Reflections on Baby Chicks

Reflections on Baby Chicks

I’ve never smelled the baby chicks in their warming boxes, but I know the smell as if i had tended them in my youth, when love called, melting my heart in a saffron glow of feathers and high strung words, said low and soft, recalling.

Little yellow chicks in an Easter basket at Spring in the lazy Sunday Valley, just a skill to spin a yarn so aglow in downy dumb, dumb, dumb, pecking eyes like Shakespeare’s one day dream.

Wood in crate with a perch just so, preening green at Christmas for my love to carry you through the Crepe Myrtle trees to Whimsy, sun flickering here and shading there, and beaming like a lamp on warm beaks, and fuzzy berth water buckets.

A little slow down on the farm of future dreams unrequited, in twenty four hours of innocence, before the warming lamp alit thy sly plot.

A time bomb you say, traveling all the way from Frederick in another era, aglow, aglee, to show me some treasure purchased for a pretty wheat penny or three.

A curiosity, you say like some mysterious package wrapped up tight in another man’s cologne spilled on your black leather boots walking around me in circles, grinning with red painted lips not really but just as well.

The prized find, just a three headed monstrosity of mythology stuffed up right to impart a meaning now dawned. Nothing here, you say, no message for you today, but jesters play at remember Luther the chicken man, no, you wouldn’t know.

Your grotesque projection of some ancient chicken box cutthroat moment of yore, blind from all the pecking hens, so you cannot see the little rabbit sniffing Rosemary out back, beyond the house of chickens past, unmoved, not really but just a hare.

I dare a whiskered sniffle toward an empty nest and turn my long ears south to the land of Avalon’s poetry.

– Tanya

Eikpyrnir

A trumpet sounded, the first seal was broken and the scroll read…

Eikpyrnirs mighty hoof comes crashing down into the underbrush, standing valiantly, horns pointing heavenward.

And the pointed caps cry,
“Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla Lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”

And there in the green grass turned blood red, the hunter rests his head, a hoof print in the center of his forehead, panting, bloody tendon between his teeth.

And the robed ones shout, their voices rising, “Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”

The hunter will die by his own hand, on some fortnight in a dark moon soon, as his bow rings out across the forest, a boomerang arrow in his tainted liver, a quiver no longer needed that carries the old medicine home.

And the mystics sing, “Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”

And that mighty snorting Stag of red turned white leaps off into sun born woods a glowing with an orange sunset shimmer.

The priest and priestess raise their arms and chant, “Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”

And Eikpyrnir returns in the dreams of the Seeker to establish a new kingdom when and whence wherever an old one dies.

“Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”

…And the rivers rise again, swallowing up that dark Knight.

The hunter and the hunted.

And a low tone snort escapes my lips, and I raise my warm breath in the cold morning air to whisper, “Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long…live Eikpyrnir!”

And the man on the grassy knoll, ensconced in his conical white tent triangle chants, “Holy! Holy! The fourth is born.”

– Tanya

When Yakov Speaks

When Yakov Speaks

Fall 2016

I am so confused at the moment. None of my life’s lessons are helping me. I don’t know how to trust anyone or anything right now. I try to listen to my intuition, but even it does not know the way. I wait for signs and read the synchronicity but even those seem baffling. I don’t understand anything right now. Nothing makes sense. It’s like death, but I don’t know what is dying and what is being born.

Autumn Fog.

It’s all wrapt up in grief and time, and holding on and letting go. “Don’t stay where you’re not wanted.” But I don’t know what to hold onto or what to let go of, or to hold onto nothing and to let go of everything. I think I have it figured out, but then it slips through my fingers, and I am lost again. “When in doubt, wait it out.” I don’t know the message, I can’t find the purpose. Wrapt up in responsibility, sacrifice, and joy. How to know when joy should be sacrificed, and to what end, and if ever, and for how long, but what is joy? When does sacrifice yield joy? Does it ever? Is it real? How do you know the difference between self-sacrifice that destroys you or self-sacrifice for higher purpose? How much do you sacrifice, for how long, if ever? Do you never? What does that accomplish? I do not know the way.

