Leaving

Quite a few years ago I wrote a poem as the end of a beautiful fall was approaching. A winter storm was forcast to be heading our way, much like our end of October in 2011.

I haven't looked at this for a long time. I made a few changes but right now I see a bunch more I would like to make.  Oh well, it is a work in progress. Most of my poetry is, but I hope you can relate to my struggle.

LEAVING

Long limbed Cottonwoods,
abundant silver-grey Russian Olive,
Apple trees with shiny red dots,
graceful Aspen, bowing to breezes,
trees belonging to high plains,
mountain meadows,
framed by my window.

Too soon

layered leaves now turn
downward, fall, grounded.
I cry out to them, stop!
I am not ready for winter.

Leave the window open longer
so I can hear leaves, whispering.
I need to hold soft sunlight close
as it shines on most golden corn
or swaying fields of wheat,
pale leaves of cottonwoods
translucent in the autumn light.

I need time
to see again the way sun
molds foothills, late,
softens gray of old barns.

The leaves are beginning to fall, too early,
the sun shifts to the horizan too soon,
the sky deepens its blue
in preparation. Aspens shudder
as they struggle to hold on.

Capture this moment,
its warmth, softness,depth
hold it tight.
For winter is unrelenting,
it approaches
through doors of darkness
hidden by clouds,
brings the chill of unknown.

No I am not ready for winter
for golden leaves turned black under snow
for windows framed by frost
for the sun turned cold till spring.

Irish Interlude

I  ride easy, sit lightly
on the broad back of a
spirited Gypsy horse,
we race along a slender slice
of wild Irish beach.

Gallop steady
hoof prints mark wet sand.
Tangled  mane teases my face
we lean, headstrong into the wind.

Unruly clouds, sidestep
away from us, shift,
toss sunlight, shadow
over layers of emerald hills

hemmed by the horizon,
like  patchwork quilts
thrown casually
over rising slopes.

They blur quickly by,
noisy gulls chase
surging surf that
recedes only to return
unleashed, wearing wings.

Breath pulses
in… and out of us, like the tides,
blood courses through our veins
unused to such passion.

We touch this soil.
   We breathe this air.
      We feel this magic.
Ireland.

R.F.D. North Dakota

I'm pleased to bring you another poem in my Ghost Prairie Poem Series

R.F.D.
North Dakota

deep ruts slow my car
bumps up dusty clouds
along a rolling ribbon of road
“out in the middle of nowhere.”

i stop turn down the window
air rushes out as if to cool
the hot July day

a battered mail box
perches precariously
on a splintered post
held in place by rusty
barbed wire …

waits in silence

Ghost Prairie Poem I

In 2002 after a trip to North Dakota I wrote a series of poems called Ghost Praire Poems. This is the title poem

GHOST PRAIRIE I

I speak plainly
poems your ears have forgotten to hear
words you don’t know
anymore, years like the static
roar of brown cicadas
drown them out

I felt your journeys
your heavy wagons rutting roads
ruddy faces looking up eyes bright
you sought my forever landscape
to save you, to bring life

I planted
and harvested your dreams
watched weariness and roaming
leaving
and coming home

I was generous
gave my glacier plains
and deep black soil
my opportunities
to you

I have seen my vastness shrink
horizons sink in the distance
fields pock marked by
towns prairie dogs built
and left to the crows

You must listen to me
before I am gone
my voice weakens
to soft whispers grown quiet
into the wheat that shifts in the wind

Poetry

Since I have decided to start including poems in my blog from time to time I thought I would begin with this one.


POETRY

When you wonder,
at the startling beauty
of a scarlet sunrise,
over an endless horizon
of mountains in winter,
or tiny snow puffs
mounding like whipped cream
on the relishing fingertips
of pines,
you know about poetry.

When a lovely turn of phrase
restores old memories
and invites
a flowing of words
tumbling from afar,
joining you with souls
of ancient dreamers
and asking you to
be a friend,
you know about poetry.

