Summer 1994
--Poetry Collection
Kingdom
-- Story & Verse
Bits
and Pieces of Poetry & Prose
Jesus
in Jeans -- Poetry & Prose
Winter 1999
-- Poetry
Nursing
inspired Poetry
Faith
Richardson's Novels & Kidlit
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Faith Richardson
Donkey
Chronicles
Jemma,
the Advice Dalmatian
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Summer
1994 --Poetry Collection
Winter 1999/2000 -- Poetryback to:cannola oilRape seed has become known as
"Cannola seed" because
rape is an unpleasant word, they say --yet, TV hurls rigid anger like spears
annihilating from the inside upward
to the core of me
and movie ads beckon, come,
let me do this to you
it will feel good so
why do i see terror in you eyes
when i hurt you?
Pigeon Dust
You say you cannot speak
of unspeakable things,
but I say
now is the time to utter
the unutterable,
to fling words like pent-up pigeons.Why? You ask,
because life will never be lived
behind wire
and songs sung clear as starlight
need lungs drenched with wind,
clean as rain
and pigeon dust clogs the throat.
What went so wrong?
What went so wrong with love --
one life lived for another,
forgiveness squared and squared again?It was as if the sun rained.
There you were holding
hurt in your hands like smoking guns,
and much later
came the bang.
Stanley Park, Vancouver
Do you think that love
is what I want?
You would be right,
if love meant Sunday picnics
at Stanley Park with
potato salad, birdsong,
the smell of an infant,
and a creaking grandmother.
Did you think you could silence me?
Did you think you could silence me?
Cocooning my mouth with duct tape,
chaining my limbs to new-sawn lumber.No. Listen!
The tree is weeping.
Its voice so deep and silent,
the angels' start.
Sometimes when the night
Sometimes when the night
draws down like owl's wings
I see long and hard as crystal.
Who says light and sight
go hand in hand?
Shame
Do you know that all i want
is never to have known
shame?Or, at least, not to recognize its face
and invite it in
as if it were a cousin from
the Old Country.
Rustle in the Grass
Because of your allegiance to hate,
i must wait
and watch
and listen
nerves stretched,
running from a rustle in the grass.
But, is it a snake i hear,
or a bird?
Do you know that I am stronger now?
Do you know that I am stronger now?
That life is tougher
and so am I.
That friends are leaner,
and so am I.
That you are a stranger,
and so am I.
Snake , Galiano Island
The other day
I walked along a
fragrant asphalt road,
reveling in forest,
hearing Arbutus shake and scatter
its bark like water-soaked Labradors,
and then, feet apart,
planted by sudden fear
I shied, a silly filly,
and did not adore,
the rich red
warm gold
liquid green
of your tongue-darting, quick-silver,
pulse-racing, coils.
My nephew does not care for strawberries
My nephew does not care for strawberries.
This, he tells me, with an inner eye
to his mother,
his coach in words, manners,
and all things social.
I take them from his plate,
cream coated,
be-crumbed and
much the worse for wear,
solemnly acknowledging his small personhood,
his right to differ in inclination
and taste.But we both listen to the garburetor
grind up the berries with
a satisfying growl,
and we both sniff with appreciation,
the final strawberry essence.
The night the stars fell, Galiano Island
The stars fell the night I did,
tumbling down the narrow stairs
my arms rushing out to save the
rest of me.
When I righted myself I turned to look
where they had been and saw
no sign of light-years
of existence.But today I see a nick in the wood
where the ridge of my shoe made contact with the deck,
and my right thumb throbs,
remembering,
and I know, the stars fell too.
Maybe you thought
Maybe you thought
because the word love was used
it was okay to hurt me.
That bruises born without anger,
black eyes too sad for fear,
say love.
But your strange pleasure gave pain,
and all children cry when hit.Maybe I thought
because the word love was used
it was okay to cry.
But i learned,
didn't i?
NO MORE.
No more,
i said again and again.
i said no more,
but the jesus child grown up dying said forgive,
so i did and did and did.
no more
i said again and again
no more,
but
the Jesus Child Grown Up Living said
NO MORE
and so did I.
Wolf
Between lights
when life is breathing slow and even
like the babies,
sometimes still you creep in
damning the stillness,
wielding wolf's teeth in sheep's smile.
You grin,
dripping lies like saliva,
holding out a hand
red with pain.
You live in serpent's indignation,
wondering,
"why? oh why, do you wake the babies?"
But, I know.
"Wake, babies, wake!"
Heart pounding,
I sit up in bed.
Amanda at two-and-a-half years
"She's baby mad,"
her mother tells me, nodding toward
this three foot modicum
of femaleness.I watch the cradle
and witness the perfect O
of an infant's cry.And then,
armed with pacifier,
Amanda advances.
Fraser River excursion
Did you think you could fly?
I did too,
that night we lay
drenched in moonbeams,
July sounds nipping like mosquitos
at our ears.
I heard the coyotes and opened my throat to join the Canon.
I'll bet you felt, too,
the rushing riot of roots
pouring wine like grass
over our wings.
Did you think you could fly?
I did, too.
Riddle
Sometimes riddles are as simple
as a chicken crossing the road
to the other side where
elephants hide in cherry trees
or drive six to a volkswagon.You, on the other hand,
have no answer.
It is dark now,
the sky closed and silent,
but still i search for that
punch line final zinger last word,
restless for the eruption
of applause.
A Good Day
"What's a good day," you ask,
laugh wrinkles curing in the sun,
so I will tell you:A good day is bright with energy,
sunlight laced,
warm true blue water dancing to
a humming breeze.A good day is brisk with frost,
keen edged ice
crisping underfoot the grass
and edging crimson trees.A good day is brash with wind,
rain-wild sogg,
fierce with gusts and upflung spray
dark with muddy leaves.A good day is any day
my body forgets to wear
survival as a medal:
dodging enemy-strangers
ducking bullet-backfires
dropping love like grenades.
Diversionary tactics
"You must face your fear,"
the inner preacher
--index finger shaking--
thundered.
And so i listened
day by day by day
i fought to live in enemy territory,
while guerilla ghosts
scratched fingerless holes,
shrieked mouthless sayings,
savaged my soul.Now, I wonder what was the point?
Squatting in the jungle,
back to a bleeding hut wall,
eyes staring
ears straining
rifle cocked
no sleep on enemy watch.
Diversionary tactics
bleed your energy
suck your sanity
steal your dreams
and, guess what,
the enemy ain't there for all your sweat.Hey Preacher, so much for
inner moralizing, but,
only an old soldier would know
about diversionary tactics.
