This is the third in a series of poems entitled Pumas. If you have not yet read the first two, I suggest you scroll down and read those first.
I want
to walk with you
in my dreams
scream your screams
feel your blood
rushing
your heart beat
mine
soft golden fur
wound in my hair
your amber eyes
glowing
through my brown
death defying
together walking
moonlit
wild
free
I have previously mentioned that I am taking a poetry class with Lorraine Mejia-Green through the Story Circle Network. To date we have read poetry by Mary Oliver, Lucille Clifton, Naomi Shihab Nye, and Joy Harjo. Clifton has written a very interesting series of poems called Foxes. Joy Harjo’s most famous poem is about horses. My obsession seems to be pumas even though I do love horses.
Puma I
My neighbor walked out her door,
found a puma lying on the lawn.
She arose and ambled off.
At night when I open my gate
I wonder if puma lurks
behind the cedar tree.
My daughter dreams puma dreams:
A puma chases her up a tree
There are no trees here big enough to climb.
A Zuni puma fetish guards my sleep.
I run with puma
Night wild
Free.
I scream and howl
Moonstruck
Bloodborn.
I hike the canyon
Stroll around my house
Look for puma tracks.
I see none.
I would rather die by puma
than in a car wreck.
Puma II
I watch for eyes, blue changing to amber and back.
I put my palm, fingers stretched to measure, into the footprint.
Too small, bobcat.
No puma.
My thin body squeezes between the rocks,
climbing quietly down the cliff.
Watching, listening, searching.
No puma.
Pale amber rushes across my vision line.
My heart quakes.
I watch; I wait.
It is Isabella, a golden whir chasing rabbits.
No puma.
At sunrise, I walk the rim.
watching.
At sunset, I walk the rim,
waiting.
At night, I walk the rim,
dreaming.
No puma; not yet.
The day I met Tom my toenails were hot pink.
A big mistake!
He called me the lady with the hot pink toenails.
I am not a hot pink person.
They should have been red or orange.
I am an orange person
mixed with lots of red.
It took me two weeks of looking
at those hot pink toenails
to paint them red.
Am I happier now?
Not really
but I know
it is the real me,
my own toes when I look down.
When she painted them pink
the woman said,
“Old ladies want red toenails.”
Will I be able to look at my red toenails
even though I like them and
not think “old lady”?
Will I have to find a new color?
Probably.
Maybe orange marmelade or cinnamon spice or burnt sienna.
These toenails are painted Cajun Shrimp.
I am daughter
of moonlight over desert landscapes
of emptiness and endless expanses.
Too many trees stifle my soul,
enclose
engulf
suffocate
Let me see long,
watch the far horizon,
listen to the wind.
I am daughter
of puma, of jaguar,
stealing through black night
under endless stars.
Alone
wild
free.
Let me wander distances
watchful, timeless.
I am daughter
of the ancients
wise
mysterious
windblown
stark
all knowing.
Let me walk into the sunset
talk with gods.
I am daughter of the universe.
Why
and
What
draws me
to witches
herbal secrets
moonlight
ancient ruins
archaic codes.
It is the goddess blood I carry,
remembrance of a past
when women ruled
when peace reigned
and
All were healed.
Women: wondrous, wild,
daughters of the moon,
mysterious, magnificent, molten,
fierce secret keepers,
possessors of the universal key.
Lahib Jaddo painted this; it hangs in my house. This poem was inspired by the poet, Lucille Clifton, who is the featured poet this week in my poetry class.
Depression, sad days, melancholy.
Gone!!
At 26, I said, “To hell with this!
You control your life; live it!!
I tried forbidden liaisons, trained horses,
Went around the world, a cobra wrapped around my neck,
Walked the Shalimar Gardens in Kashmir,
Watched the Taj Mahal reflected in still waters,
Stood before the Jama Masjid in Old Delhi,
Strolled the streets of Katmandu,
Talked with monks at the Shwedagon Pagoda,
Bargained with sticks in dirt, math our only common language,
Downed raw turtle eggs in Costa Rica,
Danced on table tops, sang “Adonai”,
Roamed empty roads across the Navaho Nation,
Raised two charming children,
Married, divorced four times.
I have lived, running on the rim of wonder.
This poem is a response to another Mary Oliver assignment for the SCN poetry class. The prompt was to write about how we might have lived differently or made different choices. On the whole I possess few to no regrets, have been to places never dreamed of, met astonishing people all over the world, and live exactly as I want to live. I feel blessed.
This post continues the saga of my writing for the SCN poetry class. One of our first assignments included reading Mary Oliver’s poem about why she writes and then write one of our own about why we write. Unlike many writers, discipline frequently escapes me. I write when I feel like it or get inspired or have something special I want to say. What do I care about? Why do I write and about what?
I want to write about
beauty and life,
wind and flowers,
riding and writing on the rim,
sleeping in the moonlight.
I want to write to
make a difference,
challenge the status quo,
instill a love of wonder,
change the world
even if only for one minuscule moment
in one tiny corner.
I want to write so that when I die, they will say,
“She mattered!”
It’s raining! It’s raining!
It has not rained in more than a month.
I run out the door,
spreading my arms skyward.
I laugh out loud, dancing in the rain.
A smile smears joyfully across my face.
I run across the patio,
rain drops pelleting my face, my arms.
I laugh out loud, dancing in the rain.
My dog stands, rain running off her.
Usually, she hates the rain.
Lightning flashes, thunder echoes,
the steel roof plays staccato music.
I laugh out loud, dancing in the rain.
It’s raining! It’s raining!
Yesterday, I started an online poetry class with the Story Circle Network. The teacher is Lorraine Mejia-Green. This week we are focusing on the poetry of Mary Oliver. While I was reading her poems and the assignments associated with them, it began to rain. I became so excited I forgot all about my assignments and enjoyed the rain. I even posted my excitement on Facebook and called my daughter. She laughed and said, “You are a dork!”
Since I was a child, my only health issue has been headaches. When younger, sometimes they were little ones and sometimes nearly incapacitating. As an adult I could count on having at least one a month, sometimes more. Weather seems to be the main culprit now. If certain weather patterns occur, a series may hit me for several days in a row and then blissfully nothing for a couple of months. My daughter has migraines also; she must have inherited this from me, sadly. Tuesday this week, I awakened with a doozy and suddenly recalled that I had to attend this class for work. I took my medication and hoped. While waiting for the class to start, I decided to write down exactly how these migraines make me feel.
Poised above my head,
the hammer ball strikes the ten inch nail.
It drives through my right frontal lobe,
the nail point jutting out just below my right cheek, shiny, bloodless.
The hammer flips, the nail pulled out.
Pain pulses, excruciating.
Poised above my head, the hammer strikes again and again.
Endless hours the hammer strikes and pulls.
I hold my head in my hands, rocking back and forth.
Endlessly.
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