Afternoon at the Lake

There is a moment,
in the depth of the afternoon,
when the summer sun is hottest,
that the soft light of peace gathers
to settle the dust of day.

The tread along the footpath
does not disturb the hum of hushed bees,
nor the meandering of dragonflies
from shore over the center of the lake,
coasting on any errant breeze.

While the blue green algae rests
in a shaded nook along the far shore,
the black crowned heron stands,
motionless, watchful,
awaiting the slightest stir
in the shallows that might signal lunch
—food to fuel night flight.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Relations

Breeze off the water cools,
sun off the surface glares with good will,
birds rise up in flight, raining beads of water, beaks full,
the fox in freedom runs through the tall grasses,
and the land that holds us up is home,
a place of habitation for all that breathe here,
& life is the experience of moving through this beauty,
in continual migration, from here to there,
by each dreamer of dreams.

We meet on this bridge,
as we might meet on any bridge,
for every meeting truly is a bridge,
every bridge an opportunity
to share this dream as expansive reality.

Toward such encounter,
how shall it be?
Shall we pass one another like ghosts,
or with a whispered hello?
Shall it be a challenge to a duel?

Or shall we meet the dream,
     sip the air together
            and share the song.

Cup your hand, my friend, and
hook it with mine in the time honored bond;
reaching out, from above,
below, around or between boundaries,
our greeting as equals helps to map
the extensive lifeline.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Critter Whisperer

Mother’s Day, 2017.

A concert  of Renaissance music, composed by women.

Scene: Intermission, obligatory bathroom break.

Dramatis personae: Portative Organist, Singer, Moth

One enters the restroom, embedded in the building of the campus. A beautiful big moth is fluttering there, having already entered by means of some slipstream of air, from outer to inner. One relieves an urgent call, washes and dries. Yet, the fluttery flapping continues.

One knows the beautiful moth will die if it continues to be trapped within the restroom.

The Portative Organist enters the restroom. Oh, gosh. One thought to try to capture the moth, but the presence of another person makes such a venture an Admission of Oddness.

One says to oneself, “Okay, just this once.”

And then, One's thought speaks to the Moth, “Let me catch you,” while waving wildly with One’s hands. Fortunately, the Portative Organist has entered a stall and shut the door. Maybe she won’t think you are a crazy nutcase.

“Come to me, Moth,” actually speaking the words aloud, while flailing your hands toward the creature, in “capture mode.”

Miracle! The Moth lands on your hand!!!!

“Stay,” One says, while slowly opening the door to the hall and slowly stepping down toward the exit to The Great Outdoors. "Stay." The small creature listens, perhaps...

But then, nerves intervene and worries, and the wings begin to beat.

“NO! Stay!!!” The tiny feet affix themselves once again, and a small tongue comes out to touch a caring and anxious flesh. “Stay!” The larger body hazards to step forward, slowly, followed by more steps to THE DOOR.

Slowly, One opens the door. (With recent days of high wind, One does not want the small charge to be blown back into the building.) One extends the hand bearing the small creature out into the sun shot air.

“Go, you are Free!”

But, the creature stays, fixed to One’s hand!

“Go, you are FREE!”

The tiny tongue comes out, offering another kiss, and the creature still clings.  But the intermission is coming to a close…

“Please, Dear, you must GO!” And, of course, the Portative Organist is leaving the restroom, but what is dignity?

One last kiss of the sweet and tiny tongue, and then, “You must, must go!” And I blow my small charge from my hand, into the breezy sunshine.

The moth flies to greet the afternoon.

One returns to the call of music, to the concert program.

But, a once trapped moth flies free.

Ode: Owing to Knowing Owen

            for Owen Orser on the occasion of his
                  80^th Birthday - March 19, 2017

Owing to Owen, what say we?
occupying a strand of paisley tapestry,
you’ve traversed the human condition;
each day is a trip across the boards,
be it filled with joys or woeful travesty-
but the play is all, a daily mission,
a practice born of keen observation,
a way toward, an attempt at perfection.

Flying on your golden thread
through the fabric of our gathered
storms and strays, camera at the ready
to find and stay moments rather
lovely, to store them in mind’s eye
for that future chance to set steady
a stage where magic might make
an appearance, for art’s sake.

