January 24th, 2012

the many

a brand new one slides in

a slippery mass

a dolphinous baby

with round asking eyes

wombs bursting with bounty

of raw tender cargo

hooked onto thorns

welcomed to breasts

wrapped in wool blankets

tickled and tended

or stuck in a corner

wished out of the world

lucky ones hatch in nests of perfection

all needing touch, needing food, needing warmth

a massive symphony clamors

that cannót be notated

it’s howling, it’s crying,

it’s harsh, raspy breathing

hearts pounding and drumming

or silent in sorrow

sometimes I’m among them

sometimes so alone

an upside down woman

suspends from the sky

out of oceans above

is a world made of water

she is carried by currents

untethered by tides

her eyes do not open

she dreams of each child

she is moist, gleaming, glistening

languid fingertips dripping

showers are falling

on all babes below

©2012 Mariénne Kreitlow, Living Song

 Thanks to the Soul Collage inspiration of Seena Frost and images I’ve incorporated.

 

 

 

 

December 26th, 2011

The serenity of “IMMORTAL, INVISIBLE”

What is it about plainsongs that are so haunting and timeless?  Originally based in Gregorian chant, perhaps the most famous one is O COME, O COME EMMANUEL.   Several years ago I recorded IMMORTAL, INVISIBLE (on my “Beautiful Illusion” cd) and later my friend Jeff Templin created a gorgeous slide show to go with it.  The effect is like an almost instantaneous purifying meditation.

On this second day of Christmas help yourself to another gift by going to:

December 24th, 2011

ST. GERALD


 Gerald closed his eyes to rest, and found eternity.

Pilgrim, see him still. Preserved in youthful beauty.

The story?  The story as was told to me:

Like all young men he sought to fight.

To vanquish wrong.  To lift his sword.  To prove his worth.

He was a century too late.  Or more.

Searching plain to mountain, cave to sea,

his boots worn thin as skin, he traced the tracks.

His only hope, which led him to Pathetico;

a haggard dragon, wan, forlorn, with slackened scales of gray.

Only a coward would cut him down.

The man in throes of deep despair

cast his sword to God knows where.

This would-be knight was more than lost.

His soul had ceased to guide him.

Having not one thing to name or claim,

true north and south crisscrossed within.

He wandered off into a meadow

where small blue flowers sang, clamoring, clutching at his feet.

Which way earth?  Which way heaven?

But, what there, in the distance?

Pathetico had seen, and straight way loved the man.

Friendless but for swallows and flies that buzzed his head,

he followed on in loyalty with dragging tail behind.

Dizzied by infinite flowers of blue, (the genus which he could not place)

in rusted armor of massive weight, the weary man fell down,

crushing four hundred thousand petals.

The blossoms screamed and fought to rise.

Pushing up with all their might they caused him then to levitate,

and thus transformed him into saint, as witnessed by some angels.

But Gerald, sleeping, sleeping still, missed the marvel of his fate.

(His form, adorned, hung on my wall, looks strangely like my husband.)

 ©2011 Mariénne Kreitlow, Living Song

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

December 12th, 2011

THE LIGHT INSIDE (new lyrics)

Low light.  Low light. This time of year we get low light.

Long, tall shadows stretch from the trees,

the churches’ steeples and propped up skiis. Oh——–

High light.  High light. The southern hemisphere’s in high light.

My friends in New Zealand, my friends in Brasil

take the warmth while we get the chill.

But the light inside, the light inside, the light inside…

The light inside, the light inside…

Our sight.  Our sight.  Just a bit of the spectrum.  A splice of the light.

But even through the bleakest, blackest night of the year

Light of Love won’t disappear.  Oh——–

Sun bright.  Sun bright.  Sequins glitter in fields of white.

Earth turns.  The sky is clear.

Far flung stars are dazzling mirrors.

But the light inside, the light inside, the light inside…

The light inside, the light inside…

But the light inside, the light inside, the light inside…

The light inside blazing brighter than we can bear.