When you know passion,
loving words with abandon
as if they are long lost lovers--
or knights in shining armor
releasing you from
demons and
bad dreams
through nights of betrayal
and days of lost chances,
you know about poetry.

When you hear an Easter ringing of bells
celebrating from church steeples,
or when you glimpse--
swallows rolling in waves
through gray sky
like blankets being
shaken out in springtime
filling you with the fresh scent
of life,
you know about poetry.

Pamela Wolf
Ann Woodbury Hafen Poetry Contest April 1, 2003 Honorable mention

Reprise: The Day it Rained Gold

I love Northern Colorado Writers. There are always so many opportunities to learn and to connect with the writing world of creative people working on their dreams. We are partners in our individual as well as corporate tasks, helping each other , cheering each other on to whatever goals we have set. We may want to become published or to finish that manuscript, or just to try new things or to re-try something that has been in a drawer or a file just waiting for the right time to bring it out again.
Well, it doesn’t come out on its own. Something sparks it, something demands you take another look.
This week I had that experience as I attended the Meet the Poets evening and then took the workshop the following evening led by Antoinette Voute Roeder. I discovered that poetry is still a voice within me that has needed to come out of hiding. It really does enhance and deepen my passion for writing. Kerry Flanagan, our director suggested I incorporate a poem a month into my blog. It would be a good way to keep in touch with that side of myself but would not remove me from my other stated writing goals. And it might just infuse some passion into my other writing.
After some review and discussion we were asked to spend a few minutes writing a poem at the end of the session. It felt awkward to me. Like putting on some old worn out shoes I hadn’t had on in a long time that had stiffened up in the previous form. So I’ll share with you what spurted out and then my rewrite. Antoinette said that poems take on a life of their own. The original idea is played with, you think of a different slant, some new words and poetry becomes fun to do. And that is what she emphasized over and over. Writing poetry needs to be fun!

First version
In Fort Collins fall 1965

It was the day the leaves rained gold, boldly dressed breezes
Blew them here and there, they scurried, collected around
Broad tree trunks, sidewalks,across yards still a bit green
From summer. Little voices sparkle through crisp air
While busy feet scoot the pieces of gold into piles
That glimmer today as they did so long ago

Second version
The day it rained gold

The day it rained gold,
leaves fluttered to the ground,
boldy dressed breezes lifted them,
hemmed the sidewalks, wound them
around solid tree trunks like scarves
and danced them across yards
still a bit green from summer.

I remember crisp air ,
busy little feet scooting
the fragile pieces of gold into piles
to glimmer today as they did so long ago.

"My" Desiderata

Many of us have heard the words that begin this prose poem written in 1927 by Max Ehrman.

"Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
....Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and ignorant;
they too have their story.

I wish current politicians would heed these words. How far we have come as our ears are battered every day from angry, exaggerated, and unthinking words that bend information into unrecognizable knots if not outright lies that assail us on T.V.,radio, newspapers and flyers that invade our homes through the mail. I want to know positions of the candidates, but please, lets be decent. Listening is not all that difficult, if you can speak your truth "quietly and clearly", I will be more likely to listen, otherwise I will ignore and turn off the noise. Then sadly the flow of information will be lost.

This prose poem has touched me through the years for different reasons though.
It brings me back to wondering what my desired things are during this season of my life, as I look at my elder years what advice or desired things do I want to give myself?