Autumn Fog.

I ask the question and wait for the answer but when it comes bearing fruit, it is transformed ever deeper and yields more questions without answers. Dead ends. What do you trust? And risk. I am methodical. I plan. I do not take risks. I do not make snap decisions, and yet that has yielded no better outcome. When do you jump? Do you jump? Where do you jump? What is jumping? I wait and wait, and time does not discriminate. What is time? What if there was no measure of time? How much time is time enough? How much time is wasted time? I walk in fog, exploring uncharted territory. No beginning, no end.

Autumn Fog.

I am looking for a box, so I might open it, and read the message written there, but what if it is a blank scroll? Is there a box? Didn’t I craft a box long ago? Who has taken it away? And safety. And experience. And joy. And why? The autumn and the quickening. Do I allow it to rejuvenate, once again, or do I snuggle under crinkly leaves? Rest.My hair is tired and wet with the fog. Is there time enough? Is it time? Cruel trickster, where are you hiding?

Tell me Yakov.

Rebbi Yakov Leib HaKohain responds: I’m flattered that you ask me. I’m reminded of Alice Toklas who asked Gertrude Stein on her death bed, “Gertrude, what is the answer?” To which Gertrude replied, just before she expired, “Alice, what is the question?”

You really do drive a hard bargain. I love you, Yakov. Thank you.

Basket of Pomegranates

Basket of Pomegranates

It is a tragic experience to be able to see a Soul, so deeply, so clearly, yet be unable to breach the borrowed black mirror they hold up like a shield, which prevents reflection, when love pings the surface, too soft like an unsubstantial summer rain at the end of a long, dry spell, after the growing time has past.

An old woman cackled from somewhere, “He cares too much.” And I believe her, sacrificed a baby long ago, spade by spade, a silent little boy under hoary soil, and twigs, and cold fires.

I have pomegranates to spare, from who knows where, collected from a fence post one, and in an old abandoned boat in Scotland, and one offered up by a Mermaid, and another hit me on the head once in reverie beneath a fine sky at noon in the mountains gifted.

I’ll leave a basket on the porch and perhaps when the poison apple is spit, he will find them, the pomegranates, the gift long forgotten.

A snow white king stag sleeps under the burnt hawthorn branches, but I see a cinder there that does not belong to me, knowing fire is not my element, I burnt my hand to lift the antler to the table in Thanksgiving, and for that I am grateful.

At the Edge of the Woods

At the Edge of the Woods

I wish I had answers but I only have stories.

An old recliner, I sit at the edge of the woods.

I was once comfortable.

Lest you forget.

A man died in my comfort.
Smiling that day.
Proud of his gay son.

Shall we sit a spell and reflect,
Together.

He liked to golf and save old things, polishing his shoes with a careless whistle, sipping tea.

Lest we forget.

I heard a nurse say,
“He was so happy you found love!”
Tears ran down the son’s face, and he replied,
“I was always afraid to ask…”

You have curled up to sleep in me,
And the cat, purring on your lap
Remembers.

A gift from a son,
I sit in silent snow talking.

Someone said I have no value.
Snowbirds beneath my skirt, a secret feast on cookie crumbs and a story.

Lest we forget,
How to stay warm in winter.
I wish I had answers but I only have stories.
Things you never heard me say.

– Tanya

Oklahoma Rose Rock

Oklahoma Rose Rock

Something, something, there is something here…something like, perfection, something like worth…and I find myself wondering how clean will be clean enough? Something like acceptance, something unconditional, something like so much beauty in what is real, which is not perfect, and then, no perfect lines in nature, and what is a natural line? And well, I hear some words drift on the wind from days of yore, she said, it was okay if my linen closet wasn’t perfect before the guests came, they would judge it so harsh, the in-laws, but I never, they never, white glove in the dust, and then, hotel options or else, and this morning I preferred to spend an extra hour in the morning sun with the dogs, they so love the morning sun. Or something like that, and that poem by Rebecca, “When the Muse comes to visit,” and I said, “Come on in and tea, you know.” And, how do you want to spend the time you have been given? And, well, not dusting, dirt is. When dust draws a line in the sand or a red Rose grows in good dirt. And we colored pictures that day, just sat down in the middle of the unpacked boxes, and made memories. The picture isn’t finished yet, and yet, yet it is a Perfect Rose. The tears fall at the end of the trail and our memories make rock roses that cannot be washed away.

