Dry Dusky Flowers

 

                                               Dry Dusky Flowers

How do find the one who moves through life

    drawing green from the grass,

blue from the sky, 

water from the river and the wind from the heavens?

Where is the one I search for with a child's reaching hand?

    One that can be part of my breath

and who holds my heartbeat and the blink of my eyes

  in one cool hand. 

This one who holds my drifting memories

   that keep running away from my mind--

saves them in a little cabinet that smells of tea leaves.

My heart searches the empty spaces where there is dusky dried flowers

  and bell jars holding stilled butterflies and small bird's eggs. 

All around the little things I collect--bottle caps, rocks, fossils

  and bottles with strange design--there is an air of stillness.

There is a quiet in these things that calms me. 

Some days I wake gasping from a dream I cannot remember,

  my eyes darting to corners of my room

as though there will be something there

which will return that stillness to my quick breaths. 

Fear will leave me like a 5 O'clock train,

  one that will be returning to my mind--'

it's point of origin--at a time way too early for my liking. 

Love is a dance underwater.

   It's bittersweet as a shadow of a smile--

   one that dives back under at the gaze of your eyes. 

This one will find me some foggy morning

  when the trees disappear into the gray mist. 

Heather Lake

1/13/2022

Snow--blindness

 

                                       

    I was 8 years old and living in North Dakota with mom and dad. I loved North Dakota. I loved the big buttes and wide expanses. I liked the cold mornings and I loved the winter snows. They were deep sometimes and lasted for weeks. I would tunnel through the drifts to my friend’s houses. We were like little snow elves. I still remember one funny memory when I went out one morning and it smelled like raw bacon. That sounds gross but it was more perplexing and interesting to me.

 

    But that is not this story. Here is the story.

 

   One Chrstmas Eve mommy and I were waiting to decorate the tree. We had all the ornaments laid out and waiting for daddy to come home. It was a blizzard that night and blizzards in North Dakota were no joke. It could become a whiteout and make you snow-blind.

 

     Whiteouts were very dangerous. I knew that you do NOT leave the house when there is a whiteout. All you could see is blowing flakes and could easily get lost out there and freeze to death. There were signs on the road warning travelers that if they had car trouble to stay in their car during a winter storm. Bundle up in blankets, tape up the windows and hunker down until the day was clear and you could find a phone.

      There were things that far northerners did that the people in the middle west or south are not as familiar. Like changing your regular tires for snow tires or putting chains on them to keep your car from slipping since the snow could get so deep. 

   You always traveled with some food, water, blankets and small heaters in the back of your car as well as a big bag of kitty litter to help you out of a real big drift (and we did get some truly spectacular amounts of snow in the winter) and this all was because in the winter here a broken down car was not an inconvenience. A broken down car on a stormy night in December could mean death. This was way before cell phones. You would not have a way to call people unless you could walk to a payphone or house nearby.

     That is why-here on this very, very snowy and blustery night- I was so concerned when daddy was not coming home. I looked out the window, small hands on the sill, watching for the lights of the car to turn into the driveway. Mommy was worried looking and was making calls to daddy’s friends but none of them were home and their wives did not know where they were either.

     The snow kept falling. Mommy made us hot chocolate and we watched some TV and played some cards. I tried to put the scary thoughts out of my head of daddy out in the whiteness. But it got late and I was little and I got sleepy. So as worried as I was mommy tucked me into my bed and kissed my forehead and said “Daddy is okay. He is a lifelong northerner. He knows what to do and not to do. Maybe he is visiting a friend. Go to bed so Santa can come.”

      It took me awhile to go to sleep. Just before I was drifting off I heard a door open and close and the stamping of snowy boots on the floor. I heard mommy raising her voice and daddy muttering something in the garbly voice he sometimes got after going out with his friends. There was some yelling and occassional “shhh she is asleep”.

   I felt okay now. Daddy was home. He was safe. He was not out there in freezing blindness, walking over the snow drifts getting sleepy and deciding to take a nap on the side of the road (just for a little bit, so tired) and then never get up again.

 

   Daddy was home. Santa was coming. I fell deep and dark down the rabbit hole of my dreams. Goodnight Christmas Eve. Goodnight. 

The Winds of Chance

The Winds Of Chance

The roads I have travelled in my life

have been winding,

   dipping through darkness and light.

From great depths of despair

  to heights that were dizzying

I lived and I learned and I found love and care.

I found the best way to turn your life around

is help someone else get their feet on the ground. 

Through friends met, gained and lost,

   I remember life is a river

and I'm just the flotsam that drifts through the currents.

  I can't control it and I don't want to. 