Should you be tempted
in future
to shoot off your mouth again,
be warned,
I'll shoot it off for you--
I still can't get the mud off me,
and my soul aches when it rains.
--Faith Richardson--
--all rights reserved--
top of Summer 1994 collection
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Faith and Vincent's home page
Ethics 101 (North Unit, Vancouver)
Old Soldier (Vet's Manor, Vancouver)
More gum than teeth,
you mouth hard words.
Tough memories explode
around us and I see
hot horror
in your eye sockets.
You sit,
a mug of ale close by
the handle of your cane.
I see mirrored in its surface
your comrade boys falling,
eyes shocked at youthful death.
Over and over they fall and
each time they are surprised
death knows them.An old soldier lives in two worlds:
one has round bar stools,
hole-y dart boards,
and wolf whistles,
the other reeks of mud and blood
and sounds that chill
the marrow.
Words are like fish, he told me (Geriatric Assessment Unit, Vancouver)
Words are like fish, he told me.
Some days he sat on the bank all day, patient,
casting perfect arcs of wind-drift sound over baby blue water and not one bite.Some days fish swarmed up and over the sides of his craft and,
damn-it-all-to-hell,
do you think he could grab one of the slippery buggers as they,
nose-to-tail,
sailed on by?Hey, he told me, eyes bright with sudden knowing,
words are like fish--slick as paint,
they'll slide right past you,
but catch 'em when you can, 'cause, in spite of the bones,
there's nothing like a mouthful.
Bathing Mrs. F. (Geriatric Assessment Unit, Vancouver)
"Combative," reads her chart,
and I picture guerilla tactics,
camouflage fatigues, and
jungle helmets.Instead, a war torn lady
dressed in bones,
grey skin taut, wails a lament as her hair is washed.I hold her hands--not as friend, but, enemy guard--
"I'll whomp you!" she screeches to the one who holds the soap.But, later, when, unseen,
I wrap a clean blanket about her,
I hear hymns soft as summer,
lilac petals falling from her memory.
She spoke. (Geriatric Assessment Unit, Vancouver)
--patient one--
She spoke.
I saw the roundness of her lips,
so quick,
heard the whisper of words brushing past my ears.
They fall knee-deep on my sidewalk . . .--patient two--
She spoke.
But words are slippery things,
they slide by memories of Jake,
ice rink picnics, grocery lists,
and songs . . .--they said--
She spoke.
Stirring foreign air with
sounds raining cold
on-and-on-and-on-and-on
she spoke.
But words were few.--I said--
I spoke.
Dropping vowels into a
soundless well. Strewing words as husks. I watch, appalled.
Like frost edged paths they lie,
half buried in yesterdays.
When I am old
When I am old:
as old as tea leaves, crumbling,
apt to stain carpets, and with the odour of yesterday's lunch,
touch me softly to remind me
that once I was you:
full-bodied, rich in spice and long in life, and that others
drank deeply of me.When I am old:
as old as Pogo Sticks, hula hoops, and Etch-a-Sketch,
laugh often with me, to remind me that once I played, too:
that life was green and curious, that MGM lions roared deliciously,
and that stars were angels' eyes.When I am old:
as old as Moon Walks,
Kennedy Conspiracy, and Watergate, speak sense to me to remind me that once I cried for Rwanda's children, spoke out for trees and Orca, and marched for justice in your world.When I am old, I think I shall want three things:
still to wonder, still to feel, and still to touch the edge of life
with my tongue. But, when I am too old for these three, please,
touch me softly, to remind me, that once I was you.
Bright Spirit Eyes (Palliative Care Unit, Richmond)
It is night rounds. Q2H watch.
Yawning, I circle beds heavy with narcotic-laced sleep."Did you see him?" she asks me . Skeletal thin. Eager.
I jump in fatigue, unaware that, tonight, Bed 3 keeps watch, too.
"Who?" I reply, foolishly glancing behind into an empty hall.
"Oh," she says, "He is gone then--"Her eyes are bright with eternity,
They burn too hot for earth-bound vision, and I look away."He came to see me."
Her soft whisper is electric.
And I know then, by the hair crinkling on my neck,
but more so, by Bright Spirit Eyes, that I have once more
passed through Light.
Corner girls (North Unit, Vancouver)
Wraiths of wind and rain they stand skeletal thin,
hunched over tiny fires
lit by hungry strangers.
We walk softly on these streets (North Unit, Vancouver)
We walk softly around many things here:
needles laced with death at our feet,
shotgun rage blasting through broken doors,
paper thin walls moving with cockroach madness,
piles of filth, and the stench of apathy.We walk softly around unspoken words,
useless diagnoses,
senseless prescriptions,
and no feasible prognoses.We walk softly around all these things and more.
Crazy nurses:
we bandage the unbandageable,
wonder at the miracle of care,
and are appalled again and again, when you refuse to know us,
push away our Band-Aids,
and run from hope yet again.We walk softly.
Listen hard.
Care much.Band-Aid in hand, we walk softly:
hoping for a healing hope for you,
praying for a sense of peace for you, and,
longing,
to be touched again by you.
The day you died
(with thanks to all the hospice patients I've been privileged to care for)
The day you died,
I died a little, too.
How could I not?--touching mortality in your limbs,
--seeing your eyes drain of life,
--sensing the final moment,
--knowing my stethoscope would hear your heartbeat no more.I died a little with you.
But then you brought the vast electric Universe to you,
I felt it shiver around us,
lift you up and then
you were gone --
in it,
with it, and,
all around me.You know, I went a little way with you in that nanosecond of non time when the earth spun backwards for you alone and time shattered a doorway for you to fly through.
I lived a little with you the day you lived.
Thank you.
Today I learned ethics from Misty:
that a working girl goes to her corner no matter the size of her wound, my friend,
no matter the pain that she bears, my friend,
defiantly dealing with death every day,
spinning straw into gold for her man, my friend,
spinning straw into gold for her man.Today I learned ethics from Zane:
that a dumpster boy just keeps on looking,
in spite of the shit,
in spite of the smell,
in spite of whoever may send him to hell,
stashing away bit by bit what he finds,
spinning straw into bread for his food, my friend,
spinning straw into bread for his food.Today I learned ethics from Sam,
that a partner will stay till the end,
that in spite of the sores,
and in spite of the reek,
in spite of the curses he's thrown at to boot,
in spite of no money,
in spite of no food,
and the fact that all others may think he's a fool,
that kindness is bigger than sense, my friend,
spinning straw into love for his friend.Today I learned ethics I thought that I knew,
from people I would have at one time steered clear,
or worse, not have seen them at all or acknowledged
their lifestyle or status, their sense of survival.
