Tall Mountain

Some days it feels like the whole world is falling apart. Rife with hate, anger, violence, destruction–it can be hard to find the good. Emotional fatigue sets in. Apathy. Depression. So I take breaks from social media and the news, stare out the window, watch the birds, go for a walk, eat ice cream, pet the dog. Anything to allow my mind to take a deep breath.

I’ve always found religion interesting. As a non-religious person, watching from the sidelines, it can be confusing, scary, exciting, amusing, and enriching.

But sometimes it is entirely frustrating.

One evening my social anxiety and contempt for religious dogma collided and as I grappled with insomnia, this popped into my mind:

 

I climb the Tall Mountain 

Camera in hand 

To photograph god(s) in all its/their/her/his 

Glory. 

 

It takes a lifetime to summit 

Decades of devotion 

Moments of damnation 

Struggle 

Exhaustion 

 

When I reach the plateau 

It’s not what I expected 

But still I set up my camera 

To show the world what I’ve witnessed. 

 

The cudgel came down first 

Bludgeoned my senses 

I’d managed one picture

One click of the shutter.  

 

Blood pools around me 

I fumble in darkness

The memory card is all that I need.  

 

In my mouth I place it

I give up my last breath

To swallow the card 

My only testament. 

 

My body is disposed of 

Sent back to man.  

Carrying my gift 

From the Tall Mountain. 

 

I hope the whole world sees it

My one picture

And comes to know it

And realize: 

 

How in all its/their/her/his glory 

How bloody and violent god(s) can be.  

 

Flying with Najsha

The Hound & The Mare

While working on my synopsis I noticed I started to write occasional sentence pairs in verse. This was not good– a synopsis should not be a narrative poem, as far as I am aware.  Probably an annoyance for literary agents right up there with alliteration.    

Then I caught myself starting to read everything with a rhythm.  All right, time to get it out of my system.  

An intriguing dream steeped heavily in Celtic Mythology involving jealous princesses, a demonic boar, a hound, a mare, and a forlorn prince gave me the inspiration– I thought about turning it into a short story but have enough of those on the back burner, so a narrative poem became the dream’s destiny.

I’ve never written a narrative poem before and am certain there are rules that I am breaking.  Regardless I hope you will enjoy the story found within, and bear with me.  

epona

 

In the kingdom of Ingomar, the woods are wild and free.

Filled with secrets and monsters, and groves and ruins,

The foolhardy will enter and never return while the thoughtful can sometimes request,

A blessing fulfilled, a wish endowed by ancient, powerful, goddesses.

 

Now the ruler of this land lived in a grand castle perched up high on great limestone cliffs.

Each day he walked out, in somber silence, and looked at the foggy sea.

No one knows why he did it, no one dared to ask, but rumor holds merit that a love was once lost.

One day the beloved king of Ingomar, walked out to the edge of the cliff.

He didn’t look back, he took no second glance, then stepped out into the sky.

No heirs to inherit, the kingdom mourned their loss, will their next king be as loving as the last?

 

A stalwart, young prince, journeyed across the lands to reach fair Ingomar.

When he arrived, he declared to honor the king and win the hearts of his people

“There will be seven days of song and food, and jousting and merrymaking.”

At the end of it all, he will host a great dance, and choose from among them, a sweet young lass.

She will be his bride, a princess for a prince and a queen for a kingdom.

 

Town criers announce in every village, that every young lady should attend.

In one distant village, the crier attracts the attention of two sisters.

 

Fair Lura is a skilled huntress.

Nimble and silent, mysterious and wild, many have sought her hand.

With milky white skin, long, pale blond hair and deep, sparkling blue eyes, she knows she must try to make it in time for a chance to enchant the prince.

Beautiful Eloa is perfectly domestic, a master of hearth and home.

When her soft touch graces, any flower or creature, she soothes both heart and soul.

Her golden skin shimmers, her dark brown hair flows, and her deep, green eyes trap distant gazes.

She knows if she makes it to the great dance in time, she will win the prince’s favor.

 

The only obstacle, each sister foresees is that from the other.

Quietly they steal into the twilight to seek out the guidance of mothers.