Believe it or not being honest when you get older is pretty difficult. You have to face up to a bunch of things. Mainly because my experience of "putting things away on the shelf to look at later" just ends up being laziness. Pretty soon those things on the shelf are heavy enough to begin to drag you down. As you get older you already have plenty of things that slow you down. So here is an attempt at my own desiderata. It has to begin with

Go placidly amid the noise and haste:
I have always sought out my own space as I deeply value peace and quiet but now I vow to not use that need as a way to hide from the uncomfortable. The next words: "speak your truth quietly and clearly" is the least I can do. For me it includes advice to myself to stand up for things I believe because the more I stuff them the more bellyaches I get. To be sure I need to speak the words so that I will have the best chance of being :"without surrender (be) on good terms with all persons" (as much as possible)

But in order to do that sometimes I may need to "avoid loud and aggressive persons".It is a way I can give myself a better chance of having a good day. But for me that means I have to look inside to see what messages I have been giving myself that day. Before any of my own internal critique gets going I have to reach out to myself and give myself a hug. It is said we need 3 hugs a day but what if you are not in an environment where that happens. Give yourself a mental hug. Say out loud, "I love you, Pam" (you) then notice something beautiful around you during the day, and speak out loud of the beauty. I think the more messages we give to ourselves (and hear from ourselves) especially during this time of anger and disappointment in the way the world is evolving, the more chance we can truly enjoy our lives and what is remaining of them. and we can decide when to 'speak our mind quietly and clearly' or avoid vexing persons (or turn off the T.V.)

Later on in the poem the line "You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."

In order to believe it I vow to practice it daily, give myself a hug. I think small things make a difference."Go placidly amid the noise and haste"

(Find the poem on google or something similar, go by the title)

Smile but Stubbornly Go

One of my searching times was way back in the 80's when I was attending seminary. I met weekly with a small group of students that first year for support and challenge, for opening eyes and hearts. One thing it was supposed to do was to help us become at least aware if not tolerant but hopefully accepting of other students' widely divergent views and experiences about what they believed. This may have been more true of Iliff School of Theology in Denver than for others such as Oral Roberts for example.

I made the decision to take this path because of my passion for making a difference, but not in the way you may think. I was not a preacher who was hell-bent on saving souls. I just wanted to do what I could to make a difference in my small way, like the star thrower who returned one of hundreds of starfish that had been beached to the sea. It didn't make a difference to hundreds of starfish but it made a difference to one. I was searching my heart for the best way to do that I guess. And I ended up at seminary. My passion for justice grew through church involvement. in social issues. Tom Sutherland, one of the hostages held in Lebanon was a member of my congregation. I was convinced then as I still am today that God is love. And love will win but only if each person tosses a starfish back into the sea.

As I recall the year I began was the first year the number of female students equaled the number of male students at Iliff. It was also marked by a growing number of students embarking on their second or third careers. I was 45 and I felt like a fish out of water. It was helpful though, to see that there were also lots of other fish. So if numbers mean anything I think there was beginning to be a critical mass. Many women thought of themselves as pioneers. And we were.

I remember thinking as I emerged from my first exam which happened to be in Old Testament that if I passed that test I would probably make it through to graduation. It was certainly the first time I had studied the Old Testament and to be honest it was also the first time I had read the whole thing through. I questioned my decision to attend seminary many times in the years following but this first exam was a make it or break it for me and one that made me keep asking myself "what I was thinking?".

So when I came across this poem by Denver poet Lois Beebe Hayna it became a kind of a mantra that I memorized and wove into my soul. From the day I took it to my first year discussion group till now it reminds me, even as I get older that it is never too late to "tend a vine of my own choosing.''

Late to the Vineyard

by Lois Beebe Hayna

Delayed Bloomer, ten o' clock achiever,jack of all directions but your own,lady, will you tend at last a vine of your own choosing?
Forget calendars, ignore warnings of frost and blight;discount praise for your delicate hands.Smile but stubbornly go,because Indian summer shines for the late-to-luckand time runs earlier, earlier than anyone suspects.

Frost will miraculously bypass your budswhile rain rounds harvest ripe for you.Your grapes will be sound, lady, sound and sweet.You will sip each fruitlike wine.

What We Need is Here

I could actually chart my life with the poems I have found waiting for me in magazines, newspapers, books or received from friends in cards and notes. Often when I am not feeling like writing or reading I open one (of three by now) folders and sift through it. Here is a poem I actually had on my desk. It is by one of my favorite poets, Wendell Berry. It connects into a longed for moment as I work with my family to create our farm, our sanctuary. It reminds me that our sanctuary may not neccessarily be in some imagined place but within us.

