to all Americans,
and to every one else,
I am grateful
for what you bring to our world.
So we have arrived once again on the cusp of celebration, when expectations run high and nerves fray at the edges. In this lovely poem, For The Senses, John O’ Donohue offers us a way through, a way to be for the holidays.
This way demands that we slow down, watch, listen, wait.
May the touch of your skin
“This is Joy Harjo’s ongoing journal of dreams, stories, poems,music, photographs, and assorted reports from her inner and outer travels about Indian country and the rest of the world .”
Recently, a fellow dreamer, Kayla, (www.dreamerly.com) posted this dream:
“Last night my dreams took me to the strangest places – to a little neighborhood of modern buildings nestled among the familiar imagery of my hometown. On our way to our destination, my companion in the dream and I passed a light blue modern structure, a restaurant called “The Almond.” (I think that name is delightful and if I were to start a restaurant, I would surely name it just that!) Our destination in the dream was the house of a woman who served dinner from her home. It was a Sunday, and we were uncertain if she would be serving dinner that night. She was. When we were seated, we were the only ones there, but soon more people came and more and more, so that the room was completely full. A strange feast of the oddest foods was served. It was a marvelous dream, one that evokes memories of Babette’s Feast and that has had me moving through my day with an inward eye and a strange state of mind.”
With Kayla’s nod, I made an attempt to enter her dream and create a poem:
Thirty-Seventh Ave. S.W.
Basks in the glow of yesteryear,
Yester joy, and the abandonment of youth.
Its aura creates an illusion of “All is well,”
When it isn’t….But THIS part is well:
Re-enacting every movie we saw,
I at the top of one vacant lot, a virtual Carol Burnet, singing at the top of my lungs,
“I’m calling you, ooo, ooo, ooo,”
Melania Wozniak echoing from the opposite vacant lot,
“I’m answering you, ooo, ooo, ooo.”
A “gemutlich” time, a hospitable hiatus
From a sometimes inhospitable home.
Out on Thirty-Seventh Ave. S.W.
I didn’t have to fit in where I didn’t fit.
Here, the wild, tomboy-seer
The neighborhood of my youth
Tenders a gift:
“Return to my table and re-member the memories.”
And in the breaking of the bread
© rita h kowats