 

Lura moves deep into the darkening forest to a grove sacred to her mother,

Beautiful Flidais, goddess of the hunt and all woodland creatures.

Eloa travels a forgotten path to an even more forgotten place.

Between the rubble of ruins, she enters what was once a magnificent temple.

There she prays to Epona, her mother, goddess of fertility and horses.

 

Under the twisted boughs of a hawthorn tree, Lura drifts into slumber,

Lulled by the gentle incantations of wind and the conversation of flowers.

“My dearest, Lura, I send to you a gift of my terrain.

The prince revels in the thrill of the hunt and the reward of the game.

This sovereign hound will course and scent and pursue with infinite endurance.

She will strike true and fell stag and boar with hardly any effort.

But be forewarned, her collar removed, and you will take her place.”

 

Eloa finds her bed on a mound with a pillow of supple green grass.

She enters a trance as leaves begin to dance on branches overhead.

“My tender, Eloa, to become the queen, you’ll need a charger of noble bearing.

I send to you a roan from my herd.  This mare will carry you over vast distance, wherever you wish to go.

She will never stumble, frighten or kick and you will never grow sore.

But be forewarned, her bridle removed, and you shall take her form.”

 

When Lura opened her eyes in the morn, a tall, slender hound stood before her.

With smooth and silky, silvery fur and eyes like the midnight sky.

Ears held erect, pointed like a dagger and a long, bushy tail that slopped down from her spine.

The golden collar graced the hound’s elegant neck, decorated with the dara knot, inspiring reverence.

Despite its beauty, the collar cast dread into the heart of Lura.

She shook off the feeling and stood in a rush, the hound gracefully moved to her side.

It was time to get going, time to make haste, time to hurry to the hunt.

 

Eloa slumbered until a soft sound awoke her,

A gentle nicker followed by a rush of hot air.

She jolted upright in exalted delight and stared at the magnificent mare.

Adorned by a beautiful coat of red and white, and a long, thick mane and tail.

Bold eyes as deep as emerald pools stared at her, ready to go.

Eloa jumped up and climbed on the mare’s back, holding the gilded rope of the bridle.

No saddle, no bit, no spurs, no whip, the horse only abided by gentle request.

They moved at a quick pace, no time could be lost for the dance was only a few days off.

 

By the tireless gait of her Otherworld mount, Eloa reached the castle ahead of her sister.

The prince took immediate notice of her because of the red speckled mare.

It was easy to see, by all in attendance, that the farmer’s daughter soon became his favorite.

But on the eve of the dance,

Lura reached the castle, with hound at her side and a boar’s head on a platter.

By the size of the head and the ivory tusks, the boar had once been a monster.

Such a feat to imagine, quickly garnered attention.

The prince fawned over Lura and took her hand in his then led her into the Great Hall.

He announced her bravery and commended her deed and while many did cheer, one jealous sister conspired.

 

When all inhabitants slumbered soundly,

Eloa tiptoed to her sister’s bedside.

She crouched down and examined the hound resting beside her and knew the collar was like her mare’s gilded bridle.

With no more than a moment of cold consideration

And nary a hesitant thought,

She slipped off the collar and ran with it in her vindictive, merciless grasp.

 

The knock on her door echoed in her ears and when Lura opened her eyes,

She realized her hands had become silver paws and her fingernails powerful claws.

She sprang to her feet and tangled her legs then fell to her face on the floor.

How dreadful it was for her to witness the prince open the door.

She couldn’t utter a word, cursed only to yelp and longingly howl instead.

He petted her head to subdue her sorrow and pensively asked where her mistress had gone.

Lura jumped on her hind legs, placing her paws on his chest,

She desperately tried to tell him.

But he stepped away and left her to be his princess trapped inside a dog.

 

She was taken to the stables and placed with the canines to be used for the day’s royal hunt.

The prince was eager to see what she could bring him and the entire pack set out.

Lura struggled to run with them,

Struggled to keep up,

The prince and his retinue rode far away.

Left on her own, she wandered and waded through forest, meadow, and brook.

Into a glen she staggered, where glowing red eyes revealed her terrible mistake.