My world has grown deeper, I know now that I,
was the one in great need of this brief ethics lesson.
Spinning straw into truth for my soul, my friend,
Spinning straw into truth for my soul.
back to:
--Faith Richardson--
--all rights reserved--top of Nursing inspired poetry
Journal page contents
Discover Books!
Faith and Vincent's home page
Jesus in Jeans -- Poetry & Prose
Faith's dove, Reprise--
Wings beat,
stirring airdank with damp,night trembling before certain dawn.
dark with promise,Wait,while blackness yet blinds sight,Watch,now--
reach out with faith hands,
touch the sky,
this is His bow, set down, for you.
GaiaRain like ribbons from heaven,
a sudden silence falls from
the throats of birds huddled tight
to tree trunks,
feathers firm against the wet.There is a hushed cheer that rises on these days;
it is as though the trees sigh, dig toes in deep, open languid lips,
and drink gustily the downpour;
as though the grass shivers,
and ferns rustle upwards to be silvered in the liquid ecstasy.And I swear I hear the earth moan, pelvis raised,
straining toward sky in sensual urge.
--Faith Richardson--
--all rights reserved--
back to:top of 1999/2000 poetry
Journal page contents
Discover Books!
Faith and Vincent's home page
So I'm sitting here, on a kid sized, enamel green wooden chair, and I have on my Sunday School clothes--down to the itchy crinoline--and I have a brand-new white short coat with a matching muff. The jacket is puffy, and when I squish the material between my fingers it feels like snow sounds when you walk on it crunch, crunch, crunch. The muff has a fake flower like thing to one side, on the front of it, and a twisted satin cord that runs along under my collar along the back of my neck. I never had a muff before, and I dive my hands deep inside its warm plushiness, and I smell the newness of it and my coat.Christmas, 1998In this ancient season,
a thousand starry dreams
sound in firm language:hope rings hard as crystal,
joy rumbles strong as stone,
as faith walks deep with earth feet
and shaman meets sacrament.Listen!
chorion!Listen!amnion!
embrion!
Listen!Systole!
Allelu, allelu!
When two worlds collide.
Hurling masses through space,
spheres ebullient with energy:
--earth-water snow balls of air-blue;
swirling, candy-coloured gases loosely pinned to a centre point;
sober, smoke-dark circular ghosts, flung far from some nether chamber --
All spinning, shooting--And no near misses.
But what if two worlds collide?
--Shearing, sparking,
shrieking, showers--
--suspense--
All of heaven holds its breath, horror-struck,
and Reason detonates.Or maybe not.
The light-locked energy of one star
led three to see
matter and Spirit
shock forth
in an infant's cry.Three-in-one stretched out man-skin for all time.
Human brained and hearted, he loved a world of murderers, thieves and gossips, to death.I hold a few cells on my tongue, shivering;
(in tempore, ex tempore)
they meld
Body and Bread.
Manna and Man.When two worlds collide.
The Door
You stand there.
Waiting.
Listening.
Knocking again on those
vertical planks braced cross-wise,
unyielding as death.The door stands solid:
knots intact,
no light leaks through the frame,
and the spike-sharp key
stops up the lock
from the inside.You stand there knocking
until I hear.
The hollow, aching thud of
meat on wood rings through me like chimes.
And light enters,
even as I stumble,
hands outstretched,
to fall upon
the Door.~ ~ ~
The teacher at the front of the room speaks in a bright, clear voice about how happy we all are to be at Sunday School. I glance at the row of kids I am sitting with, and Sandra is yawning, and Tracy is kicking at the rungs on the chair in front of her, and my teacher (not the one at the front of the room, but my own teacher who sits at the aisle in my row) feels my wandering gaze and smiles at me. It is a smile that tells me that I should be listening and I look straight ahead, but the eyes inside me can still see other things, like our dog, Jo-Jo at home, and my big sister, and my mom, who are in their own Sunday School Departments (but I see them still at home, and my mom is taking out Joy's pin curls, and Joy is sitting stiff to one side of the chair).
Soon we go to our cubicles for our lesson with our own teacher, and I'm following Sandra who stumbles along the row of chairs. Tracy follows me and I hear her giggle because Sandra never says anything and is always yawning. Sandra has thick skin over her nose and Tracy has a wide face with freckles. Tracy leans over and pulls up her white knee socks with a snap, while Sandra moves toward our cubicle, dream-like.
The Bible lesson is about little Samuel and how he hears God calling him when he is asleep, and he is so good, and gets up and runs to Eli-the-priest and says, "What do you want?" And Eli-the-priest says, "I didn't call you, I don't want anything, go back to bed!" And this happens three times, until Eli-the-priest says, "It is God calling you, next time say, 'here I am, Lord, your servant hears.'" So little Samuel goes back to bed and sure enough God calls him again and this time he knows it is God. I am wondering what God wants little Samuel to get for him, but suddenly we are hearing about Jesus and how he loves us so much that he died for our sins, and how we all must let Jesus into our hearts. Then I think, that must be what God wanted Samuel to do, that is why he was calling him.
After the story, the teacher asks us questions-for-review, and Sandra turns red because she is startled out of her half-sleep trance and can't answer the question. Tracy answers it, but I am red like Sandra, not because I don't know the answer, but because I think "that can't be right!" but it is. I am squirmy and red until the little bell rings and Sunday School is over.
I'm waiting outside my Sunday School Department for Joy to pick me up for Church and I feel like I've been standing there forever while all the other kids get picked up and other parents and older brothers and sisters bustle in and out . . . I wonder if all my family has forgotten me and if I will be left here forever. But then Joy rushes in and hurriedly snatches for me while she is talking to Cindy and Laurel, her big friends, and we all go up the long stairs to the Sanctuary, and Laurel smiles at me.
Then I'm sitting in our family pew and Mark, my little brother, is sitting beside me and so is Joy, and my mom and dad are sitting on the end. I can smell cough drops--the horrible kind, not Vick's Cherry--because Dad has to sing this morning. We all stand to sing the Doxology and my brother drops the pencil he was drawing with onto the floor and we hear it rolling hollowly down under the next pew. Mark refuses to look at Mom and Dad, but his ear turns red. During the sermon I play my games: looking through the hymnbook for words I know, counting the lights and panels in the ceiling, squinting with my eyes half-closed to see people's faces jump in and out of focus. Then I look at the cartoon on the back of my sister's Sunday School Paper, and then I draw. I am jolted back to Church in red hot embarrassment as the Pastor sternly asks--right from the pulpit--some girls to put their Sunday School Papers down and to pay attention! I have been guilty of looking at Sunday School Papers too, but I wonder who has been caught, because he is not looking at me. Joy looks knowingly around, smugly aware that her Sunday School Paper is tucked safely out of the way of temptation between the pages of her Bible, now that I'm finished with it.