The eyes of Owen,
the beauty of birds flown,
all the subtle bon mots, placed and sewn
into our shared space, loved and known,
a sheaf of programmes, artfully strown,
the screen, the drape, column and bench on loan,
for today’s lesson
on the question
of expression:
‘Tis not about the big impression,
but rather the interior exploration
coming to collation
in concentration
revealed by measured ration,
drawing into one
every eye and ear,
when all is said and done.
That is why we gather here,
Friends, what we lovingly cheer!
To proclaim our heartfelt renown
for that by which we are bound,

Owing to knowing Owen.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Post Post-Modern Dance

Mu-sick in phrases
            out of phase,
                        emergent from fog or haze;
Non-facing dances,
            gyrating prances,
                        flying glances;

Rapping, not rolling,
            less controlled, controlling,
                        some phone-strolling;
Grooving hive-mind,
            yet seemingly blind,
                        to others plying the grind;
Dysfunction junction,
            though yet to malfunction,
                        exhibiting sejunction;
Just looks like jerking,
            some call it twerking,
                        but they’re all just hurking.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Hurking is a made-up word I found in the Urban Dictionary. The assigned meaning for this neologism: “The act of doing, or participating in an event or activity, in which you have to participate to discover what it is.”

All About Making Waves

MYSTERY CYCLE
V. Making Waves

                   for Emily and Ian and their Dad – 20 October 2000

It’s your turn,
a heavenly voice said,
then a tremendous tickle ran out through the clouds,
followed by jiggling rolls escaping into snickers,
and pealing positively gales on gales of giggles
until, finally, there wasn’t anything for it,
and the clouds burst into laughter,
what you call rain.

Drop upon drop,
from small to large, both young and old,
they all fell down akimbo,
tumbling from the sky,
collecting, drunkenly you might say,
in puddles to pools to rivulets to streams,
finally running like great silver ribbons to the sea.

I can’t remember,
One asked an-Other, still giggling the tickle,
I say, what was the joke?
but Any-one would have been too wet to answer,
though really No-one heard clearly enough to say,
and Every-one was wondering what would happen next,
so, if there was a reply, who could say if it was made,
and whether by Which-one,
or not?

But Some-one was able to hold the thought long enough
and, floating up through the lovely bubbles to the surface,
called out to friend Sky for the answer.

A, Darling, did they not tell you long ago?
It’s your turn to have fun!

They gather you all up into their arms,
lulling you with sweetest windsongs
from all the Four Corners of existence,
and when it is your time,
they shake you loose
to join the great throng,
so you can be free.

But what shall we do?
asked the littlest drop.

Moon shimmered a silken answer:
Dearest, anything you do will make me smile,
but why don’t you make me some waves?

So, laughing and shoving all the more,
fumbling and recklessly tumbling,
all heels over heads toward the shores
and to the utter delight of all,
they did.

Reprinted from
“Songs of A Soul Journey” by Elisabeth T. Eliassen © 2002 all rights reserved.

It has been a rainy year, and so, on this anniversary of the birth of my twins, Emily and Ian, I bring you the message that life is wild, wet, wooly, weird and wonderful. Punctuated by hard times, yes; but even so, still the best game in town.

I, who declared at the age of 12 or so that I would never have children, gave birth to twins on this day, 17 years ago -- which is to say that one can make all the bold pronouncements one likes, but the cosmos has other ideas... 

From wombmates to roommates to housemates, they have shared so much with us and each other… 

So, to Emily and Ian, (and to all of you) I say:

Keep jiggling the rolls and giggling the tickles, 

because it’s your turn to have fun;

it's all about making waves!

~ love,

Mom

Spindrift

Thoughts, braided like a tangle of seaweed, litter the shore of my mind,
along with disordered piles of stony shingle, briny spray opined;
my tread briefly marks the sand with my small journey to find
whatever peace may be encountered at the shore strand.

The ever-present howling of wind is like the thousand tongues raised
to the infinite powers of nature, exposed before all, praised
beyond the buoys’ gong; even the depths be upraised,
where all the naked truths are bursting to expand.

Turning these eyes out to the light that over watery depths coldly burns,
blinded am I, humbled to the core of a soul that still boldly yearns
to skim the distant calms with the great heron and least terns,
flowing through airstreams, released over water and land.

Love is like this, I ken; the crashing of angry waves, an outpoured release
of all the turbulence and strain, that all that is pained, pent and part surcease,
giving way, capitulating to completions, resolutions, stillness and peace,
while yet must continuous dilate and contract on demand.

Though mountains have moved and prophecies've been spent, parts hallowed
into whole and dismissed to a moment of reflection and rest, even wallowed,
by the momentary bubbly delight of spindrift spun and shadows followed,
even so, still and stillness is not completion, merely cessation unplanned.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen