Exhaling clouds into winter’s trance,
Squinting though the frost at bright sunlight,
A tiny woman leans against her cane
With frigid fingers too stiff to move as she
Shuffles to a stop—just a pause.
Wearing a frayed old coat with hem detached,
Her frizzy white hair fringing a stocking cap,
She watches laughing children build a fort—
Protection from a snowman with broomstick
Arms, a drooping cucumber nose, and a staff.
A frenzied turmoil erupts as children look
For a missing boot beneath their fort
Falling down as they searched for what could not
Be found amid a wall—the boot had become
Home plate for the snowman’s staff, a baseball bat.
Her knitted gloves with dangling threads possess
Little grip as she fumbles with the snow
Beside the trampled walkway and tries to make
A softball to strike the snowman out while in
those few moments she is back on fields of play.
Saturday, January 30, 2016
Saturday, January 23, 2016
Crossing
It’s follow-the-leader,
the name of a game of thousands at a time.
In a wave, these wildebeests charge across
a beach of cropped savanna grasses toward
a perilous toil.
A froth of horns
atop this bestial wave flows out of
an acacia woodland and down toward a ramp
between boulders along an embankment of
the Mara River.
The leaders balk—
stopping there to search for courage to brave
swift currents, hungry crocodiles,
and bloated carcasses of kin killed during
prior crossings.
Assorted vehicles
line up to jockey for position, some blocking
the far-side ramps where the herd would climb
out of the water to escape the river's perils.
One wildebeest jumps.
Chaos then splashes
into the boulder-strewn river as wildebeests
attempt to follow one another across.
Currents push the bodies downstream so
their course bows.
Some vehicles move,
open a space where successful swimmers
can climb out of the river and up toward
fields of lush grasses, a feast all the way to
the calving grounds.
Another leader
chooses a different ramp down to the water’s
edge. Lines merge. Then a third track opens,
and three lines mingle. Swimming heads and horns
become a mob.
More than once,
jumpers land on swimmers, water cushioning
the blows. One looses her footing on a wet
ramp, dives in upside down. She rights
herself unharmed.
Some turn away
opting to cross another day. Splitting
the wave, they return to the cropped field. A yearling
hesitates not knowing which direction
her mother went.
Last to cross,
this youngster was neither leader nor follower, but
a solo artist willing to risk injury or death
crossing the mad Mara River during the Great
Migration.
the name of a game of thousands at a time.
In a wave, these wildebeests charge across
a beach of cropped savanna grasses toward
a perilous toil.
A froth of horns
atop this bestial wave flows out of
an acacia woodland and down toward a ramp
between boulders along an embankment of
the Mara River.
The leaders balk—
stopping there to search for courage to brave
swift currents, hungry crocodiles,
and bloated carcasses of kin killed during
prior crossings.
Assorted vehicles
line up to jockey for position, some blocking
the far-side ramps where the herd would climb
out of the water to escape the river's perils.
One wildebeest jumps.
Chaos then splashes
into the boulder-strewn river as wildebeests
attempt to follow one another across.
Currents push the bodies downstream so
their course bows.
Some vehicles move,
open a space where successful swimmers
can climb out of the river and up toward
fields of lush grasses, a feast all the way to
the calving grounds.
Another leader
chooses a different ramp down to the water’s
edge. Lines merge. Then a third track opens,
and three lines mingle. Swimming heads and horns
become a mob.
More than once,
jumpers land on swimmers, water cushioning
the blows. One looses her footing on a wet
ramp, dives in upside down. She rights
herself unharmed.
Some turn away
opting to cross another day. Splitting
the wave, they return to the cropped field. A yearling
hesitates not knowing which direction
her mother went.
Last to cross,
this youngster was neither leader nor follower, but
a solo artist willing to risk injury or death
crossing the mad Mara River during the Great
Migration.
Saturday, January 16, 2016
Her Wheelchair
One hot day, I was driving through a factory town when I saw a woman in an oncoming lane pushing a wheelchair. She probably had detoured into the four-lane street because the sidewalk was being repaired. The wheelchair was empty, but she had a walking cast on one foot. She was hobbling along as traffic swung wide around her.
Squinting in the midday sun, her face seemed to be all nose. Her hair was an unnatural black ratted into a wasp net which listed to one side as though it were melting from the heat. Too old and too overweight to wear tight-fitting knit shirts and shorts, nevertheless she was dressed in them.
Was she fighting the indignities of old age with dyed hair and girlish clothes? Or was she fighting old age with all the dignity she could muster?
It strikes me that many of us have wheelchairs where we sit and wait for someone to push us around. Some of us though, like this old lady, get behind our chairs and push ourselves in the directions we want to go.
I learned later that this lady and her empty wheelchair had been seen shopping in stores. Sometimes there was an old-fashioned boom-box in the chair blaring away. Sometimes she talked to an imaginary somebody sitting there. A parent? A spouse? A child?
I guess pushing a seemingly vacant wheelchair in the middle of traffic is something you can do if you are off balance.
Squinting in the midday sun, her face seemed to be all nose. Her hair was an unnatural black ratted into a wasp net which listed to one side as though it were melting from the heat. Too old and too overweight to wear tight-fitting knit shirts and shorts, nevertheless she was dressed in them.
Was she fighting the indignities of old age with dyed hair and girlish clothes? Or was she fighting old age with all the dignity she could muster?
It strikes me that many of us have wheelchairs where we sit and wait for someone to push us around. Some of us though, like this old lady, get behind our chairs and push ourselves in the directions we want to go.
I learned later that this lady and her empty wheelchair had been seen shopping in stores. Sometimes there was an old-fashioned boom-box in the chair blaring away. Sometimes she talked to an imaginary somebody sitting there. A parent? A spouse? A child?
I guess pushing a seemingly vacant wheelchair in the middle of traffic is something you can do if you are off balance.
Saturday, January 9, 2016
One by One
One by one, they pranced in morning’s gloom
stirring the ghostly mist upon the land.
The unicorns drew near hypnotic seas
tossing their nimble heads and long white manes.
One by one, the virgin sprites appeared
dancing upon frothy waves of dreams
and shifting sands of timeless love to bond
one by one with her arriving steed.
One by one in waters tossed ahead
of braking waves, a bio-luminescence
twinkles as it transforms into azure
butterflies which stream like tattered ribbons.
One by one the butterflies adorn
the fabled horses and phantom sprites,
revealing little by little their graceful charms
as sunlight paints the clouds a fragile pink.
One by one the wizards appear in star-
emblazoned robes, gray beards, and conical hats
with sparkling wands in hand to send this sight
into the mystic world of forgotten dreams.
stirring the ghostly mist upon the land.
The unicorns drew near hypnotic seas
tossing their nimble heads and long white manes.
One by one, the virgin sprites appeared
dancing upon frothy waves of dreams
and shifting sands of timeless love to bond
one by one with her arriving steed.
One by one in waters tossed ahead
of braking waves, a bio-luminescence
twinkles as it transforms into azure
butterflies which stream like tattered ribbons.
One by one the butterflies adorn
the fabled horses and phantom sprites,
revealing little by little their graceful charms
as sunlight paints the clouds a fragile pink.
One by one the wizards appear in star-
emblazoned robes, gray beards, and conical hats
with sparkling wands in hand to send this sight
into the mystic world of forgotten dreams.
Friday, January 1, 2016
Travels, Trolls, & Tropes
Why a new blog? One reason is to get the ‘2’ out of my blog’s web address. Someone else had claimed dreamtreks so I had to use a ‘2’—which I wasn’t happy about. The web address for this blog reveals the name of the real blogger behind dreamtreks2 who is unique enough (at least her real name is) to earn her own web address.
The new title for this blog should give subscribers a better (if less dreamy) idea about what the blog is going to cover. I have to admit the 3Ts make an odd concoction.
Travels form the theme for this blog—travels around the world and travels into reason and my imagination. We go to some unusual places because my husband is a wildlife photographer. These excursions often prove to be difficult for me to manage for health reasons—yet I have a strong wanderlust that refuses to stay put. I’m planning to write about our travels even if all I’m allowed to do is sit and watch others “work.”
Trolls? Trolls represent Guardians-at-the-Gate as described in Joseph Campbell’s Hero with a Thousand Faces. Trolls try to prevent my adventures and misadventures. They create obstacles and problems that I will strive to circumvent or solve during those travels.
Tropes are the brushes I’ll use to paint word pictures so you can see and feel what has happened. Those images will appear in my essays, poems, and stories based on our travels.
These are rather high expectations, I must admit. Any help—any comments, criticisms, or suggestions—from you would be appreciated.
Let me welcome you to this blog. Above all else, my goals are for you to enjoy it.
The new title for this blog should give subscribers a better (if less dreamy) idea about what the blog is going to cover. I have to admit the 3Ts make an odd concoction.
Travels form the theme for this blog—travels around the world and travels into reason and my imagination. We go to some unusual places because my husband is a wildlife photographer. These excursions often prove to be difficult for me to manage for health reasons—yet I have a strong wanderlust that refuses to stay put. I’m planning to write about our travels even if all I’m allowed to do is sit and watch others “work.”
Trolls? Trolls represent Guardians-at-the-Gate as described in Joseph Campbell’s Hero with a Thousand Faces. Trolls try to prevent my adventures and misadventures. They create obstacles and problems that I will strive to circumvent or solve during those travels.
Tropes are the brushes I’ll use to paint word pictures so you can see and feel what has happened. Those images will appear in my essays, poems, and stories based on our travels.
These are rather high expectations, I must admit. Any help—any comments, criticisms, or suggestions—from you would be appreciated.
Let me welcome you to this blog. Above all else, my goals are for you to enjoy it.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
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