So, I'm sitting in the car with Joy and Mark and my mom, and we're waiting for my dad to finish talking to someone so that we can go home and have lunch. The car smells of chicken feed, damp vinyl seats, used air, and wet wool from our coats. There is a January rain streaming over the windows and I shiver on the little seat in the back of the station wagon, and my hands seek each other in the clean depths of my muff.
We're home, and my jacket and muff come off and my brother is racing around in our bedroom, and we all change from our Church clothes to our Sunday Afternoon clothes. And I ask Joy what it means to ask Jesus into your heart. She says it is because he died for our sins and that is how you get to heaven and that she has done it. I wait until she leaves the room, and while I'm rummaging around to find something that my brother wants to play with, I pause in my mind and ask Jesus to come into my heart because he loves me so much that he died for my sins and because I want to go to heaven. I also think it would be a little too scary to have God call me in the middle of the night, like Little Samuel, because he wanted me to ask Jesus into my heart.
~ ~ ~
It is July, and I've grown up. I know this, because, in the bathtub, my knees now look like my sister's: bumpy and scraped, they are no longer pink, baby smooth rounds. I am 8 and one month, and I am going to Daily Vacation Bible School. It is the last night and my parents are coming and my cousin is staying over night. I get to take my crafts home. I have made a jewelry box for my mother out of popsicle sticks and macaroni. We all go out to the car, and I hear the big basement door slam shut behind us.
I'm sitting in the final meeting with the other D.V.B.S. kids and the Pastor is telling about how Jesus is knocking at the door to my heart and has been for a long time waiting for someone to open the door and let him in. The Pastor talks in a very solemn voice and asks if anyone will put up their hand if they want to let Jesus in. In my mind, I see a giant, wooden door, shut tight as our basement door. I want to put my hand up, but I cannot move in the tense quiet of the Invitational.
That night I am in my new bedroom upstairs with my sister, and my cousin, Vic, is in the adjoining room. The door is open and my mom comes in to say good night to all three of us, and I lie and tell her, "you know what? I put my hand up during the Invitational." I can tell she is very pleased and she asks me if I want her to pray with me, but I say that I'd rather do it myself. She says that Vic has already asked Jesus into his heart, and Vic says, "Yes." Everyone has a solemn voice.
I wait from Mom to go out and it is very dark with the door closed, but in the darkness, I see Jesus, and, sure enough, he is knocking at a big, wooden door, and it is the door to my heart, and I feel so sad that he has been out there knocking and knocking for so long and I never let him in. So, I say to him, "Please come in, and I'm so sorry." I feel my eyes sting, and hot, salty tears crust on my face, not just because he's been knocking out there so long, but because I feel a little door open in my heart, and he really does come in. I'm very, very happy, and I talk with him awhile, and everything feels different.
The next morning everything looks different. Even the door to the basement. I smile, and I don't wonder at it.
I see the glow and flicker of our campfire reflected in their eyes and I know that mine share the same restless image of light. The night sky flames silently above us the cold brilliance of the constellations. We can collectively pick out three: of the Big Dipper we are staunchly sure, of Orion's Belt we are fairly confident, but the Little Dipper has us divided three ways. That is, each of us have "found" the Little Dipper in three decidedly different sections of the sky.Heart holderYou, Holder of my heart--
your deep palm cupped under,
soft-steel fingers curved around--
God like?I see swirling eddies in your finger tips,
one-of-a-kind markers of identity.
Your flesh floats in bunching folds over flexed knuckles of bone and meat.
No half-moon crescents, you bear iron-thick casts of nails, and I see puckered scars in your palms.
Man-like?Your grip tightens,
curling coils of strange pain around the secret flesh-lump
locked within the cage of my ribs,
Yet your bruising yields healing, though crimson tears collect and weep through your wound.In the mingling of utter reds
I pause,
which drop is mine?
which drop is yours?
Brick3
Mud red
dipped from river clay,
blunt and fluid as the Earth,
healed to hardness in the desert's blare.
Packed tight within each cell,
light locked energy.
I am still, silent strength--
tensile tough--
a stepping stone, for some.Fire red
drawn from the kiln's heart,
glowing fierce and fresh as flame.
Radiant,
I draw all men to stare deep into my burning gaze.
I am a cauterizing fire-seer,
a stumbling block, to many.Blood red
held high and hammered.
Crushed cells blow wide, collect in heaps, dusting the city lanes and coating the skins of men.
And rain turns red with clay dust seed again and again.
I am the corner stone, rejected.
Jesus in Jeans
She walked electrically,
past well groomed gardens along a swept sidewalk, as though she strolled between galaxies and swirling comets.I pulled over to the curb, leaned across the empty seat, and threw open the car door for her.
She stopped, startled; the moment still embraced her, and she flowed with immeasurable current."What is it?" I ventured, curious.
Carefully maneuvering between the seen and the unseen, I re-entered traffic.
Cascading beams still flung from her eyes, rays of mystery, ringed with soul desire."I've just seen Jesus -- in blue jeans," she whispered, awestruck and glowing.
The words flickered in the air and vanished as I gazed at the road uncomprehending.
Her eyes dyed with sudden sorrow, and began dripping with compassion, for me,
so stuck within the confines of my maleness.~ ~ ~
My lips are coated in gummy marshmallow and I lick at them uselessly. I open my mouth to tell my friends what I've wanted to for some time, the reason that I've maneuvered this time together, but, my mouth shuts of its own accord, again. I taste the acrid crunch of charcoal.
Finally I blurt out, "There's this guy . . ."
"Uh, huh, yep I knew it!"
"She had allll the signs!"
"No, really, this is different," I protest uselessly.
"Hey, we don't need the song and dance--we're pals, remember?"
"Yeah, we've been together from diapers to tampax!"
(You are so gross, Sheryl!!!)
"No, really, this IS different." I say it again, lamely. It is all I can think of to say. I shake my head and look at my two best friends.
Silence. In the light of the fire I see them look at each other, Sheryl raising her eyebrows to the North Star (I think), and Corrine tilting her head to the side, a twisted smile on her face.
"Okay. HOW is this guy different?" Corrine finally asks.
I swallow hard. "Well, he's . . . he's . . . not like other guys . . ."