I put my life in the hands of forces

  beyond my human ken.

 

 I cannot control things.

I can dot every i and cross every T but 

plans can go up in flames

and many times they do.

So I make new tactics each time

and I do not give up.

Life is a wild ride 

and I drink from it's cup. 

I know this one thing:

the more you give out the more you get back. 

Energy expended becomes energy revived. 

When things are dark around you

grab for someone else's hand

and you go forward together

into the deep and into the light

and remind each other

Never give up the fight. 

Heather Lake

                                                      Dreams and Vines

By Heather Lake

 

 

Little light falls on my dreams.

   Dark and beautiful they grow vines-

through my synapses jumping one to the other-

  tiny trapeze artists moving

across the chasms of thought.

 

I pour myself a coffee-

  my fifth one today.

I try to read but my eyes hurt

  and I lower the book-

putting it with a pile of books

   I want to read.

But I am distracted by life-

 lulled by boredom and my bed-

  and seem to never get to them.

 

I put on some music.

  Opening my laptop-

hoping to create something that will be

  as darkly beautiful as those dreams are.

The words have trouble coming today and

  I feel frustrated at the blank page.

All I want to do is get all this out and put it here-

  on the blankness

and off the balancing wire

in my troubled mind.

 

Another day I have not eaten enough-

  nor drank enough water.

I have had too much caffeine

  and not enough sleep.

No wonder why I feel shaky-

  tired and worn like an old shoe.

 

I haven’t left the house in three days.

  I am climbing like a monkey up these walls and

in my head-bells of panic are tolling.

 I have to get out so I do what I love.

  Getting on my bike I set some good music on my speaker-

roar through paths in the park as fast as I can-

  laying out those frustrations under my tires.

Here on my bike I feel free, my anger shearing

  off my skin from the speed and I am suddenly

untroubled by anything.

All my world right now is bike and music-

  and smooth dark bike paths.

The sun on my shoulders and arms

  feels like a silky kiss.

 

I go home renewed and the walls seem wider-

  the air cleaner, the silence welcome.

I feel the sigh of happiness come up from my toes-

  across my stomach and settling in the deep red

highways of my heart.

 

I do what I can to cope-

  and forgive myself when I fall into sadness.

This is hard. What I do to manage is okay.

  Just remember to sleep. To eat. To get enough water-

even on days I don’t want to do any of it.

  

I believe in coming out the other side again.

  Emily Dickinson said

 “Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul-

And sings the tune without the words-

 And never stops-at all.”

 

Or, my favorite,

                   “Faith is the little bird that sings when the dawn is still dark”

 

                Sing. The dawn is still dark but the sun is coming.

   

 

Portland, smoke and fire

    by Heather Rose

The music, disjointed,nobody can hear but me.

It surrounds the images I see

of arms raised, fists tight, defiant

in the face of tear gas, rubber bullets

and batons.

They strike at the core of me,

The part of my heart that yearns for

that strength and freedom.

Fist raised, smoke pours.

There is a  thunderous round of shouts.

But here they stand

creating life from hate.

Justice from oppression.

They move as one.

Violins play fast all around the darkness,

wanting that those that were standing there

would see that there is so much they can do

 to stop what is happening.

Fists are raised, smoke pours out.

Faceless ones hit and shout.

My heart cries inside

with a wildness beating

and all I want to do is be there.

I want to raise my fist, expand my arms

 reaching high into that darkness

 tearing out it’s heart in my hands.

My dreams are full of shouting and mirrors of hate.

My mind is adrift with anger and I need to stand

with those I see.

Mind dancing, soul sifting through all the fear

to find the core that brings me here.

I may not be there but I am there.

I am always there.

Dancing here alone.

Seeing those I want to be with.

Those I want to protect.

The ones that I look up to

who relish the wreck and rebuild

of the lives they lived before.

The violin beats out a flurry of strings

While they dance, fists raised, while they dance.

I have to curb my hatred have to remember who I am.

There is firmness in love

There is strength in caring

There will always be those

who hate.

Who snarl in the mighty darkness.

Who fill you with fear and hatred and need to push down..

because they are hurting those who you love.

And the violin keeps playing on

Van Gogh, portrait of an artist,

Surrounded with sunflowers

The mind of an artist

The mind of an artist can always conquer

the mind of someone who is closed

They care not for each other or anybody else.

They lie, their mouths flowing with honey and crocodiles that bite.

That kill.

They grab hold and stay there over an over and over

I understand that the smoke and the fists raised are the way to go.

The way to be.

I stand.

I stand.

I stand.

Do not forget me.

Do not forget me.

Do not forget me.