Blazing brighter than we can bear.

©2011 Mariénne Kreitlow, Living Song, BMI

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

November 24th, 2011

ELK, ALTITUDE, GRATITUDE…

1

One perfect dozen, staggered along the ridge

across from Black Mountain,

high above the huge bowl below.

An empty ocean calling us to dive.

Giddy with altitude we cling to mountain slopes,

even with flat floors beneathe our feet.

The massive landscape an embrace from outer space.

Lit by sun and moon, swept in wind and snow.

We’re in Colorado.

Three days ago I could have lost you.

This side of the mountain just six inches deep.

Round the ridge two feet of white erased that s’posed to be so obvious pass.

3 hours, 4 hours, then 5, then 6.

You searched and searched, traced, retraced.

As sun retreated behind high peaks darkening trees erased your view.

By cell phone I heard you say,

“Think I can see where to go, but just can’t seem to get there.”

I waited at the bottom of Breakneck Pass to maintain that thin connection.

A man in a utility truck pulls up.

Asks if something’s wrong.

Writes your number down.

Says he’ll leave a message.

A message.  For ‘Search and Rescue’.

Slowly I trekked up the road, back to a warm and empty house.

Played a song on the baby grand.

Sang it.  Sent it out to you.

Tried to make supper for a cold and weary man.

Tried not to worry.  Then I tried again.

That redneck angel made the call afterall.

You said Sheriff Jim gave you a piece of advice before he left you here:

“She’s going to want to yell at you.  Best to just let her.”

But I didn’t.  I gave you spicy broth and spanish rice.

You put whiskey in your coffee.  I rubbed your feet.

Told you I sang you a song.

“’He Fishes’.  Right?”

“Yeah.  ‘He Fishes’.”

2

One perfect dozen, staggered along the ridge

across from Black Mountain,

high above the huge bowl below.

Back in Minnesota there’s an elk farm down the road.

Paddocks with dense, tall fences.

Cute babies with mamas and guys with crowns greater

than worn by earthly kings.

But these. These are wild ones.

Nibbling tufts of dried up grass, bites of bitter sage.

We creep onto the deck, longing to get close.

Slow step.  Slow step.

“Shh”, you warn, but I have to speak to the

She who stares at me.

“You are so beautiful”, I coo.

She holds my gaze.  “Of course I am. I know.  I know.”

They frame themselves against Buffalo Peaks, posing in the sunset,

then slowly ramble, receding into dark.

 

October 24th, 2011

when?

when did leaves fall?

was I sleeping?  dreaming?

was I bent over the basin, splashing my face?

were you there?

were you watching?

did they tear off all frenzied, violently zigging,

or sail down like feathers, silent, serene?

where was I?  can’t believe that I missed it.

was I in my chair, eyes closed, meditating,

fusing my roots with the earth’s fiery core?

or face down on the carpet,

moaning loudly, completely?

I do that sometimes, before I can rise.

was it me that undid them?

too into myself to witness their dance?

I wanted to be there.

I wanted to see.

I saw corn turning brown.

I heard their leaves rattle.

rows of maize shook and clattered,

proclaiming their time.

then loud, diesel combines charged in to pick them.

wagons full of gold bounty,

stalks shaped into loaves.

I wish you would tell me;

when did branches

reveal their skeletal beauty?

you can see

right through them.

the horizon lies naked,

neighbor’s houses so close,

and bare fields like ribbons

wound round the hills.

