Time out word warning, in this poem. This poem is about discrimination. Substitute practically anything for werewolf…. disabled, bipolar, depressed, autistic, substance abuser. I am sick of discrimination. For human, substitute “normal”.
You know I’ve been a werewolf my whole life
Started in the womb triggered by antibodies to tuberculosis
And I am tired
of people telling me
I’m a werewolf.
Ok? I fucking know that. I have known it since Kindergarten where I arrived full of joy ready to sing
and was shunned
we didn’t have a television
but I knew that wasn’t really it I was different I am different
and fuck you humans different is ok.
I am a werewolf and I am fucking proud of all I have accomplished in the teeth of humans hating me and trying to shut me down and shunning me and reporting me and doing everything short of shooting me with real guns
I’ve been told to sit down shut up stop arguing be nice be good go away die don’t read my writeups don’t C! my work don’t talk to me stop making waves been fired been reported been shunned been alone
and fuck you humans
get ready because I am middle aged now for a werewolf and I am ready
to be one all the timee
damn the torpedoes full speed ahead fuck you humans for how you’ve treated me
This is one of the ten poems that my mother made etchings for, the year I was just done with college. 1983-4. I wanted to write, but had no idea what to do with the poems that I was writing. My mother Helen Burling Ottaway had done a series of etchings with a family friend’s poems, so I asked if she would do the same with me. She said, “Yes, on one condition.” “What is that?” “They have to rhyme.” She did not like the free verse. Almost all of the poems were about animals, except for one about my sister. Another friend printed the poems on a lead type press and then my mother worked on editions numbered 1-50 of each, inking the plate separately for each one. This one is number 5/50. You can see the imprint of the plate on the paper in the photograph.
If I could be anything I’ll tell you what I’d like to be One of those small green frogs That sails from tree to tree
These frogs can jump, they have no laps They are not birds with wings the have parachutes between their toes And I am sure that they can sing
They spread their toes and jump so high To float like snowflakes in the air Frogs fall like rain from clear blue skies It must be nice up there
Why they jump I do not know Maybe escaping hungry eyes Perhaps to catch a tender bug Or they just like to fly
If I could be anything I’ll tell you what I’d like to be One of those small green frogs That sails from tree to tree.
The forest service blocked it off because of the bomb cyclone. The winds are driving the waves way up the beach. The dead trees get thown around like tinker toys.
We would have seen how high the water had come if Rialto Beach was not blocked off.
We would have seen the corpse of a seal, washed up on the beach, if Rialto Beach was not blocked off.
We would have seen a soaking wet life jacket, just there on the beach, my size, if Rialto Beach was not blocked off.
We would have had to walk in over a mile and back, if Rialto Beach was not blocked off.
We would have wondered if the life jacket fell off a boat and we would have been glad not to find a body, if Rialto Beach was not blocked off.
We would have met a couple who said that they only got to the viewpoint and were chased back by a Forest Service worker on a bicycle, if Rialto Beach was not blocked off.
We would have seen the confluence of the four rivers, rushing high, a seal fishing in the river and cormorants, if Rialto Beach was not blocked off.
But Realto Beach was blocked off to keep us safe. We are home and safe.
Disclaimer: I am not Native American. I am not male. I did not live here when the ships arrived. I wrote this thinking about a dream a friend told me, about a bear. So it’s the fault of a dream bear, this story.
One I am wailing. I am crying. The Bear came today, our bear, the tribe’s bear, our Spirit.
But he didn’t just walk through camp and take fish and his tribute.
He took my son.
He walked right up to where my wife stood still, as we must when he comes, and he lifted the boy in his paws. The boy was quiet and still, he did well, he was brave, but when the bear turned to leave, he called once.
Then our bear dropped to three legs, my son in the fourth, and turned and left.
My son, my son, my heart, my joy. Spirit Bear, return him to me! Two We fought, argued, for a very short time. The Shaman said that if Spirit Bear wants my son, he shall have him.
