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
Allouette 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--
--all rights reserved--