Today’s prompts were Galaxy (or galaxy-type things) and love/anti-love:
Sometimes by Beth Weaver-Kreider
Sometimes when I say I am seeking the Beloved, it is your wise eyes I see, your expectant face, your eloquent and tender hands.
Sometimes when I listen for the humming of the stars, it’s your voice my ears remember, your quiet murmur, your trilling whistle, clear and bright.
Sometimes when I pause in the middle of the trail and catch the aroma of lilac or hyacinth sifting into the clearing, it’s your scent I’m sensing, and I am held in your arms as surely as if you were here.
In honor of Earth Day tomorrow, I have recorded Jane Yolen’s “Earth Day.”
Isolation and the Seven Sins by Beth Weaver-Kreider
The first one is coughing, right? Or. . .coughing without covering your mouth, or coughing into your hand instead of your elbow. Does sneezing belong here, too, or is it just a matter of degree: an uncovered cough goes ten feet while a sneeze blasts twenty-seven.
The second is touching your face. Don’t touch your face! Don’t scratch your nose! Don’t rub your eyes!
Then there’s forgetting to wash your hands, or not using soap, or not singing Happy Birthday twice through while you wash. I’m having a whole lot of birthdays lately.
Getting too close to people who don’t live in your house, that’s the fourth one— sidling up to strangers in stores, saying, “Is this the line?” while they edge away from you as politely as they dare.
Three more? Okay. Here’s one: Not wearing a mask in public. Don’t go to the bank unless you look you’re going to rob the bank. You’ve got to learn how to smile with your eyes.
Number six is definitely hoarding. Nobody needs that much toilet paper, hon.
And the seventh. Sloth? Is that one? I’m pretty sure I heard that one, but maybe that’s a deadly sin. Aren’t these deadly sins, too?
One of today’s Prompts is Month. The other is to use these six words in a sentence: bump, embrace, fixture, howl, lonely, resolve (all created by Shakespeare).
Song for a New Way a sestina of Shakespearean words by Beth Weaver-Kreider
Coyote is something of a fixture in the myth of the landscape, a lonely figure trotting atop the ridge. A howl echoes into the hollow, an embrace of wildness and winsome, where we bump against our own internal resolve
to enter wildness, our stout resolve to live less burdened by the fixtures of modern existence, in the bump and whirl of the rat race, this lonely place in the crowd. Today we embrace our freedom from form with a wild howl.
Set free from the commute, the howl of the markets that weakened our resolve to fight the forces that tempted us to embrace acquisition and consumerism, that fixture of capitalism that is the root of our lonely longing for stuff that stops us, a bump
on the road to enlightenment. We bump into the stuff, the stuff, the stuff. We howl with the frustration, knowing we’d be less lonely if we could only find our inner resolve and let our inner existence be the fixture that would lead us to a stronger embrace
of what matters. For example, we would embrace kindness and empathy, the places where we bump against each other would be the fixture of our ideals. We’d learn to how to howl our deep longings and we would resolve to make each other less lonely.
Only in the search for connection will our lonely lust for power be ended. When we embrace all beings as siblings, and resolve to avoid the stumble and bump of collecting more trophies. The howl of lost enchantment no longer a fixture.
We can resolve that we will no longer be lonely. The fixture of our new story will be the embrace. We’ll bump fists and hips, and howl.
Today’s poem prompts were “train” and “message.” I was wandering through the long grasses of the long A sound in train, and ended up at the Amazingville Station. One day, years ago, when the poetry was so heady and giddy I could hardly keep from floating away, someone wrote on someone else’s poem, “You are sleeping with everyone in Amazingville,” and Mara wrote a poem beginning with that phrase. I have wanted so terribly to travel again to Amazingville, so I figured out today that perhaps you need to take the train.
Someone in one of my groups said he likes this poem, but he doesn’t really understand it, which it exactly how I feel, too. I responded with this, and maybe it makes a little more sense to me now: “I’m not sure I understand it, actually. My seven and seven is the final two lines that turn the haiku to tanka, so the haiku is perhaps a summoning spell, a way to bring me back to Amazingville, too, and I will finish the incantation with my two lines of sevens.”
Here’s the weirdness, and then a video of last year’s Easter Magdalene poem:
Taking the Train to Amazingville by Beth Weaver-Kreider
When you get off the train at Amazingville Station, send me a message that you have arrived.
Make it a five seven five, American haiku, and let the cutting word be one that sets me free.
Then bring me around with the sweet music, the alluring scent of your season word.
Call me home with haiku and I’ll come to you on the next train, with my seven and seven.
A small pool in the base of twin trees along the new trail.
Today’s Prompts were Spider and Exotic. I don’t know if re-mything Spider Mystery is exotic or not, but this is what I came up with.
Spider by Beth Weaver-Kreider
Not all stories start the same. Try this one: In the ending. . . We’re bending the tale around a whole new fulcrum, following Hansl’s trail of crumbs from wicked witch to angry stepmother, or over other paths not yet traversed within the standard myth.
In the ending was Spider, marking her eternal spiral, spinning her infinite web, wrapping her magical bundles (don’t become one of those).
