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Friday, January 25, 2013

I can find another portal to my own heaven by the sounding of kind drums


A rare opportunity:


Riding west to dreamland my mouth was getting dry across the empty sands I twisted, not able yet to sleep. I was moving in the right direction, though, because it often happens on the way to dreamland that my mouth begins to dry. That’s a sign.

I made my sunset journey over the wall like an illegal immigrant, through the desert where bones of daring dreamers are found, hope for me is there also, in the dark.

If no angel helps one cross, it can be dangerous, mortal, or victorious. Sleep is close to death. Anyway I often suffer just before getting comfortable in sleep’s heaven.

Once in dreamland I can find another portal to my own heaven by the sounding of kind drums coming from a triangle grove of trees in the park of a foreign city, calling me and my companions to the fount of our dreams. I slip into this dream - or is it new reality?

I was in bed with my love, the poet. We were so sleepy and tired together, resting and enjoying being next to each other as if sunning on the beach.

Earlier I had been in another town visiting my daughters. We had stopped at a place to get fish and chips, and I emptied out my wallet looking for some way to pay. I couldn’t find any credit cards, and knew I shouldn’t use them anyway. I found no cash, unfortunately, and I wondered if I might have a check hidden somewhere between the folds. The only thing I found I couldn’t use – It was a large bill from another country. My eldest daughter said I should keep the foreign money for when I go back. She ended up paying for our fish and chips; though I felt determined I should pay. I also bought them  (somehow) a pack of four little trolls that seemed to charm them.

Now, in bed with my dear poet relaxing I realized that I hadn’t told my husband where I was and he would worry and wonder about me if I didn’t come home tonight. I told my poet this and looked at my watch. It was 9:01 p.m. I better call home. I told the poet I was nervous because I would be lying to my husband. The poet didn’t share my concerns; instead he was getting obsessed with the four little troll dolls. He was about to give one of his perturbed art lectures on what makes trolling a good or a bad art, but I told him to tell me about it later, right now I had to call home.

My stepdaughter answered the phone. Her father was busy so I left a message that I had gone to Burlington to drop off …  some stuff. (- I almost said, my daughters, but I realized that was a bad cover because my girls did not live in the direction of Burlington). Anyway, I told my stepdaughter that the poet who wrote, “sleep pays my wages” had offered to let me stay at his house so I wouldn’t have to drive at night.

Actually we seemed to be in a hotel. I had a feeling my teenaged step daughter didn’t believe me. After she said o.k. And hung up, I began to feel guilty as if just realizing the full implications of being married to Cal– but wait - I’m not married to him now - not since 2001. My Life’s Companion is the not terribly jealous beekeeper, Ross, that’s my real life since 2006 – these facts made me suspect something unreal about the sleeping situation and the wonderful feeling of my dear old poetry and art companion resting so near me.

I was lucid enough to know I was truly in bed. In bed with my poet, deeply enjoying my feelings of love for him and that relaxed safe feeling I have whenever I’m with him, absorbing his vibrations. But he is dead! I remembered rudely, as of October 13, 2012. And I woke up, with dread about having to part from this rare opportunity to be with my old friend, and relief that I had done nothing wrong, nothing adulterous, no lies, and no distrust.

And anyhow, as my writer and artist friend used to say: When I am gone so too will my secrets be passed, like the leaves that fall from deciduous trees.

I may not always remember my dreams but I know I was on my way to dreamland that night.  And the feeling of my friend washing over me, declared that poetry is a true love of mine. Thanks for sprinkling sand in my hair before ascending. Those sands of poems, art, and life I know from the earth we shared, Thank you.
Monkey and nude, encaustic collage by Alice Eckles






Saturday, January 12, 2013

Pay day poems

Hello dear reader,
It's still January the new year, 2013, and I had the idea this morning that this year
for my blog I would write and post a poem twice a month right about pay day time. Why? Just because it seems lucky. So here is the first pay day poem, it has nothing to do with pay day. It is about faith which is something I hope to bring with me to 2013. I reserve the right to revise and replace these poem-posts over time. :)


The source of faith

There is no need to feel threatened,
When you could have confidence and freedom from doubt.
Such faith was made to be a balm for shepherds and hunters
Suddenly alarmed, alive and trying to do something
Such as protecting their lot and procuring food.

It’s only natural to feel panic
A fight or flight reaction can also infect your blood
And make your movements swift and flighty,
Your voice hysterical and snappy.
There is no need to feel threatened,
When you could have confidence and freedom from doubt.
Such faith was made to be a balm for shepherds and hunters
Why not you?

Out in those fields and forests their God
Pan, induced panic,
The original fear of the lord, I suppose.

 “Give me faith!” I call out, “Hear my doubts and give me faith.”
Yet asking for faith do I get any credit for bringing it about?
Doomsayer, thorn in the side of a mythical self-made society.

I’ve been infected with a panicky mood. It’s a sickness I’m going through like the flu. At the same time it’s fair to say I’m always susceptible to panic. To gasp at any sudden movement caught out of the corner of my eye is classic Alice. None-the-less I’m calm and quiet, and these times when worry cracks over every bump, pass like a phase I’m going through.  Perhaps a spiritual touch through the veil.

Faith comes from Pan’s pipe, I believe. Out in nature, seized by that odd combination of peace and fright – the God pan pipes up.
Through panic the shepherd takes up a note,
Who hears? Who responds?

I looked up to a very human sky this morning, clouded over except for a bright dime-sized missing piece, not Sun herself, only blue sky peeking out
from the grey mass of her crowning glory.
Indirectly through the blanketing clouds, she looked at me.
An infra-red smudge where her body rested, behind the covers,
a pink humanly suggestion of celestial form showing through a layer of fluff.
It’s as if she didn’t want to see me directly. Perhaps she is shy,
Yet she does look over me, like a goddess. Her blue skies always there,
very often hidden under clouds and far away. I think she smiled a loving smile because I look funny in my panic, and in her eternal mercy she gives us the Arts.