Once in a Blue Moon

Tonight is the night before Halloween, the night before the Hunter's Blue Moon. Tonight Mars is the gem sitting above the moon, the wet moon, the ice moon, the moon that will bring us beauty and, perhaps, grace in this year of ugliness and worry. I'm posting this old poem of mine, because today has felt like a day to tussle with sadness and worry.

Am I blue                   

    “Ain't these tears in my eyes tellin' you?”~~Harry Akst & Grant Clarke

Blue is absent from the throat of night
saddened by the dirge the owl sings
as she sits a solitary beacon in the oak.
 
Here she lulls Blue to sleep at dusk
allows her tongue to draw Blue
into a chamber of darkness.
 
The moon rushes in, grapples light
into shadow, horns color away.
Carried in the wind Coyote’s solo voice
 
soothes Blue; she rests at the edge
the pond, beds down with muskrat
as frogs begin their hymns and usher
 
in sleep. Sleep finds the sieves of logic,
allows Blue to rumble around on
the flipside of sorrow. Dreams burst into
 
song whenever sadness is encountered,
breathes life into suicidal thoughts,

clears sky of cloud and storm
 
the three-hour worry of the child
not home. Here lovers never split,
having never met, wars are never begun
 
and, so, none need an end. And in the most
fantastic part of dream, where loneliness
learns of alone, Blue knows she is dreaming.
 
In the deepest part of the dark she feels exhaustion
seeping along her spine. She longs to stay asleep
and in this fog, but knows, oh she knows,
Grief has already been born.

Feels like a poem day

 Meander 

 
There are weirs and cairns and swale; slough,
marsh, and tule; sinuosity and the alluvial fan.
Language that the biologists and technical planners
roll off their tongues, the poetry of restoration and design.
 
Tundra swans have forgiven intrusion, returned
to the pewter river. They ruffle their wings once and glide
toward the bend. The engineer is discussing the level
of grade needed to ease the cut, what debris
can be used as filler. They’ve missed the otter that has slipped
back into the water, his slick head an errant bubble,
and the coyote pup crossing the levee
a frog dangling from its happy mouth.

~~M.E. Hope

Publisher:  Verseweavers: The Oregon Poetry Association Anthology of Prize-winning Poems, Number 16, 2011

Bangs and flashes

To end 2015 we were in Bratislava, Slovakia. The city is ultra charming. I had a friend back in Belgium whose fiancé was from the city and he had spent a great deal of time there and recommended places and things. My research had told me we wanted to try Bryndzové halušky (dumplings with sheep's cheese) and he gave me the name of a good restaurant. From our hotel the restaurant was across the street; because it snowed periodically (and was just “damn cold” the rest of the time) a meal that close was very welcome.

New Year’s Eve we ate well and headed into the night for fireworks. It was cold (Jerry kept telling me) and windy. Fireworks were over Bratislava Castle and the Danube. Crowds gathered along the river and over the “UFO Bridge”.  We were down from the main throng because we’ve been world travelers in many places before, and after, terrorist attacks so we avoid the bigger crowds. We won’t not go, but we are also very paranoid – we like to say realistic and cautious. It was a good night, great people watching and then a cold hike back to the hotel. 

January 1^st, 2016 was (more) cold and most things closed in the city. We ventured out for air (“Too cold!” said the man) and then huddled in the room nibbling snacks, reading and watching BBC shows. January 2^nd, I went down to get our coffee and breakfast rather than eat in the dining room. I smiled as I got in the elevator because every day the rug was changed to tell you the day of the week in six languages. As I was returning with my tray, ready to imprint Saturday in my mind in Slovenian ("Sobota, Sobota"), I noticed a TV news program in the lobby with men wearing cowboy hats and carrying guns. Letters underneath said something about somewhere in Oregon. Great, I thought, just what we need at the beginning of the year more gun nuts in the West. Back in the room over coffee and fruit, bread and jam, I read about the Malheur Refuge Siege. Another stellar moment, America. Thanks.

I thought about this because of 1A on NPR today. The subject was the election and militias. I want to understand the phenomenon but when I hear the militia argument, I usually only hear the noise of “right to own guns”, which without nuance or overthinking means "no rights outside my own"; The notion that if I’m not happy force is the answer. Damn your rights, opinion or voice. So this is what it comes down to right before the election. Quarantine to stay safe from the virus and the plan to lay low after November 3^rd to stay safe from the crazy. Once again, thanks, America.

And the plus side is I get to remember this: 

Hang on

It's a cold rainy day here. Only the raindrops and the birds were busy. This Carolina Chickadee was after the last sunflower seeds. Ursula and I enjoyed the show.

Just naming the reds was fun too.

One week out from the election. Decency, decency, decency. Please.

 

Read the signs

Add punctuation as needed. 

Red warnings

Leaves land like birds.

Cardinals buffeted by wind flutter about,

the same hue; the yard alive in reds and golds.

The cardinals and the leaves are competing for the best scarlet and burnt orange and tawny brown. Behind the house the maple is nearly full on red and the cardinals just disappear as they fly in. The colors are so similar I can imagine whole branches of birds trying to lift the tree and sneak off with it. Cardinals seem like pranksters what with their little pointed caps and orange beaks; they’d enjoy making off with a tree or two.

Imagine trees up and disappearing and the ensuing search. We could make it a game: Find the tree! Once the leaves have gone, you’d need to know your bark, how the branches grow and bend, the way the sun lands late in the afternoon. It could be a neighborhood competition, teams would form, the O’Fallon Tree Sprites and the Shiloh Silver Birches. The South Cul-de-Sac against State Street. Everyone rushing to reclaim their trees. The birds will sing and whistle, mocking us, they’d remove trees again and again. But we’d get better over time. We’d use maps and drones and apps until we found each tree and got it back safely to its rightful place.

Then with our new found skills we’d be ready to help reunite 545 children with their missing parents. Once again naming ourselves and forming teams The Complicit, the Shameful American, Blind to the Truth and the Unforgiven. Are birds embarrassed for us or are the colors mirroring anger?

 

Keep the focus

Last night we watched the first 44 minutes of the debate, the last debate between 45 and Joe Biden.

It was quieter than the first. Though it wasn't pretty or news worthy. If the Cheeto could tell the truth that may have made the news or changed a mind. And if you are still undecided and if you somehow find your way to this sliver of the Internet, Fuck you. 

On another note, on another channel, two of the worst teams in the NFL were playing but we were able to witness Giants quarterback, Daniel Jones, come to so close to a really remarkable running touchdown. One which they replayed and replayed, his teammates laughed, it was a GIF before the game was over and for some reason it gave me endless delight. Jerry has no idea why, but he laughed heartily too. He was so close, C'mon, buddy! If it was 2016 we could call this run the Clinton-Kaine. As it is, it is not cautionary political metaphor or great football. Don't look back, just run. Pick your feet up and run. We need a good finish. We need the win.