tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-172449082009-12-18T10:19:30.970-08:00Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.comBlogger136125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-5333901783586965562009-12-12T21:43:00.000-08:002009-12-12T21:47:29.759-08:00

Something so simpleas two boys riding a red wagondown a hill, all the way down. the sun shines brightly; the air fills with their cries.I think to myself:This is the meaning of life, no remembering, no forgetting, only this moment,and they come down the hill again.Something so simpleas two men riding a tankdown a hill, all the way down,the sun shines brightly, the air fills with their cries,no

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-27980316653079474172009-12-11T20:55:00.000-08:002009-12-11T21:23:52.832-08:00

You came into my life as stragglersflee a bar, not wanting to hear the clinkof glasses, smoke-filled vulgarrooms where you sat readingwell past sundown.You had my number,with your gifts of apricot,warmed within, past any sense of solarburn, the color orange wearingthin, your lips stretched to parkall the way to California,and after, in the back seat, sandwiches,greasy on our mouths, your earsso

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-67041345842408030782009-11-14T20:56:00.000-08:002009-12-06T13:38:12.228-08:00

What oracle speaks from fading family photographs?Even the handsome manwith a small dark bow tie, his blond moustachecombed and curled,has enigmatic eyes.Who stands next to whom?Who touches the loved one, as if she or he would fly awayin a wind so unexpectedthat stories need to be invented?Generations later, what memoriesdo we breathe in, what histories do we invent?This week's Sunday Scribblings

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-24733257360755267012009-12-03T08:19:00.000-08:002009-12-03T08:29:09.936-08:00

The first time I seriously went hunting with my Grandfather, I was twelve. He taught me to shoot a rifle, his old 22, and to carry it, muzzle down. I nearly shot my foot off as I forgot about the safety catch, but I was game, the only girl in the family to go hunting. He had started me on easy tasks at first, using his hunting knife to gut fish or strip game birds of their feathers. After I

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-70860808006726687392009-12-02T20:13:00.000-08:002009-12-02T20:33:07.372-08:00

I wonder sometimes why it seems easier to write when I'm on the road, as if I need some separation from "normal" life. Today we landed in Costa Rica for the next three months, found our house, and I'm already looking forward to tomorrow morning. I will start with writing. Or, I should say revising.Writer's Digest posted a link to this lovely summary of the 43 most inspiring posts for 2009, and

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-53424496060752449902009-11-24T08:50:00.000-08:002009-11-24T09:02:53.453-08:00

I never understoodwhy I couldn't whistleor strut.I stuck my noseas deep as anyoneinto books,even as my blonde hairand breastslabelled me bimbo.And then I didfinally understand:No woman on the moon.no Amazon won my battles.Stone by stone andstep by step,I learned camoflage,how to talk football,how to run meetings,how to push down wallsand rise to my own ends. This prompt comes from Robert Lee

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-11211218523154976462009-11-16T06:43:00.001-08:002009-11-16T06:57:07.672-08:00

He carried outhis ablutionswith the aplombof someonewith morethan one bathroom.I waitedin the hall,magazine in hand,dreams caughtin my hair,poetry under my fingers,carefully foldedover to morning.This little poem is dedicated to my brother-in-law as the clan gathers in a one-bathroom-house, and is somewhat inspired by Dorianne Laux' column, "Poetry: Writing From a Lived Life" in Writer's Digest,

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-18489777213004057282009-11-03T01:33:00.000-08:002009-11-03T01:39:42.429-08:00

What remains here at Stirling Castle: a raven hops on a castle wall, the sun glints on stone palaces and yellowing leaves,a gargoyle's head, two artisans weave a tapestry, mille-fleur,a thousand flowers bloom red and blue and green,the unicorn's legs picked in black and white.Afternoons for cream tea and scones with sultanas, plump and dark,your hand shakes slightly as you add sugar,pomp and

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-34837947459529358782009-10-20T14:06:00.000-07:002009-10-20T14:12:23.883-07:00