I am there.

I am there

I am there.

One of my typical walks to the store

A walk from my house to the store

The curtain blows in an early spring breeze---

cats curled in front wanting sunshine.

The winter was so mild but still so long

and the body yearned to walk without a coat.

Deer pause in mid-graze as I pass the yard

of the apartments next door.

Deer are common as stray cats here

and though they are sweet

they garner little real attention

from those in this part of town.

We took their feeding and breeding grounds

so now we share our streets, yards

and gardens with them.

Sometimes i give them apples.

It is just fine with most.

Little puddles fill holes in the sidewalk.

Stepping over to keep my shoes dry,

I know soon I will miss one puddle,

 the chilly water wetting my socks anyway.

A little water never hurt anyone. 

I come to the light between the McDonalds and the liquor store,

pausing at the walk signal a bit timid here.

Nobody ever stops at this light.

I take my life in my hands every crossing.

Still yet-- I have to get there somehow.

I look left, right, watch the little man on the light blaze up bright.

Then, saying a little prayer, scoot quickly across--

a little thrill of victory when my feet touch the sidewalk.

I adjust my headphones,

Music playing or perhaps a podcast,

trickling in to my waiting ears.

I never go anywhere without my private sounds.

I love my carefully constructed playlists

or my podcasts--usually stories read by voice actors. 

Sometimes by perky podcasters---their voices are soothing to me. 

I walk quickly. I have always walked quickly.

Not much for strolling I like to make progress

no matter the reason--business or pleasure--

 I like my feet to march ahead,

confident in their pace and placing upon the sidewalk.

I go by the Sunoco where the little Indian man

always greets me with a friendly

“How are you ma'am?” in his lilting voice

while music plays overhead.

It is all unknown language and lovely sounds.

As I walk to my left I spy the great, messy expanse of construction equipment,

dirt and straw that is the new Switchyard Park,

where they had a grand opening a few months ago--tempting us--

then closed it back up.

I want to cross the dirt anyway

but  i will be patient.

I am excited about the ease of access

this affords me--a foot and bike commuter--

To the safety and ease of the B-line.

I take the side street to separate

from the loud, busy noise of walnut street.

There are little houses, old trailers and the gun shop here.

I rarely see any people.

The sidewalk is a bit rough so i take the little road instead.

I progress by the building that used to be the cigarette store

for a long time with a discount TV shop next door.

I can never keep up with the changing tides of business

in this part of the street.

They come and go like party guests.

Some overstay their welcome but all go eventually.

Turning left and there is the large yard of city buses

and the bus station where tired drivers go to have more coffee,

 probably griping about this or that rider--- 

“Can you believe that guy? Some people. Pass the creamer.”

Now before me is the great bridge of the B-line Trail.

The whole trail is a masterpiece of urban artistic expression.

I remember when they were building that

(big messy construction like switchyard now)

When they finally finished I was so excited,

I took out my bike and rode it purposely one end to the other and back,

so I could see all of it.  

Now the junkyard where cars sit neglected,

 They patiently wait to be wanted and needed--

given a makeover--so they are useful again.

I used to come here to get bits and pieces

for my old cars.

Inside is littered with old parts---

headlights, batteries, other parts

that a mechanic would recognize but I have no idea.

There is an interesting man with a long beard

and many stories to tell I am sure.

It seems junkyards specialize in this type of person.

The day is getting a bit long in the tooth.

It is time to get my shopping done and return home.

Entering the store and turning up the sound on my headphones,

I go to get what I need. 

Tiny hands, Tiny Hearts

Tiny hands, tiny eyes, tiny hearts

June 24, 2019

Drying tears with the dripping trees outside

I think of small hands holding each other

While voices cry out for love and family.

Tiny eyes look out at chain links,

Cold floors their only beds

And hearts that ache for holding,

For the warm arms of their families.

Do they know they are loved at all?

Do they know that they matter?

Do they feel like they are nothing,

To be thrown around like toys

In a big political game that is

So much larger than them.

They know nothing of borders.

One bit of earth is like another

But there is that invisible line

That when they cross it

The arms they are held in,

The hands they hold,

Are taken from them

And then what awaits them

 

Uncaring hands and cold chain link cages.

Not enough food to eat,

Not enough water to drink,

Not enough clothes to wear

And a mylar blanket is the only bit

Of warmth they feel.

Tiny hands.

Tiny eyes.

Tiny hearts.

They close up like small flowers,

Like a bird with head tucked under its wings.

The fear so big it overwhelms them.

The tears drying on their shirts

As new tears take their place.

Do they know anyone cares at all?

Heather Rose