) contains my poem “The Power of Never, Squared.”  Wela’lin, my endless gratitude, to Susan.

Hello, world. Indeed.