A boar ten times bigger than the one she had slaughtered emerged with a rumbling bellow.

It plowed through the trees and ripped up the earth all in pursuit of her hide.

She tried to evade it but its fierce tusks scraped her against the side of a tree.

Bloody and broken, Lura possessed no more strength and accepted her dreadful fate.

She knew she would die,

Far away and alone,

Deep within the woods of Ingomar.

Unaware of the pack that had come to her aid, the boar thundered off,

And the prince scooped her up then swung into saddle and held her in his arms in a tender embrace.

 

Back at the castle, he rested her softly on a blanket beside the fire.

But Eloa saw her and feigned utter dread at the sight of such grisly wounds.

She begged him to dispose of her while callously declaring the dog better off dead.

The prince knew in his heart that the hound stood little chance but could not dispatch her so willingly.

He carried her to the stables and relinquished her instead to the knowledgeable hound-master.

 

Over the months that followed, the master cared for her and mended her broken bones.

His rough hands always gentle, his soft songs supplied comfort and her strength began to regrow.

In that time, the kingdom celebrated the wedding of the prince and Eloa.

The prince became king and Eloa, the queen

While Lura remained a hound.

 

One day several months later, Eloa emerged in the stables to check her most prized possession,

The beautiful roan, the gift from her mother that always wore its gilded bridle.

From her shadowy corner, on her bed of straw, Lura watched with keen interest.

Then her pregnant sister took notice of her and scowled in her direction.

“I thought you were dead, you wretched thing.

Perhaps instead of stealing your collar,

I should have buried the fang of your dagger deep inside your breastbone.”

Lura understood what had happened to her, it was her sister all along,

The one who had transformed her into a dog and taken her life as her own.

While she cursed herself for not seeing the truth, it now seemed so obvious.

The horse’s bridle was like her collar, a symbol of a powerful goddess.

And from that moment on, Lura obsessed, with a strong desire for revenge.

The hunter’s shrewd mind set to work a plan of rightful vengeance.

 

That night when the stables emptied of men,

Lura pulled at her tether until a link gave in.

She crept into the shadows and entered the pen of Eloa’s slumbering mare.

Daintily she balanced on her long hind legs,

Grasped the bridle in her mouth and pulled it away.

With the gilded bridle between her jaws, she darted back to the shadows

Then proceeded to chew and to tear and destroy every last gilded fiber.

 

The next morning, the mare woke with a terrible neigh,

She kicked and she reared uncharacteristically.

The kingdom erupted with the same frightened fervor at the loss of their queen, the soon to be mother.

For days, search parties scoured the woods, but not even a trace of Eloa was found.

The king commenced with a mournful cry and his subjects woefully reciprocated.

 

Lura was not done, her plan had not yet come entirely into fruition.

There was still the matter of the pain she endured, the overcoming of trepidation.

Finally, the day arrived when the king decided to go out on his own for a ride.

The hound and the mare were all that were left of his two lovely ladies.  So he took them with him, to accompany him, on his lonely ride through the fog.

What he didn’t know was that the mare saw red as soon as she saw her sister.

She seethed to trample and stamp on the hound for she knew she’d destroyed the bridle.

Lura knew this would happen and played this to her favor,

Leading the mare on a reckless and wild endeavor,

That took her into forest and glade, through thicket, meadow and brook.

As she had hoped, the massive boar awoke

And his angry red eyes reappeared,

In the glen where she’d wandered so haplessly so many months ago.

 

The beast roared as he trampled trees and shrubs, setting his sights on the mare,

Which slid to a stop with the king still astride, clinging to her neck and mane.

She spun around on her haunches and took to a gallop, breaking through branches and ferns.

She raced through the valley, tore through the streambeds trying to stay ahead.

Her hot breath plumed, her heart pounded her chest, as the king urged her to run.

Faster and faster, but the boar was gaining, his stampeding scarred the land.

 

Eloa flew down a craggy hillside, her hooves clashed upon the rock,

The sound of the sea could be heard up ahead.  She didn’t know where else to go.

The mare valiantly broke through the trees and took a magnificent leap from a cliff.