I don't really know if this is possible. We'll be in Philadelphia and Spokane for November, then to Costa Rica, but I've signed up for NaNoWriMo. This crazy and rapidly spreading writing scheme has thousands of participants, each writing 50,000 words in one month. That's one incredible draft. And we all start with word 1 on November 1. So, poetry to the side, revisions to the side, I'm

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-73380995178472393302009-10-13T00:16:00.000-07:002009-10-13T00:47:59.614-07:00

A maiden waits in leafy bowerin quiet repose, bound in terror, long hours gone, her forehead gleamswhite, her eyelids droop in dreamsasleep, her hand falls open. The unicorn, of jeweled eye and jeweled horn,approaches slowly. With bated breath,hunters watch the maiden sleep, a little death.Is she virgin, the hunter hisses. The unicorn will know: Its nostrils flare, he dips his head, once,

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-89291985790947793652009-10-10T13:06:00.000-07:002009-10-10T13:18:21.878-07:00

Native American traditions say We cannot tell someone else's story.We can only tell the stories that belong to us.Yet I stop in front of this spirit maskin this glass case in this museum, remembering.The mothers tell us, “Don't go into the woods alone.Ghost woman waits for you, her round mouth cooing, her long hair drifting pine needles as she walks hunched over, singing.The forest is dark.I

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-71429833224239976062009-10-08T04:18:00.000-07:002009-10-08T04:49:03.595-07:00

My very bones are tired as we pass through the Great Glen.Its trees shimmer yellow and bow down, leaves on the ground. Once green ferns now brown to bracken;now the last flowering before winter, purple heather covers the hills.Here, Jacobite rebelsonce fled into the hills, no respite, no cover, no mercy. All under seventy put to the sword.The elders must have felt they lived too longto see this

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-47370090764494642792009-09-21T10:06:00.000-07:002009-09-21T10:13:47.601-07:00

Washed up on the strandlinebetween wave and rocky beachthat marks the furthest reach of the sea,I find, half-buried in a bed of kelp,a curious lucent closed pocket, tendrils dangling from each corner,so named a mermaid's purse.Within, a tiny dogfish quivers alive,waiting for the moon to rise,the waves to return,life to begin.Photo taken at the Brough of Birsay, Orkney, Scotland, September, 2009.

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-34007468362577037262009-09-19T23:42:00.000-07:002009-09-19T23:57:36.569-07:00

She resides on my left inside ankle,a small mermaid, tail curling, her auralike a string of bright green seaweed,spilling runes I cannot read.But I know you, Moira,traveller of long journeys,survivor of storms,sister of the deep sea.Last week's Sunday Scribblings asks us to write about a tattoo, imaginary or real. These days I'm deep in research here in the very beautiful stone city of Inverness

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-6277387573300522712009-09-09T02:49:00.000-07:002009-09-10T14:54:55.784-07:00

Don't speak,words will only steal the moment.Lean instead toward this stone,this standing stonemarked by yellow lichen.Listen.You may hear a mighty thrumming4,000 years old, the earth tilts,the elders sing the sun into rising.All unfolds at the proper time,even you here standing,as silent as a stone. Written in response to a visit to the Ring of Brodgar, on the West Mainland of Orkney, a

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-47884428105623111802009-09-08T03:03:00.000-07:002009-09-08T03:24:10.714-07:00

As we trudge up Dundas Crescent at five o'clock,one by one, the crows of Kirkwall flockto land on eaves and roof lines,their black wings tucked close to spines.And on and on, still they fly downto land along the rooftops, somehow boundto this city of 6,000 souls near the sea,as darkness falls, their calls a screeof sound, nor sad nor sweet,above these stone houses still so neat,these narrow lanes

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-88994510306511820712009-09-03T18:29:00.000-07:002009-09-08T03:02:46.309-07:00