"Oh, now I understand. What you're saying is that this guy is, what's the word, 'different,' right?!" They both laugh insanely and Sheryl rolls onto a half eaten marshmallow.
"Ha, ha," I respond in weak sarcasm. "Just forget it."
"No, no, no. Don't wimp out on us. Tell ALL."
"Yeah, seriously, we promise we won't interrupt anymore."
I scrutinize their half laughing faces, and begin again. "He's truly nice. It's like we're related . . ."
They stare at me.
"I mean," I add hurriedly, "It's as though we've always known each other . . . like he knows things about me that I've forgotten. It's like his soul speaks to my soul. Oh, God, that sounds so stupid," I wail into the heavens.
"You mean, like you're soul mates, or kindred spirits, right?" Corrine says, gazing up at the stars, her hands clasped behind her head.
Sheryl stirs the fire with a stick, and we follow with our eyes glowing sparks traveling upward and flickering out. She doesn't say anything.
"Yeah, that's it. As corny as that sounds. He touches me on an altogether different level. I mean, you know what it's like to really look into your own heart and see the crap, the wound, but also, the simpleness there. Like it's not all that complex, somehow. I don't have to do anything, except be ME and that's all. This guy, this guy somehow, gives me the strength, or the hunger, to do just that. It's like he calls my name and the real me answers. Finally!" I laugh in relief.
Corrine rolls over on her stomach and stares into the flames. "He's like a healing channel. It is only Love that heals," she says.
"Wow, Neat-Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Shirley Maclean," Sheryl moans ecstatically, rolling her eyes upward. "An out-of-body wedding, such a spiritual experience! One question -- does he live in the same time warp as you? If not, your children may suffer."
Corrine straightens up, leans over, and bops her over the head with the marshmallow bag. "You don't have a romantic bone in your body," she tells her.
"Look," I say firmly, "I know I'm sounding like a lunatic. But this guy is . . ."
"We know, we know," they chorus. "He's DIFFERENT!"
I smile. They'll just have to meet their own Jesus in jeans.
back to:
Pneuma
The wind blows in Fall.
Birds, like spent leaves, are shaken from the trees.
Swept into dark V's they vanish in the dusk.Maple wings gyrate,
drunk with freedom.
They dance carelessly and invade every crevice.
Choosing light and shadow,
mud and humus,
indiscriminately.The stream, long stilled by Summer heat, rises remorselessly, swallowing seed, rats' homes, and marsh marigolds.
The moon looms larger after days like these.
Thick moonbeams encase the landscape, the frozen form of each surviving blade,
icicle sharp,
until the wind whirls, shattering the cast.The wind blows in Fall, and sometimes saplings are uprooted.
It recharts the land,
cleaning and pruning, it buffs the white bark of the birches, and cuts clear the muddy banks of the creek.
--Faith Richardson--
--all rights reserved--
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Bits and Pieces of Poetry & Prose
Kingdom -- Story & VerseAllouette RiverI lean forward, squinting in the water glare,
and part the green gleaming coolness with my paddle.
The water scatters, droplets fleeing the wood like non polar charges.
They jump electrically on the surface of the wake.
Ahead, a silver arc sparks through the air, and the water shivers as if wounded by an arrow.I melt into this liquid state, and elude the limits of fixed form.
I'm resilient as the ripples;
fluidly unfragmentable.
July haying (Richmond)
The soft, crisp hay diagrams my elbows and sticks deep down the sides of my shoes..
The warm earthy sweet scent of new mown clover lies close about me
as a prairie quilt.The buzz and breeze of insects add a minor note necessary in a concert so drenched in yellow.
There are no clocks here.
In this meadow,
time is a silent circle set in herbs.
Fragrant, and powdered with pollen,
time sleeps.And I, afflicted by winter-amnesia,
lie swathed in the stored sunshine,
a passive patient.
Orange-peel wrinkles
stretch to smile--
a sudden sunbeam.
Umbrellas in the wind--
Bright winter tulips,
Full blown.
A leaf in flight
spins suspended,
tethered by silk.
HOPSCOTCH
She
stands
eager
stiff with anticipation
for a chance to cast her charm
in the
bright
bold
new-painted playground squares.
Her socks still sport a crease and
two pigtails stand an equal distance
from the
clear
clean
center
part.
Clasping her lucky rock tightly
she jumps to take her turn
in the
Autumn
schoolyard
ritual.
Kapka (I didn't recognize this frail person)
"Cart coming -- wagon coming."
She corrected herself, thinking I may not understand her textbook english.
The walker clumped along in front as she carefully reined wide around the
telephone table.
The prescribed walk over, she thankfully returned to her room,
white with the struggle.(We didn't recognize this frail person in such pain as our Kapka)
I used to wonder what a "Gramma" or a "Nana" was,
I had a "Kapka" whose apron reminded me of peroshki, buckwheat, and borscht.
The long lines of orange-peel dough looked baby sleek when I ran in from school,
eager to see my visiting Kapka.(We loved her laugh and would work at imitations. We still do, and, for a moment, we are there.)
On Sunday mornings she freed my hair from cloths woven in the night before.
She wore a hat anchored with a giant pin
on smoothly subject curls.
A brooch burned unconsumed on her collar, and she walked into church like a queen,
confidently humble.(The mystery birthday calls that sung in Russianed-english have ceased.)
Our coats and hats always lay across her bed, when we came for celebration dinners,
a ritual we honoured.
Our eyes would scan the walls and dresser top for pictures of us,
and a baby mom and aunt, looking
boldly shy in black and white.(We would find her in the garden in old shoes, among the carefully tended dahlias, dwarfing tiny budgie crosses.)
I broke the rules when we went shopping,
and my mother's look shamed me.
Kapka bought me the loudly coveted book anyway.
I loved it and still feel the pain of its disappearance from my first grade reading group.I was shattered then, as I am now,
of the loss,
and of that final blackmail.(My name uniquely etched in sound is no longer heard.)
(I didn't recognize this frail person in such pain as my Kapka.)
It was me.It was me who stirred up the waters.
I poked with sword-stick the reflection of your being on the surface of the stream.Now I sit ashamed.
Amazed by the mud I have caused to ink your waters.
The stick is gone, flung far from my horrified hands.I sit still,
waiting,
praying for a healing current.
Watching for a clearing of the waters.
Will I see you again?It was me.
There are few explorers among tree folkThere are few explorers among tree folk;
they share no heady Columbus surge.
Theirs is the pilgrim's spirit:
trees shyly advance,
sending forth their youngest--
the bravest of them.
The elders prefer their own,
and stand arms entwined,
preferring to see the sun and earth alike,
through friend's diffusive light.