I think poetry, like all art forms, speaks its own truth even seperate from the poet's vision itself. So it can open a window into each of our lives, maybe clarifying or helping us come to terms with things we have hidden from ourselves or just providing a new point of view or information. I think that is especially important as I see fewer years ahead of me than behind me.

WILD GEESE

Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp, sweet
of summer's end. In time's maze
over the fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed's marrow.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds them
to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.


Wendell Berry

Genesis

Genesis...to me this means 'in the beginning' or just, the beginning. The dictionary (small g) says it means origin; creation, but I don't want to go there. I'm thinking about it in a much smaller context, like this beginning, sitting on my bed with my two cats and my computer writing my first blog. The word Genesis is loaded. It has come to mean more, like, how did I get here and who am I anyway. But Genesis (big G) makes me wonder, did I appear from nothing or did I come here out of chaos. If I appeared out of chaos it means I did not appear out of nothing. When I think about it that is what I think. It is true mainly because, as much as I am tuned into a mysterious universe beyond understanding, I cannot comprehend appearing out of nothing. And anyway, if there is no chaos around I can create it quite well. Now love, that is another story. Love is not like a planet, or a star, even though sometimes it seems inaccessible and it does not have a form, and it looks like nothing, it is not millions of miles away, it is not so many cubits wide and so many cubits tall made out of cypress or acacia wood, no, love does not have this kind of form, but there is no doubt that it does have form. And I think now that I have said all this, that that is what this blog will be about. Love.

MSG-Monosodium Glutamate: Seasoning Salt. In my day this was the kind of seasoning we used dailyon our food. That is until we learned it wasn't good for us, that the msg contained carcinogens, that it caused cancer. So then we stopped using it, except the kind that took out the MSG. But, a few years ago when I was going through my 'change'..my what? :-) I wanted to invite a few friends to join me in a weekly or monthly conversation and (bright light flips on) I thought Menopause Support Group, that's it. And then, somehow, out of those swirling thoughts came the idea that we would be about encouraging each other to live the next years the best we could, that they would become the best years...more flavor, deeper colors, tastier, and, yes, spicier. So, who to invite. Neighbors?, poets?, horsey friends?, peace activates ? writers ? ministers ? animal advocates? women ? (oh yeah, of course women :-) it was too much for my ADD brain so it landed like most good ideas, squarely in the closest black hole.

A few weeks ago I was trying to think of a new e-mail name and for a reason only known to the universe (hmmm mysterious) I thought of 'pam2spicy'. The idea came shooting back...like a star? And this time my friends not only were diverse in age and interest but also have moved all over the country (including me). What to do? When my daughter offered to help me begin a blog it began to fit together again. (Contrary to accepted webbabble )(and other babble too) I do know I get more than one chance to do the things I have planned and dreamed and lost along the way...but if the light is still on somewhere in that dark brain or broken heart I can find that spark again because if it is a really good idea, it still lives and it will find me. This happens too. My MSG group idea, which is clearly outdated, became (or is becoming) 'grammy2spicy' (I got advice that 'pam2spicy' might give the wrong impression :-( (Spice of Life for my URL fits much better than my clothes these days)

So this is my new genesis. This blog. I originally came to the computer with fear and mistrust. Slowly I have found it is miraculously helpful. I could never have gotten through seminary without it (but that is another Genesis story) I have written poetry, sermons, a book, and yes, it is worth the struggle.

Now this has probably broken every good writing rule there is and has more bad sentences than good ones but I have had fun writing it. And that is what I want you to do. Have fun! Just write! Write down the bones as one of my favorite authors has titled her book on writing. And lets chat about writing, our kids, families, questions about who we are, but more importantly why we are here and what we want to do with the rest of our lives. Lets not complain (too much) lets think about what is possible...that reminds me of an essay I wrote about fireflies.......