The king leaned forward and for but a moment they sored without wings through the air.

The boar hit the treeline, splintering boughs and leapt right after the mare.

Eloa landed, her hooves covered with sand, she stumbled and fell and the poor king dismounted, thrown into the rising tide.

 

On the shore with the roaring sea behind her, Eloa turned and faced the boar.

It charged and slammed right into her, driving its tusks into her.

It spun and it jabbed, mangling her flesh,

Leaving her bloodied and broken.

When the mare collapsed onto the cold sand, the boar turned its sights on the king.

 

Lura scrambled down the rocky cliff in time to witness the horror,

As her poor sister stood absolutely no chance in defeating the monster.

Her heart swelled and burst with grief at what she had done to her sister.

Now the innocent king stood his ground, ready to face their demon.

 

He held out his sword and the boar did charge but Lura intervened.

She ran underneath its matted wet belly to save the life of the king.

The hound leapt and snapped her jaws tightly on the flesh of the wild beast’s neck.

The boar screamed and flailed as she held even tighter, driving her fangs even deeper.

 

The beast wouldn’t go down and slammed her against the ground.

Each strike broke a bone in her body.

The thrashing didn’t stop until the king drove his blade into the heart of the boar.

When it fell to its side, Lura dropped to the sand but her legs crumpled underneath her.

She pulled her beaten body to the bloody remains of her sister lying out on the shore.

 

The hound rested beside her, dropped down beside her and placed her face next to hers.

Both drew their final breaths and with their deaths, their true forms were restored.

 

The king couldn’t believe it and dropped to his knees then crawled out across the shore.

He knelt there beside them, lamenting and pining, for each maiden had half of his heart.

His retinue found him with the girls in his arms and forced him to let them go.

The tide rose around them and carried the sisters out into the grey sea.

 

The king never fully recovered.

Each day he walked out on the cliffs near his castle and gazed longingly at the sea.

He couldn’t find it within him to love yet another, to have a new queen at his side.

His only child died with her, Eloa.  His lineage died on the shore.

It seemed the kingdom of Ingomar would suffer the same as before.

The king grew more despondent each year, spending his time on the cliffs.

He began to contemplate how it would feel to fall through the air to his death.

 

One morning he walked from his castle, intending to take the final step

When a stunning red fox stood between him and the beckoning limestone cliffs.

He stared deep into its golden eyes then noticed a strangeness about it.

The fox had an emblem upon its head, the ancient symbol of a woodland goddess.

It sprinted into the forest and he took to a run after it.

Three mythical birds cawed above him, flying with him as he ran.

 

A narrow path twisted between ancient trees, leading him to a glade.

At the base of a giant hawthorn tree sat ruins covered in green.

On the steps leading up to an earthen mound, rested the fox so tranquilly.

It looked to a place bathed in sunlight, a place where a temple once stood.

The king approached cautiously, not knowing where he was.

When he stood on the grass of the earthen mound, he noticed a second symbol,

The triquetra of Epona, Otherworld goddess and queen of the horses.

 

The mythical birds landed before him and began tearing at the earth with their beaks,

Then he heard a sound that came from below, like the knocking on a casket.

Confused and alarmed the king dropped down on his knees and began digging at the earth with his hands.

When a colt leapt from the hole he had dug, the king stared in astonishment and his mouth fell open.

It was a beautiful colt with a red piebald coat and it pranced with an elegant step.

The patterns along the edge of its markings were the symbols he’d seen before, on the fox and the ground, on the collar and bridle of the hound and the mare.

 

Then he noticed a familiar glint in the mottled sunlight,

The colt wore a bridle of his own.

Apprehensive at first, about what he saw, the king held out trembling hands.

When he grasped the bridle and slipped it away, the colt became a boy.

His hair was red, his skin was fair and each eye was a different color.

One sparkling blue and one emerald green, like the eyes of his mothers.  

ingomar-shore-ii

 

Mantis

A little poem, about a bug I adore, fell into my head early this morning– or late last night.  Here it is:

There you sit, so tame on my hand

To let me study you. 

But it’s easy to see that you are not tame. 