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--Faith Richardson--
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Once upon a time there was a kingdom that expanded and raged and grew as far as the eye could see from the very top of the tower in the massive stone castle. The queen of the kingdom spent many of her days there, surveying her land, her, rather unruly subjects, and her beloved armory.The kingdom and the queen presented a united front, although the true state of the matter was decidedly different. Quarrels and coolnesses often came between she and her subjects. The queen, to be frank, was rather unpredictable; at times she was as hard and cold as crystal, but often she melted her people by her child-like heart that laughed easily and loved eccentricity as well as beauty.
Her subjects were a strange lot themselves. Some resembled books, with large thick-lensed eyes and sideways shuffles. They wheezed when they talked, and talk they most certainly did. The others would eventually shut them up with a cuff that caused them to tumble down in a cloud of dust. Only loss of dignity could quiet them. Others of her people were quite beautiful, although they may have seemed peculiar to you or I. There were long legged, soft furred beasts with flopping ears and large rainbow hued eyes, and smaller, quick moving, rollicking creatures with tongues that lolled from their mouths. When they grew excited, they bounced about, speaking in sharp, bark like exclamations.
And there were the many different trees and plants that walked about and offered their advice on a great deal of things. Although they had much wisdom, they were always a bit preoccupied with the weather, and waxed rather too eloquent on the wonders and dangers of sunlight. A favourite tree-like creature of the queen's had long, looping branches and bore any delicacies the queen currently craved. She called it her "Treat Tree." She only had to think quite hard the night before, and in the morning, the tree would be at the castle door laden with ice-cream cones, or chocolates with rich, coffee cream centers, or crispy french fries tasting slightly of vinegar--whatever the queen had been yearning for. Once in awhile, to its discomfort, it found itself growing strange, bottle like crystal fruit full of juices that fizzed wildly when the stems were plucked out.
There were many other weird and wonderful subjects--so many that, to describe them all, I would need to write more pages than you would care to read. Oh, yes;there were also people in the kingdom, but you would not have wanted much to do with them. They were very thin and wraith-like shadows, really. They floated in for a time, said very little, and floated on out without anyone really taking much notice.
The same cannot be said of the giants. Yes, there were giants. All the subjects agreed with the queen about the giants: they must be kept in line. The giants, at times, were easy-going and helpful: digging moats, rebuilding the large, stone wall that surrounded the entire kingdom, but their favourite job was "scaring the enemy." They took great delight in popping up from behind the wall and frightening passersby with bared, snaggly teeth and wild locks of hair. "Ho, ho, ho!" The kingdom would hear the giants' rumbling coarse laughter after sending some poor page galloping away in fright.
At other times, however, the giants were not so pleasantly occupied. Sometimes, their only fun was in making pests of themselves. For instance, they would stand around deliberately throwing their long, thick shadows across the Books on concert days, so that the Books found it impossible to read their stories. The concert would come to a sudden end with the queen shrieking angrily at the poor Books. Or, at the kingdom picnics, when everyone was out sitting on blankets enjoying the sun, the giants would turn up and breathe heavily until all the creatures caught chills and had to go indoors. And all the animals with tails had to constantly be on guard, or the giants would place a giant toe on the tip of a tail, and giggle when the poor animal, unknowing, tried to walk away. Every once in awhile a giant would even -- accidentally-on-purpose -- step on the train of the queen's dress. If the truth be known, at times it was hard to tell who really ruled the kingdom.
There were many small kingdoms along the long border of the queen's fortress. (So you see, the queen was wrong in thinking that her kingdom stretched as far as the eye could see. The queen, sadly, was more than a little near-sighted.) The queen worried about the two kingdoms that she could see growing closer and closer to the outskirts of her domain. The queen took to running up to her tower every morning, first thing, to see if they had advanced in the night. Every morning, to her horror, the two kingdoms would be a little nearer.
One morning there was only one kingdom. The queen rubbed her eyes and looked again. Sure enough, one of the two kingdoms had disappeared. Where had it gone? Could they have combined forces? The queen couldn't conceive of that. More likely, one kingdom had devoured the other. She focused her fear filled gaze on the remaining dominion, but clamped her jaws together, her lips meeting in a grim line. (The queen thought she looked regal and fierce, but the effect was spoiled by the chocolate around the edges of her mouth. The queen had breakfasted on three good-sized bars of chocolate.)
She could see the approaching kingdom now with ease, it was so close. What a strange domain it was: no boundaries, walls, fences, no moats or even cannons. Really, why need she be concerned with such a helpless lot? Why give them a second thought? Still, there was the fact of the missing second kingdom . . . How could that king live out in the open like that? She shuddered--how barbaric, what a bare sort-of scratched out existence.
The queen was fascinated by the strange kingdom. She would sit for hours in her tower room, elbows propped up on the thick open sill of the window, and stare at the steadily advancing, unarmed dominion.
One morning, after rushing up to the tower room still in her nightgown, she was shocked to see the kingdom right smack across from her window just on the other side of the moat.
"I have guns!" she yelled at the king in a threatening, but slightly shaky voice.
He nodded amiably from his terrace, unfolded a chair, and settled in the sun.
"Don't you care?!" shrieked the queen, terrified by such tactics.
"Yes," admitted the king, sadly. "I do care."
The queen grew a little less fearful as she watched him reading his newspaper, sitting so calmly in the sun. An hour went by with only the intermittent crackling sound of pages being folded and turned, but still she stared.
"What are you up to?" she shouted suddenly, her voice laden with suspicion.
He looked up from his paper and squinted in the sun at her. "Pardon me?" he asked politely, and, it must be said, a trifle absently.
"What's your game?" she demanded rudely.
"I never play games with people who point guns in my face," the king answered firmly, nodding toward the row of cannons embedded in the wall just below the queen's window. "If you want to play a game, you'll have to come over here."
"You've missed the intent of my question!" screamed the queen in fury. Games indeed! She flounced off in rage, her nightgown flapping behind her as she ran down the tower room stairs.
It took three caramel apples of her favourite tree to calm her, but soon she was enjoying the sunshine in her back garden, munching on buttered popcorn, while one of her favourite Books entertained her with a soothing fairy story.
