Up a tree

I love Great Blue Herons. We have a lot. I love them best in trees, because they still look strange to me in trees. They will perch right on the top of our tall Pacific Northwest trees and look like peculiar Christmas tree toppers. Alien angels. Their bones are lighter than ours, so they can stand on a limb that would not hold me or you.

Strangels

Angels can take peculiar form.

This is for my Ragtag Daily Prompt: angel.

These Strangels are spotted at the Kinetic Sculpture Race in 2015.

This is during the water trial, to make sure that they float. The sculptures have to be human powered and have to move on land, through mud and through water. The water temperature is between 50-55 degrees, which is cold.

The Strangels are support for this Kinetic Racer.

We have angelic Kinetic Kops too. Sometimes the structures look so peculiar that people forget that they can weigh tons. You do not want to be run over by one.

A Kinetic Kop with wings.
Another racer. It’s a lot to paddle.

Hooray for Strangels and all the other racers. I hope Kinetic can happen in 2022.

Beach encounter

Yesterday B and I walk about a mile and a half of beach on Marrowstone Island. We see five other people total. There are long stretches with no one in sight anywhere.

Way down the beach there is a sand cliff. A coyote runs half way across the exposed face and stops. It looks precarious. We watch it. “That’s weird,” says B. “They don’t hang out in plain sight.”

It scrabbles and runs the rest of the way across. It stops and turns and sits. Watching us.

I laugh.

B. frowns. “They don’t DO that.”

“I think it’s listening to us. We’ve been singing and laughing.” We are goofballs on the beach. Wordplay. We’ve both been coming up with advertising songs. Horrors, ear worms.

“They don’t do that.” he says, “Can you take your camera out slowly?”

I have my Panasonic FZ150, 24x zoom. I get some shots. B is acting nonchalant, hunting for agates again. He finds more than me from both practice and I am busy taking pictures and being distracted by other pretty rocks, not just clear agates. He is disciplined. I am a generalist.

I get lovely shots. We zigzag back and forth on the beach, trying to look at ALL the rocks. “If you are hunting like this, other animals think you are foraging. Birds and animals will ignore you. I can get really close to them.”

The coyote is watching us. “He’s listening to us, really!”

“Maybe he wants to know what we are foraging for.”

“Rocks.”

“He’s hungry. Or he’s young.” We don’t really know it’s a he.

I start singing. I zigzag closer and take more pictures. She is flicking her ears at the song.

“She doesn’t seem rabid.”

“There isn’t much rabies out here.”

“Bats.” I say. I’ve researched it twice in the last 8 years.

“Yes, but not mammals.”

I start a video and sing to the coyote. I sing The Fox, though I leave out the verses about Old Mother Flipperflopper and the hunters. Coyote flips her ears and turns her head. She is checking where B is since he is moving further down the beach. I finish the song and turn off the video. “Thank you!” I say.

We walk again.

When we turn around, there is Coyote. She has shadowed us down the beach, and she slips into the brush at the foot of the cliff. She is quickly not visible.

“Humph.” says B.

I laugh.

Later, we look up and a larger animal is coming toward me. We both startle, but it is in a submissive posture. A dog, not a coyote, with a red collar. We both thought it was a coyote for a moment. It comes up to me and is very friendly. Then to B. Then back to it’s owner, who limps into sight.

“Wow, I thought it was another bigger coyote for a minute.”

“Me too. I thought it was coming right after you.”

“It’s owner looks frail and old.”

“Our age.”

“No way!” laugh.

“Yes.”

I don’t think so, but maybe. I was more focused on the dog.

I find two clear agates, but come back with two windbreaker pockets with other rocks. B only finds one that meets his specifications. My two really aren’t up to the quality he wants. Well, one is borderline and one doesn’t qualify.

werewolf

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

I’ve turned the other cheek
for sixty years

and now
I
will
fight

Feathers

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?

ring

I dream a night sky thick with stars

all the stars start falling

I think “That isn’t good.”
sore afraid

all the stars are angels falling

I think “That isn’t good.”
sore afraid

an angel falls close past me
in space
face at perfect peace

I think “Why do they fall?”
sore afraid

I am falling in space
head down
no earth beneath me
with the angels

crying, imperfect acceptance
sore afraid

I wake
I put the dream away

it comes back
in a decade

I write about wings
sore afraid

I try to understand
sore afraid

I am asked what my small self
my child self
wants

wings

I say yes
no longer
sore afraid

did you hear the bell?

yes

Black on white

poem: Black on white

black on white

white on black

it doesn’t matter

angels falling
made to fall
at peace with falling

I let myself fall
at peace with falling

and wonder what that means?

death?

no

though there are times I long
for the Beloved
for union with the Beloved
for all in one
and one all

let go

when an angel falls
they are at peace

they are at peace
with falling

people

see black and white

people

see good and evil

people

separate
label
categorize

angels don’t

black on white
or
white on black

it doesn’t matter
there is no separation
we are one

Beloved

One

hold me

poem: hold me

hold me, Beloved

hold me
I long for you
to be reunited with you, Beloved

to return to you

it is the children who hold me

here

the children
my children, grown
the hope of grandchildren
the damaged children
the new and young children
the old children in adults
who are so sad

it is the children who hold me

here

sometimes I am so sad, Beloved
I long for you

I do and I don’t
long for you
to call me home
and hold me

I know
that you hold me, Beloved
every moment

even when I cannot feel your touch

I know, Beloved
you will call me home

and hold me
now and forever
in your infinite embrace