(You are too smart to be tamed!)

Too cunning and wily a bug. 

 

While I observe you,

It’s fair to assume

You equally do the same.

 

A perfect blend of strength and precision

A camouflaged beastie and artful hunter. 

A keeper of balance

A keeper of flowers

A fearsome predator

Who devours. 

 

An omen of dread

A partner at lunch

An intricate piece of art

A prankster that imitates a buzzing cockroach

A flicker amongst the brush. 

 

While I suspect I will never know

what you think of me

I relinquish you now, back to the tree

For you are wild and free. 

 

Go now and master your domain

You perfect, little beastie. 

 

This poem didn’t manifest entirely out of nowhere, it was inspired by an encounter yesterday.  On my lunch break, I noticed a stunning praying mantis with striking markings on the sidewalk in front of the building I work at.  Of course I picked it up.  How could I leave such a creature on Ventura Blvd. to be easily trod upon?  Far too busy a place.  My coworker and I held and admired it for a few minutes then took it to a nearby park where I found a tree that the mantis seemed to have been made from.

Why do I adore mantids as I do?  Shortly after I had moved out on my own, my younger brother would come and stay with me on the weekends and over his breaks.  On one of these visits, he decided he wanted to raise a clutch of praying mantises.  The internet was  a far cry from what it is today.  We set out and stopped at a gardening store where much to my brother’s delight, there were some mantis eggs for sale.  One of the workers told us each egg would hatch 20-40 mantis nymphs.  So we set up a small terrarium and the day they hatched we were astounded by the amount of nymphs.  I’m confident that it’s safe to say there were over a hundred between the two eggs.  We scrambled to try and stop them from eating one another and released them into a nearby cluster of bramble.  To eat and be eaten but at least not be trapped.  However, my brother and I kept a few of the nymphs, to raise.  We set each nymph up in its own little bowl with some leaves, a few sticks and a place to collect water.  For the covers, we bought the cheapest pair of pantyhose we could find and cut it up then used a rubber band to secure a piece of pantyhose over the mouth of each little glass bowl.

It was an experience to watch the nymphs grow.  At first they were fed fruit flies and other small bugs, graduating up to crickets and larger insects when they became adults.  One mantis developed a tactic to catch the crickets.  It would hang upside down from the pantyhose cover and snatch the cricket right off the ground, eliminating the cricket’s greatest defense in stealing its ability to jump away.  Another would often rip the head completely off of its prey, holding the decapitated head in one claw and the body in the other.  Quite gruesome but an effective predator, none-the-less.

There were two behaviors I really enjoyed watching with our mantises and one was the way they groomed themselves, much like a cat, actually.  And the other, the way they drank water.  It was the first time I’d ever noticed such behavior in a bug.

While I didn’t happen upon too many wild mantises in Portland, I do see them often here in Los Angeles.  And as I did with the one I found yesterday, I always pick them up.  Sometimes I find them and sometimes they find me.

An omen of dread

I’ll never forget the mantis that flew into my condo one night, a couple years back.  It was a strange ghostly color, almost white and its eyes were red.  It landed on the open sliding glass door and just sat there.  I took a picture of it because I always do when I see a mantis and a camera is handy.  Then about an hour later, the building right next door, not twenty feet away, caught fire.  It was a horrific event to witness and lives were lost.

mantis-best

A partner at lunch

On a much lighter note, I fondly recall a sprightly green praying mantis nymph that joined me for lunch one day.  While I sat outside, writing and eating.  It did the same.  Well, not the writing bit but the eating bit, yes.  It even ventured across the table and walked onto my wrist.

mantis-tiny

An intricate piece of art

mantis-on-hand

The artistry of nature never ceases to astound me.  Each and every praying mantis looks different.  The one I found yesterday was one of a spectacular pattern.