– Tanya

Necessary Things

I have used up all the pretty things now,
The baubles and the bows,
All the old colognes.

Like feathers
And shiny buttons
Collected on a whim
before I knew the value of imperfect lotion or a
Secondhand Ruffled blouse
and that old jar of
Foundation

And these old cut off shorts
Making my day
Should have bought two
The day they had the sale on
Ten years ago

The question then,
One day when the cage door is left ajar,
Will I collect again
A bright blue button with a sparkle just right
Or move on from here,
Content with my clipped wings, wrapped with
Old string
Red yarn
Comfort
and holy toe socks.

– Tanya

Faerie Soup

A tiny gold leaf,
In a hole in a table.
Fall in faerie soup.

A faerie gold leaf,
In a bowl at the table.
Soup for fallen Fae.

– Tanya

Autumn Fog

AUTUMN FOG

I am so confused at the moment. None of my life’s lessons are helping me. I don’t know how to trust anyone or anything right now. I try to listen to my intuition, but even it does not know the way. I wait for signs and read the synchronicity but even those seem baffling. I don’t understand anything right now. Nothing makes sense. It’s like death, but I don’t know what is dying and what is being born. It’s all wrapt up in grief and time, and holding on and letting go. “Don’t stay where you’re not wanted.” But I don’t know what to hold onto or what to let go of, or to hold onto nothing and to let go of everything. I think I have it figured out, but then it slips through my fingers, and I am lost again. “When in doubt, wait it out.” I don’t know the message, I can’t find the purpose. Wrapt up in responsibility, sacrifice, and joy. How to know when joy should be sacrificed, and to what end, and if ever, and for how long, but what is joy? When does sacrifice yield joy? Does it ever? Is it real? How do you know the difference between self sacrifice that destroys you or self sacrifice for higher purpose? How much do you sacrifice, for how long, if ever? Do you never? What does that accomplish? I do not know the way. I ask the question and wait for the answer but when it comes bearing fruit, it is transformed ever deeper and yields more questions without answers. Dead ends. What do you trust? And risk. I am methodical, I plan, I do not take risks, I do not make snap decisions, and yet that has yielded no better outcome. When do you jump, do you jump, where do you jump, what is jumping? I wait and wait, and time does not discriminate. What is time? What if there was no measure of time? How much time is time enough? How much time is wasted time? I walk in fog, exploring uncharted territory. No beginning, no end. I am looking for a box, so I might open it, and read the message written there, but what if it is a blank scroll? Is there a box? Didn’t I craft a box long ago? Who has taken it away? And safety. And experience. And joy. And why? The autumn and the quickening. Do I allow it to rejuvenate, once again, or do I snuggle under crinkly leaves. Rest. My hair is tired and wet with the fog. Is there time enough? Is it time? Cruel trickster, where are you hiding? Tell me Yakov. – Tanya

Yakov responds: I’m flattered that you ask me. i’m reminded of Alice Toklas who asked Gertrude Stein on her death bed, “Gertrude, what is the answer?” To which Gertrude replied, just before she expired, “Alice, what is the question?”

Tanya: You really do drive a hard bargain. I love you, Yakov. Thank you.

Where the Green Beans Grow

I saw them in the garden first, the fairies danced last night,
Into the weary forest, sugar lanterns shining bright.

A beacon to old loves in green hammocks, singing though my head is bending low, I hear the gentle warbles calling, in the blackness…come on home.

Carry me back on a tee shirt wing all merry all happy and bright. By and by hard times come knocking at the door, but my old Kentucky home, fireflies.

-Tanya