October 5th, 2011

A DIFFERENT DANCE, THEN A DREAM…

“RENDERING”

big truck roars up our road

smack dab so fast

right in our drive

october day

but like july

taken by surprise

emily rose and I

big truck

a big box

a way way big box

kicks up a cloud of thick ick dust

has a wench a crane a boom a chain

legs with hooves against the sky

blue sky

piled high piled high

they must be piled high inside

shapely black and white with hooves

bobbling with the rutted road

the road the ruts

the dance of death

piled high against blue sky

ruddy faced driver

bounds out calling

am i in the right spot?

right spot?

dead steer?

not here

oh, next place next place east

a cheerful voice

a cheerful man

our nostrils filled

so filled

so strong

hangs on so long

we watch the legs wave goodbye

another cloud of dust of dust

a roar they’re gone

whistles as he drives on down on down

bless the vultures

bless the buzzards

bless the cheerful trucker man

 

“SHE”

 

Is it Vanessa Redgrave or some other gracious dame of the stage?

A woman actress who has earned her noble stature,

enhanced – not diminished – by years,

by endless roles played with devotion, heart, lucidity.

She wears a flaxen dress of white, EMILY ROSE

a belt around her slender waist,

hair pulled simply back.

At six feet we meet eye to eye.

She presses a bundle into my arms.

A gift.

A dress.

A costume.

It will fit.

It is mine.

Somehow, for some reason,

I am silently proclaimed as worthy as she.

 

 

 

 

 

September 16th, 2011

WHAT TODAY?

HEAVY HEAD

Snap dragons defy frost.

Parsley’s still proud.  Definitely perky.

Basil? Pathetic brown.

Squash? Detached from thin ropes that crumble underfoot.

Sunflower heads? Study the ground, groaning with seed.

Marigolds? Confident in life everlasting.

It will take a few killing frosts to do them in.

 

Everything is metaphor.FALLEN

What is dying in me?

What will survive?

When will I know?

I feel trust catch me, though I can’t prove a thing.

Can’t write a line or a song or a show with a decent plot.

 

I breathe cool air, sharp as menthol in my brain.

Sun retreats.  Days shorten.

I rejoice and I complain.

God did not consult me before the firmament was formed.

Did not ask me what I thought of the earth’s revolution

on a tippy axis or which hemisphere would catch my helpless body

when I plopped onto this world.

 

RETIRED MELONS

I check the furnace.

It hums, pushing warm air through the register.

On the countertop a few precious tomatoes

losing flavor and texture as I write this down.

Dreams dream so deep inside I have no clue of what they’ll be.

Only that they’re as sure as winter’s coming.

 

August 29th, 2011

A SCREAMING PUPPY, A MAGICAL DITCH

 

I just heard Oberon screaming and crying and went outside.  Poor puppy, still whimpering, jumped into my lap.   We think it was essential farm lesson #1: Don’t touch the electric fence!  I swear he’s grown A LOT in just over a week.  Elder dog Zaphyre does not yet enjoy him, but is showing more tolerance.  He’s become quite a celebrity in the neighborhood and is going to be a beautiful BIG dog and wonderful companion.

The weather has been so much lovelier, with sweet coolness in the morning and even a few maple leaves turning.  Our home often smells of tomatoes, garlic, onions, eggplant, basil and other vegetable roasting to a thick reduction in the oven.  When cooled I spoon the it into plastic bags and freeze.  This will go on for several weeks. I learned last year that it’s safe to just cut corn off the cob and pop it right into the freezer.  I’ve got about 25 packages so far. This year the cantaloupes and honeydew are ripening while the heat of summer fills the day.  What sweet nectar!  Listen.  Do you hear the raspberries yelling at me?  “Pick me!  Pick me!”

The Garlic Festival was amazing!  The bad news is that my Mal de Debarquement Syndrome symptoms kicked in again big time. It’s like bobbing up and down in water, like the floor keeps moving, like everything won’t stay still! This extremely unsettling and rare neurological condition was set off originally by a train trip out to Oregon and back about five years ago. I mention it because if this happens to you or someone you know you’ll have some awareness about it.   I’ve joined an online support group, am doing my physical therapy exercises, and just trying to be easier on myself until the symptoms subside.  (see www.mddsfoundation.org/)

Here’s some other news from the farm.  A true story, as always.