She has already ascended the ladder,above the makeshift stage.Her attendant, white-suited, awaits,red umbrella ready.A wave of her hand,the performance begins, a delicate sliding forward of her foot,legs decorously covered in blue silk,she glides forward,above them all, to dancesuddenly, improbablyin the air. The ladies in the audience, long skirtscarefully arranged, sit at leisure,their backs

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-44153221430268648082009-09-05T02:23:00.000-07:002009-09-05T02:26:08.827-07:00

Robert Frost would not like it here.Stone walls abound,stone houses too, green lawnsmeticulously maintained.And yet today we walked in Merdun Wood,a ramble along muddy paths,past ravens rising from the trees,and rain-swollen streams,past a woman with a large black dog and a blank stare.We follow the path less taken,far from gardens or tea, or appointed times. Out here, a stranger makes our

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-67281857956606233412009-08-25T05:05:00.000-07:002009-08-25T05:09:56.950-07:00

If I truly understood nature, I would say all is mathematics,the deepest blue of morning glorybalanced at day's end,a summer night so hot,I long to addmy own rhetoricto crickets' endless call,all intricately connectedin smaller and smallerequationsuntil, as night falls still,I see the starsthrough heavy, humid trees.This summer, access to internet is more than sporadic. I'm participating in

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-56430146542724110902009-08-18T14:29:00.000-07:002009-08-18T14:35:16.588-07:00

I’m at the deli, entranced:Whitefish salad, herring in cream,chopped liver, knishes and fishessmoked, kippered or Nova.It’s crowded, the aisles too narrow;behind the counter, five men inwhite aprons: Who’s next? Who wants salty black olives, rye bread, seeded or plain,Swiss cheese or American, corned beef or fresh chicken.Try the home-made coleslaw.You won’t regret it. The tomatoes, field corn

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-14002062733312393102009-08-09T04:41:00.000-07:002009-08-09T16:43:26.696-07:00

At 96, she remembers very clearlythe colors she chose, where the quilt was madeand when. Her fingers outline the pattern,one of her own making. She smoothes the coverletand notes a torn stitch that needs repair.I start a fabric copy,stitch and turn and stitch again,making something new from this old quilt. We talk of days far in the past, her life onthe oil fields of Michigan in the 1930s,

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-38788873437705317992009-08-03T19:08:00.000-07:002009-08-05T11:27:01.374-07:00

Last night a thunderstorm,covered the stars, darkness;a crack of lightening sudden, complete.I hid my weakness:Nature doesn't patronize. Out near Duck Lake,I heard a loon cry this morning,one small trill, then silence.A barred owl sat on the fence for the longest time.Under these Jack-pine trees, I feel safe,safe from even the strongest rain.NOTE: This poem is in response to Three Word Wednesday

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-62435731027140330272009-07-11T07:33:00.000-07:002009-07-11T07:35:35.534-07:00

I sink into your eyes, shift and sink,child of mine now grown, an indulgence to remember you were once small.I remember your first days. I rocked you in my arms and sangand dreamed of this,two women walking in a Japanese garden,two women sitting in a coffee house,but one is saying hello,the other saying goodbye.

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-42259561176202364922009-06-18T07:29:00.001-07:002009-06-18T07:29:53.646-07:00

I awake speaking Spanish, not sure where I've slept. I hear strange bird calls,and the sky is darkwhen it should be light.Tomorrow seems an ocean,impenetrable, and I find myselfthinking of gardens crowdedwith trumpet liliesand hummingbirds.My daughter saysI've flown too fast.She holds my hand and tells memy spirit will catch up.I am home.

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17244908.post-7149828421999899712009-06-02T19:55:00.000-07:002009-06-02T20:18:03.918-07:00

He calls the birds downfrom the sky, first one, then another. They perchon the topmost branchespeering down, as if to seeinto his heart and knowwith a final certaintywhere they belongin this net of soundwhich is part of the trees,the water, the sun, and in the morning,this desert altar, replete with conches,rattles, wooden staves carvedinto birds that liftlike waking dreams into the sky,leaving

Bethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12682622561621269515bluebethley@yahoo.com8