You wonder how she got to this moment, your mind on the lines that connect from beam to sill, from ledge to beam again. You want to know the structure, sense the essence of the plot, the way from there to here.
But when you live within the spin of infinity, beginnings become irrelevant. Endings, too, for that matter, fade to insignificance. The middle, that’s the place where twist and whirl tingle, where living blossoms out of nothing, and you catch the sticky thread of the moment, knowing you can shift from arm to arm of time, like Spider, who even now is watching you from the center of her web.
In the middle. . . Now there’s a thread to hand a tale by.
The prompts today are “bar” and “The Last _______.” Yesterday, I was mulling what the lore of these days might be, and the word Apocalypticon floated through my brain. It turns out there’s already a book by that name, but I thought it might be a good name for a poem.
The Apocalypticon: The Last Revelation by Beth Weaver-Kreider
One That spring, Grace found her first morel on the west-facing slope of the ridge. Everyone was finding them, actually, that spring. Everyone was eating morels, and Emily planted a gangster garden. Bootleggers and mob bosses graced her green. All we had seen before was somehow new now, more verdant.
Two One of us began receiving messages from a golden koi who circled slowly beneath the lilies of a lake. She would not tell us what the Lady told her, only: “Take what you need. Too much is at stake.”
Three I did battle with poison ivy that spring, apologizing a hundred times a day for cutting her thousand arms, but ivy laughed in crimson leaves and grew like the Revolution was at hand.
Four Some of us sat with our demons, telling old tales of battles long gone, bellying up to the bar of lost memories, or singing them to sleep with old songs, while Clare chanted exorcisms in the sleet on windy mountains pushing back the forces that threaten to submerge the story. I know of two who nearly lost the trail, wandering far into the shadows.
Five We stopped using the word normal, re-wove older linguistic threads, spun ancient stories into the chapters we were writing. We re-worded our vocabularies, re-ordered our syntax, re-discovered voices we thought had forgotten how to speak.
Six We caught our own flocks of wild yeast, planted potatoes in neat rows, learned new words for magic and for prayer, exploring layer after layer of mysteries, parting the curtains, and watching the ways of the moon.
Today’s prompts were fun to mash up: “dream,” and “middle of the week.” Also, I had my Creative Writing students write a list poem today, so I wanted to try one of those, too. Pile on the fun.
Transformation by Beth Weaver-Kreider
On Sunday, she dreamed she was inside an egg, arms and legs curled tight, and light (diffuse) swirling through the veil of shell around her.
On Monday, she dreamed she walked a pathway underneath an overarching fern. Fronds unfurled where dragonflies hovered above, large as dragons.
On Tuesday, she dreamed of thorn and bramble, rose and blackberry sending tendrils grasping, catching clothing, and bright crimson drops of blood.
On Wednesday, the fulcrum of the week, no dream disturbed her sleep, no portents woke her, no messages arrived through the veil between.
On Thursday, the forest of her dreams darkened and wolves prowled just beyond her firelight. Wolves howled in shadows, eyes a-glint.
On Friday, she died in her dreaming, yet stood at the edge of the clearing, watching her body where it lay among mayapples and mushrooms.
On Saturday, the dream spread a wide gleaming sea in her path. She stepped into a coracle boat, ivory, smooth as eggshell.
Today’s Prompts are Sacrifice and Purpose. In this one, I followed where the sounds and rhythms led me rather than working for a particularly tight meaning.
Let Loose by Beth Weaver-Kreider
At what price, this sacrifice? What personal cost, what cross, what losses must she bear, to wear the mantle she’s been handed?
And how much of it is her choice to give voice to all the stories offered her in dreams? What seems to be the answer to the question she’s been dancing since she woke?
What purpose does it serve, this nervous laughter, crafting tales that avoid disaster, trails of crumbs to follow home when all’s played out.
Could she have stayed within the boundaries? Prayed more devoutly? Sounded pious when her soul was out of kilter? Filtered out the deeper truths that led her out beyond the fields?
No, she was meant to wander further than the walls the maps required. She was tired of living tamely in domesticated trance. She had to dance into the open, throw her fancy to the winds, take her chances where she could and race the storm across the wildlands to find the answer to her ache.
The prompts today are “spirit” and “eggs.” And it is Easter, so that wants to weave into the mix. One of my favorite moments in all of the New Testament stories is the moment when Mary Magdalene is weeping in the garden, and asks the gardener where they have taken her beloved, and the gardener turns, and it IS her beloved, and he says her name. This feels like one of the holiest stories to me.
Grief is the Egg by Beth Weaver-Kreider
“Grief is not your problem. Grief is not the sorrow. Grief is the medicine.” —Martin Prechtel
There are people who sing when they weep, who wail for the dead in poems, chant the wandering spirits into seeds that will sprout in the new world as trees, or storms, or whales.
Grief is not the rock that entombs you. It is the egg of the thing to come, the precious perfume in the alabaster jar that finds its way to praise life and living even as it anoints the dead. The egg and the seed are the medicine.
Grief is no dead end road. It is the curtain rent in two, the woman weeping in the garden: “Tell me, if you know, where they have taken my beloved.”
Grief is the egg of the moment, radiant with sunlight, just before the gardener turns, and you hear your name.
Mockingbird Chronicles 