But she could not completely push from her mind the king who waited just outside her walls. What did he want from her? Probably to devour her fortress, just as he had the other small kingdom she had watched advancing, step by step. The queen's curiosity with the open, unarmed kingdom grew as did her absorption with this odd king who seemed to spend his days watering roses instead of digging moats. Mornings still found her rushing up to the tower room to peer at her neighbour, but, if he had the audacity to be out on his terrace, she would slink away. Then, the queen, cleverly disguised as a tree, would peek at the king over the wall. She plotted about how she would take over his kingdom and held many war councils with her subjects long into the night. Her sleepy subjects grew quite tired of the whole thing, and many secretly admired the roses of the king, the fragrance wafting into the battle room with the early dew. The queen's kingdom began crumbling a bit here and there--largely because the queen did nothing all day but stare at the king. Fury and fascination raged in her heart.
~ ~ ~
kingdoms
I worship you from afar.
The border lies between us:
well-ordered,
well-manned,
and I circumspectly skirt
the guns that I have raised,
in my
undying,
encircling
of you.~ ~ ~
Maybe the King knew that the queen's heart was divided between fury and fascination. Maybe he knew that she was so preoccupied with him that she spent most of her day sitting on a branch with her tree disguise on, peeping at him across her crocodile filled moat. Maybe the king actually saw beyond the tree disguise to the queen herself: saw beneath the headpiece of branches and leaves, saw through the mud splotches on her face and the apple held cleverly between her teeth. Because, one night he surprised her.
The queen was walking to her bedroom after another long, particularly frustrating, meeting with her war council. Something had to be done: half the council kept nodding off, the other half stared dreamily out the windows, sniffing the scent of roses wafting in on them. She planned to nap for an hour or two, then, just maybe, launch a few cannon balls at the king. Make him take a little notice of her ferocity. The queen scowled and bared her teeth at the imaginary enemy. She looked anything but appealing that evening. She hadn't washed all the tree disguise soil from her face, and, in the excitement of the war council, had forgotten it was there and had smeared it about. Her hair was knotted and twisted into tufts with curled leaves and little twigs that had broken off her headpiece. And, she had popcorn stuck in her teeth from dinner. Scowling ferociously, and flailing her arms as she made an imaginary attack on the king, she stepped into her private sitting room, and stopped dead.
There was the king. Looking nonchalant and at ease, seated at her very own chess table with all the pieces on the board. He had a mug of cider--her mug!--her cider!--beside him.
"Well, it's about time," he greeted her. "How about a game?"
The queen snatched up a lamp and held it high as if she were going to hurl it at him.
"How'd you get in here?!" She tried to shriek out, in a forceful manner, instead out of her mouth came a pitiful squeak.
"I think we have enough light," the king said calmly, glancing up at her. "Do you want me to start? I am the guest." He moved his knight out in front of his pawns.
Now the queen prized her chess set and often wished that she had someone to play with. None of her subjects had any interest in chess. She had tried to play the game alone, alternating turns being herself and the opponent. Needless to say, the queen always won. Her eyes narrowed craftily as he moved the knight out. "What a silly thing to do, she thought. "I'll just teach him a lesson and send him on his way. Two can play at this game!" She pretended to adjust the lighting on the lamp she still held in her hands and then placed it back on the dusty end table. Then she pulled up a chair to the chessboard.
The king won. The queen simply was not prepared to play with a real opponent. She raged and raced about yanking on her hair for some time, then she demanded he play again. And so began a long series of chess games. Two or three times a week the king would secretly enter the kingdom, they would play a game, the king would win, the queen would rant, and then they would play again. The king always won as the queen would get too excited and make wildly impulsive moves. She was learning, however, and each time she played a little better, and thought things through a little more coolly, for a little longer in the game. The king would disappear quietly just before sunrise--usually during one of the queen's explosive outburts. Not one of her subjects saw him coming or going; the queen told no one of his visits.
The war councils stopped, to the relief of her sleep deprived subjects. The spying continued, however. But the queen grew tired of disguising herself, and instead had two little holes bored into the wall so that she could sit comfortably on a garden chair and peer at the king.
So passed many days: the queen seated at her garden table, surrounded by subjects, listening to Book after Book, eating popcorn and tuna-melt sandwiches, drinking lemonade, and taking long looks through the wall at the king. The giants would sometimes show up, and they would boast about what they would do to the puny little king if he ever tried to enter the kingdom. The queen would remain silent.
One night, well into a chess game, the queen abruptly asked the king how it was he entered her kingdom.
He looked surprised at her question. "Through the open door in the wall, of course. I never go where I'm not wanted. Oh, 'Check'," he added, moving his bishop.
The queen looked sly. "Which door in the wall in particular," she asked, knowing full well that there were no doors in her walls. She moved her queen and sliced off the bishop's access.
"Check Mate," he replied, displacing her king with a rook. He glanced up as she continued to sit there. "Aren't you going to go crazy?" he politely asked.
"I don't think so," the queen replied, a little puzzled at her own state of calm. "Which door in the wall did you say you came through?"
"I didn't say," the king replied. "Any number of them--it's all one and the same to me. An open door is an open door, isn't it? Do you want another game?"
"No. Yes. I don't know," the queen answered.
"Are you going to take over my kingdom or not?" she blurted out.
"Only if you want me to," the king said, stretching and yawning.
"What's that supposed to mean!" the queen shrieked.
In sudden fury, she leapt up, knocking over the chess table. A knight lay beheaded on the marble floor, with other pieces shattered and scattered around it. The queen gave a sob of dismay and turned to the king, but he had already disappeared. She grabbed up her skirts and ran down the hall and down the stairs, out into the courtyard, hoping to see this door he spoke of. But there was no sign that he had ever been there. She walked trembling to the garden table and tried to see him through the two little peep holes, but it was too dark. The only sound she heard was the swish of her skirts on the bricks of the courtyard, and the slick, slimy plop as a crocodile slid from the muddy bank into the oily moat.
For the first time in her life, the queen cried real tears, salty drops cascading down her face and through her fingers.
~ ~ ~
salt-savor
Primordial soup,
you wet my appetite for rushing upswells,
white-water deep draughts of
boundless marine.Flood my lily pond with wild salt;
for crystal is sterile,
but your jade teems with
slick-flashing life.I need a salt-savor thirst
to drink deeply until I gush
healing molten mineral.I hear your roaring thunder-waves--
deep-tap my silted spring,
and drench me
with salt-savor.~ ~ ~
The queen did not believe she would ever see the king again. She crept away to bed heartily ashamed of herself, of her guns, her tantrums, her pathetic brick walls.
But, in the morning, it was a different story. In the morning, her shame turned to anger. She was embarrassed by her weakness in the night, and ashamed of the tears. When she saw the overturned chess table, the chess pieces lying scattered on the floor, the poor broken night, she pushed back her remorse and grew indignant. "Who does he think he is?!" she ranted. "To sneak in here and wreck my things! Oh, he thinks he's so sly, but I've found him out!"