He does have him, I said, but I want him back. The Shaman knew that was true. Some shook their heads and say that my son is already dead, but most agreed with me. We were on the trail nearly immediately. The bear should not be able to move as quickly as usual when he is carrying my son. I dread evidence of my son’s loss, that he will be eaten. But that has never happened, in the history, in the songs. The Shaman said as much. But neither has a bear taken a chief’s son.
Three Spirit Bear is moving amazingly fast on three legs. He is headed for the mountains. Not a surprise. My son may get cold. But bears are warm. My son has not been eaten. Four We have to make camp. I am so angry that we have not caught Spirit Bear. Out of our home camp he is fair game.
We do the Bear Dance, four times. We did not bring the masks and the young men dance the women’s part and one sings the woman’s part. We made quick rough masks and costumes. The Spirits will forgive us. This is past all understanding.
What does a Spirit Bear want with my son? Four years. No one knows.
Five Day again. I am up before dawn praying for light, for my son, to find the Spirit Bear. Six We are hot on the trail. We find that Spirit Bear did sleep and rest. My son is dropping beads. Smart boy. Each bead means that he is still alive and relatively unhurt. Seven We have spotted them. Spirit Bear stood and looked down at us, my son tucked against his side. My son very slowly raised his arm, so he knows. Eight We are approaching the peak. Everyone is tired from the climb and hungry and thirsty. Yet we keep going. No one complains. Nine We reach the peak and Spirit Bear and my son. We arm our spears and arrows, but my son shouts “No! Look!” We turn. We see the water. There is something in the water. It has tannish wings that are filled with wind. It is huge compared with our boats.
We turn to my son. He stands and Spirit Bear leaves, ambling down the mountain, quickly, gone. I hurry to my son, sweep him up. He starts shaking and then cries, leaning his head into me.
We turn and watch the tan winged thing, which is coming against the wind. It comes at an angle and then turns, to the opposite angle, yet still it comes. We know this is new and that there can be terror or joy, we do not know which. There will be learning, we know that.
My son falls asleep. We carry him down to water and camp. We are all singing quietly, the song of new things, fear and joy. The Shaman will welcome us when we are home, and we will prepare for the winged thing. We do not know what it will bring.
We thank the Spirit Bear for warning us, for telling us to prepare.
I have had strep A sepsis and pneumonia twice. It was terrifying and I ended up having to take care of myself. I would be dead if I was not a physician.
Not to be named obscure website helped to sustain me, because it was a place I could go while I was alone, terrified and very very ill.The bout in 2014 took me out of clinic for six months and then I was barely able to work seeing half my usual number of patients. My local hospital refused to help me, but other people did. I am deeply deeply grateful to the people who did help me, including people on everything2.com that I have never met.
This is the final poem in my Falling Angels Dream Poetry series.
Some people say there are
Angels among us
I have faith in birds I search for a nest Hummingbird nest the size of a nut tiny, lined with spiderwebs I love the herons too great blue heron flying lands in a tree above me I look through my mechanical eye zoom in click click and there is another at the tree top two in a tree I move around and there – one drops down one flies I am not distracted a nest a six foot nest blessed I move away gently
I wander back by the tree gently in the morning in the evening not one not two two in this tree two in that one in another as many as five in a tree six foot wing spans a rookery of winged beings
angels among us and why would we think they would look like us?
Discover and re-discover Mexicoβs cuisine, culture and history through the recipes, backyard stories and other interesting findings of an expatriate in Canada
Engaging in some lyrical athletics whilst painting pictures with words and pounding the pavement. I run; blog; write poetry; chase after my kids & drink coffee.
Refugees welcome - FlΓΌchtlinge willkommen I am teaching German to refugees. Ich unterrichte geflΓΌchtete Menschen in der deutschen Sprache. I am writing this blog in English and German because my friends speak English and German. Ich schreibe auf Deutsch und Englisch, weil meine Freunde Deutsch und Englisch sprechen.
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