Guadalupe

The Guadalupe was green. 

Soft green, as if cloudy.

Not transparent, but secret,

glowing with inward light.

I sat with Anne

on large, flat stones

extending into the water.

The Guadalupe was green.

We watched three tall black birds 

forage, from stones in the centre.

We spoke of poetry, Reiki, 

friendship, and being blessed

to live in places of beauty.

The Guadalupe was green,

almost turquoise that night

alongside the wooden veranda

where our restaurant table

was full of new friends, good talk,

red wine, and feasting.

The Guadalupe was green.

He swung his truck to a stop, unplanned, 

for a river walk in the sun.

We laughed with a little boy, and 

a small happy dog … pretending we could be 

always ... knowing we could not.

The Guadalupe was a shade of green

I’ve never, anywhere else, seen matched.

Stranger, I longed to merge

with the depths and bends

of that river, to stay connected

forever. Perhaps I did.

Written for Poets and Storytellers United's Friday Writings #235, where we're invited to write about a body of water that holds a special place in our heart. I'm a river lover: mainly the Tamar in Launceston, Tasmania, where I grew up, and the Tweed in Northern Rivers, NSW, where I now live. But I've also fallen in love with some rivers in places I've only visited, most notably the dramatic Urubamba in Peru, and the mystical Guadalupe in Texas, USA. 

Shield with Owl Figure

 

This gilded and silvered copper disk reveals

outstretched wings and grasping talons,

inlaid eyes of shell and turquoise,

light reflecting off contrasting movement.

The Moche (the Mohicas) flourished

six centuries: from Nepena River Valley

perhaps as far north as Piura River.

There was no tradition of writing –

the precise significance of owls 

at the burial site of Loma Tegra

is unknown. (Owls prey, fly at night ...)

Of mystical or divine power,

Owl is my guardian on my left side.

(On my right I have Serpent.)

Written for  Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #234: Words for Images, this is largely an erasure poem taken from the long text about this artwork at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. The erasing leaves me with some quite big chunks of sequential words from the original and also qualifies as a found poem. Only the last two lines, italicised to differentiate them from the rest, are my own words. (I did also place the third line of the third verse a little out of its original order.  It makes more sense this way in this context – and I so wanted to use it, for the wonderful sounds of the words as they roll over the tongue.)

Image and text are in public domain, open access.

But ...

 

It is the first Solstice of the year. The email asks us to tune in at midday our local time and ‘quieten outwardly and rise inwardly’ to ‘be part of a great chain of LIGHT around the planet.’ It suggests we ‘can touch and bless the hearts and minds of all people as they walk on Mother Earth and with her creatures.’ 

I do that. Later, in the mid-winter evening with overcast sky, I don’t take my old body out to commune with the elements. Instead, I light candles on the tiny altar in a corner of my bedroom, and do a small ritual there. 

no moon no stars –

but beyond walls and clouds

their shining lights

I think about things to let go of now, and others to bring in. We adapt with age. As my body gradually wears out, it is no longer easy for me to travel, nor even go out at night. Yet I am very content to stay safe and warm at home with my little cat, to read and write and dream. 

long cold night –

but my small cat purrs

in her sleep

There is much trouble in the world today. Was it ‘ever thus’? It seems our troubles are far more desperate than those of the past. And yet, the world remains beautiful as far as I can see.

still dark out –

but the beginnings

of birdsong

Written for dVerse Haibun Monday: First Solstice.

The quotations in the first paragraph come from a friend's newsletter originating from White Eagle Lodge.