The queen ran throughout the castle, rousing her subjects and marshaling the giants. In a frenzy, she went round and round, supervising the tightening of the wall, urging the giants to build it taller, thicker. She even puttied up the little peep holes above her garden chair.
"Just see if he ever gets in here again," she gloated.
She hoisted up her soil caked skirts and tramped up the stairs into the tower room. Her hair whirled in all directions, and her face and arms were scratched and puffy from fighting through the thorny vines that now hugged the walls of the kingdom.
Leaning out the window, she yelled, "Well, that's that! The wall's tight now!"
"So it seems," the king said sadly. "I see your guns have been fortified, too."
"That's right!" she said triumphantly. But what was wrong? Why was she trembling?
"Look," she bellowed, trying to work herself back up into a rage. "Why'd you do it? How come you came sneaking in here?"
"I told you," the king answered. "I don't go anyplace I'm not wanted." He rubbed his eyes and then paused and looked penetratingly at the queen. "I love you, you know. That's why I'll never--"
But the queen was gone, shaking with fear. Barely able to put one foot in front of the other, she crept into her bed and pulled the covers up over her head.
The days went by. The giants had done their work well and were feeling the importance of themselves. The wall stood tall, thickly solid. The moat stunk in the heat, but the crocodiles loved it and basked in the cracked muck on the banks, never blinking their beady eyes. Their satisfied grunts and snapping jaws could be heard through the wall, although the queen had never so much as glanced through the tower room window after the king told her he loved her.
"He only wants my kingdom," she said to herself, and ate up all the orange popsicles that had appeared on the tree that morning. "It's my Treat Tree and he wants it." She thought of nothing else. When she lay by the little lemonade well in her garden, she thought, "he wants my well." While she listened to her books, she thought, "he wants my Books." As the animals danced around her to amuse her, she thought, "he wants my animals." Watching the giants patrolling the now doubly thick wall, she thought, "he wants my giants." With every passing day, the wall grew in size, and, with ever new layer of brick, the area of the kingdom shrunk by as much, but the queen did not seem to notice this, although the Books did, and winked their goggle eyes worriedly at each other. The day came when the walls grew so tall that they seemed to shroud the kingdom in their shadow, and the trees and plants began to suffer from lack of sunlight.
Finally, the queen could stand it no longer. She wanted sunlight; she wanted wind. She wanted to know if the king was still out there or if he had packed up and moved his kingdom. She went out to the giants and ordered them to make a small peep hole in the wall. To her horror, they refused.
"Who is queen," she spoke in deadly tones, her face as white as salt.
"Ooh, hoo, hoo," the giants yelled stupidly. "You told us to grow the wall, and now it's our wall, by golly. We've heard what that king will do to us if he gets in here! No way, queenie! We ain't going to be sausage meat!"
And they actually pushed the queen away when she tried to climb a tree to peer over the wall as she used to do in her tree disguise. She broke away from their clumsy fingers, tearing her dress out from under their shoes, and headed for the tower room. She ran up the stairs, stumbling in her haste, and dashed into the room. To her horror, the window had been boarded up. She had forgotten she had given that order.
Through the cracks in the boarded up window, she yelled, "So you love me, do you?"
And through the cracks she heard the echo of his voice, "I don't go where I'm not wanted--yes, I love you."
"I can't let you in!" she shrieked. "You don't understand--it's not that I won't, I can't! The giants have taken over!"
"Hmmm. Then it's quite clear you're a prisoner . . ."
"It's the giants!"
"It's that blasted wall you've built," the king answered dryly. "Still, the rules are a bit different for prisoners . . ."
"You have to rescue me! I can't get out; I can't break the tiniest hole in the wall!"
"Look--this is not going to be easy," he warned her. "You're abdicating, you know."
"I don't care! Get me out of here!" she screeched back. She heard what sounded like thunder in the distance, and the floor beneath her began to vibrate as the giants began to climb the stairs to the tower room. "Hurry!"
And then, a deep quiet. Silence. Nothing. Then, suddenly, it felt as though she roared up through a thickly black tunnel and, just as abruptly, stopped dead, hanging in space. Darkness, nothingness, fear, all alone, all alone. All alone. Had he failed her? This, this is love?! she wanted to scream, but there was no voice to make a sound and no ears to hear it with anyway.
~ ~ ~
So you love me, do you?
So you love me, do you?
Then why the
shorn-heart,
shot-through heart,
no-heart,
loneliness?The cold nails you keep yanking
shriek teeth edged in my ear,
my stiffened spine and wild hands
fly up in ice-bone fear--
Will I hurtle through the hell-black holes
you've uncovered,
while tearing up the floorboards
of my soul?~ ~ ~
She blinked and found herself standing on a moonlit plain. Soft grass curled beneath her bare feet and her hair flowed around her, strangely free. She filled her lungs again and again with the sweet night breeze; a clean, wild wind stopped by nothing.
"You have no crown anymore," a low voice behind her said, as she touched her hand to her head, glorying in the weightless float of her hair. "Here, you are only a princess, just as I am only a prince."
"I've never felt so tall," she replied. "Or free." She turned easily, unhampered by her old royal robes with their heavy skirts and crinolines, and looked at the prince. "Thank you," is all she said, but she looked deeply into his eyes.
"Where are we?" the princess finally asked.
"Outside your kingdom," he replied.
She glanced around, startled. "But what happened to the walls? Where is my fortress? Are we so far away that we can't see it?"
"Look down, and slightly to your left," the prince said, a sudden smile briefly quirking his lips.
Here eyes dropped to where he was pointing and she stared, puzzled. "All I see is an old brick lying there . . . wait a moment . . . beside the brick thing . . ." With sudden comprehension she exclaimed, "That! That was my kingdom?! For that little mud hole I fought and scrapped and acted like an idiot?!"
The prince made no reply. But a smile quirked his lips again.
The princess laughed. She stretched herself tall, her arms to the tips of her fingers, her legs to the tips of her toes. "I think I'm going to like being a princess," she said, smiling into the wind.
~ ~ ~
love song
It's night.
The world sings softly now.
The red-gold gaze has shut,
and stretching greens slow dance soft in sleep.
Only white and silver watch,
and ring through the velvet like flutes,
ice-clean true.Your love comes often as the stillness,
holding me a quiet captive,
circling me in steel-soft arms.
You probe heart-deep
and layer me thick
from the inside out.I love your night song and I'm learning how
to hum it gently,
from the marrow of my bones.
Even through the
green-glaring,
red-staring,
horn-blaring,
day.
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