HOLE-Y SOUL

So, says he, what about that hole in your soul?

Whatcha talking about?  Got no hole in no soul.  We were made perfect, don’t  ya know?

Well, you may talk the talk, but I see a wide swath of nothing running right through you, darlin’.

How dare you? she’s thinking.  How dare you see the nothing in me.  The vacuum where sweetness should could reside if only.

If only, he interrupts her unvoiced thought, if only you gave yourself to pizza with basil.  Or learned Swahili.  How ‘bout snow boarding.  Huh?

I don’t  snow board. I hate being cold.  I hate falling.  I’m allergic to pizza.  And what would I do learning Swahili?  I’m in the middle of Minnesota, you dope head.

Acutely aware her excuses sound lame she studies her boot laces.  The cuff of her jeans.  Standing awhile in silence until,

Read any good books lately? he asks.

A torrent of something unleashes.  A hawk cries out.

She gains control, then softly speaks,

I want to read braille, though the thought had never occurred until now.

The timbre of her voice so strange.

I want to caress every letter.  Want god to breathe the birth of every sound into me.  Want tapioca pudding piled in whipped cream beginning with word one.  Word two I want Texas barbecue so hot it sizzles and a song swap with drunken lyrics under a full sky of screaming stars long before the second chapter even thinks of a start.

Then come this way.  This way,  says he.

Gives her a nudge.  A trip.  A shove.

Rolls down the ditch.  Deep trench of green.  With toads and bracken and crickets.  Rotten raccoon bones.  Wrappers of Mars bars.   Cigarette filters crumbling to dust.  Moss in her mouth mixed with elbows and knees.

So this is where braille begins.  Letters conjugate themselves all over her.

Cool night air licks and stamps her in alphabets brand new.

The hole in her soul so engrossed it forgets.

Forgets to remember how empty it’s been.

August 19th, 2011

OBERON’S ENTRY: ROUGH DAY!

OBERON POUTING

This morning my name was Toby.  Now it’s Obie.  Actually it’s Oberon.  King of the Faeries.  That’s what I heard the new She and He say.  The whole day was confusing and often scary.  I  am very lonely.  I don’t ever remember whimpering so much, but I can’t help it.  So much has happened so fast.

This morning  I woke up and nuzzled my Play-kin like I always do.  We pestered Mommy like we always do because we can’t help ourselves even though she sometimes nips us.  I had a wonderful breakfast, making sure to get my fill and not let Brother Play-kin get too much like he always tries to do.  All of us followed our She Lady around to help with the chores.  After the cows were milked I took a lovely, long nap in the barn.  Then She Lady kept trying to wake me up, but I was so very tired I fell back asleep.  She insisted, but I couldn’t do it.  A different She picked me up.  I peed on her.  She put something around my neck.  Then my She and a new He put me in a movement box.   The door closed and I could not jump out.  The movement box started to make noise and I haven’t seen anything that’s the same since.

The new She sat very close to me.  I rested my chin on her leg as the movement box kept noising.  Sometimes she put her nose on mine and said helpful things.  After a long unsettling nap the box opened and She and He lifted me down even though I said “no.”  There was a new Not-Mommy and we sniffed each other.  She doesn’t stay around me at all.  I miss True Mommy and Play-kin and smells-I-know.

The thing around my neck is connected to this other thing and then I get stuck to what they call a dog house.  There are some hissy things called Tiger-Puck-Fuma, but they didn’t stay around long. The She took me on some walks while I had that string-thing attached to my neck-thing.  It felt good to pee and poop and move.  Other He-Shes came to pat my head and admire my paws.  Then they left.

The new She is very nice and fed me gulp-food and drink, but She leaves me alone much too much.  The whimpering comes soft, loud, soft until I stop.  I hope the She and maybe the He will come out now.  Oh!  Here’s the She!  She is touching me!  Oh happy-tail!