A prankster that imitates a buzzing cockroach

Regrettably, this I do not have a photo of.  About six years ago, I was studying chemistry at the kitchen table.  I lived on the third floor of an apartment building and had the sliding glass door wide open.  While I was focused on creating a graph, standing over my chart, a bug flew into the apartment and proceeded to fly around my head.  Alarmed, I took to running around the small living room, convinced that it was a big, brown American cockroach (they fly, you know) buzzing my head.  My dog, then a puppy, chased me and bit at my legs while my husband– brave as he might be– grabbed a frying pan from the kitchen intending to smack this thing, flying around my head, right out of the air.  Finally the bug landed, the chaos ended, and it was then that my husband and I realized it was no cockroach, nothing of the sort, but a brown praying mantis.  Much to my relief.

I hope you enjoyed my poem, photos and stories.  If you see a short woman carrying a mantis around Los Angeles, it could very well be me 🙂  But I imagine I’m not the only one.  Mantises are too cool a bug.

 

 

Meditation By Candlelight

I was stuck in traffic.  A ritual occurrence in Los Angeles and while staring blankly at the endless red glow of brake lights ahead, a poem popped into my head just last night.  I was thinking about where we are at as a society versus where we were two hundred years ago… How so much effort used to go into items, art, and food that we now vastly take for granted with our modern conveniences.  How materialism and consumerism have driven us into a vicious cycle of demand and discard.

Technology is by far a great thing, as I am able to type this from my office in one part of the world and you are able to read this in another.  It has connected the world.  It has saved lives.  It has redefined us.

Candlelight though, the incandescence, the way it plays in the air, the way it fades reminds me of a time before traffic and plastic and instant gratification.  A time before technology as it is today.  It makes me think of Beethoven composing a symphony.  It makes me think of Charlotte Bronte penning Jane Eyre.  The candle always makes me think of history.  How many candles illuminated the happenings of great events, ideas and people?  When I sit by a candle I share in that legacy.  And when I think about it, it makes me feel connected to a time before me.

 

Meditation by candlelight, 

To hone a craft. 

A stitch 

A stroke 

A note. 

How far have we come? 

How far will we go? 

Until we find purpose 

Again. 

meditation-by-candlelight

The Realm of Shadow

It happened again.  A poem type thing was born in my mind.  It happened in the twilight of a dream, in that strangeness that I love.  

The dream itself was quite unique and a great precursor to a story.  A synopsis will go on my list and perhaps I will sit down and pen it one day.  But for now, here is the poem.  An opening to the fledgling tale, for you to enjoy.  

 

This guy and his gal escaped their homes.

They ran down a hill in the night.

They ran to jump off a dock and swim,

A place that brought them delight.

 

The waters were often as warm as a bath.

So still and calm it reflected like glass.

They swam in the blackness sending ripples across,

They swam through mottled starlight.

 

But when they reached the dock on this particular night

The waters were covered by fog, though the sky was clear up above.

“Come on, it will be fun,” he sang in a song.

So they jumped to swim in such a place,

Unaware of what happened below.

 

The water was gone.

The earth was dry.

It was very difficult to see,

As they fell and tumbled straight through the fog

To a land concealed way beneath.

 

I watched them tumble, I watched them fall

for the same had happened to me.

But I wasn’t there to guide them, oh no.

I wasn’t there as a friend.

 

They would come to know me in time.

It would be an inevitable reality.

For those who enter the realm of the shadow

Always come to know me.

 

(The challenge will be, can they beat the odds,

Can they survive the tricks and the grim?

It’s not any different from life, really.

They already know how to swim.

 

The challenge will be, can they stick together,

To help the other succeed?

If they do then there is a chance they’ll return

And think this but nothing more than a dream,

a dream of peril and dread.)

 

Dock of Dreams

Dock by VexingArt / http://vexingart.deviantart.com/

 

 

Blindsided

I don’t write poetry very often…. or at all, generally.  I don’t know the first thing about it… But it’s been about two years since I was involved in a case where a young Siberian Husky was hit by a car.  I still remember every detail like it was yesterday, some things just stay with you and while I was supposed to be writing up charts, these six lines crept into the back of my mind late that night:

There’s blood on the door

blood hits the floor,

I look into her pale blue eye.

 

She opens her mouth

takes her last breath,

a young life dies.    

 

I think about it often and I so wish we could have saved her.

siberian-husky-blue-eyes-wallpaper-2