I Wonder Why?

April 1, 2022 - This poem, written in 2015, reflected what I thought was a confusing time. Somewhat like the sign above, found in Gerlach, Nevada, I didn't know if it was a beginning or an ending. Now we know: strange times were just beginning. Where or when it will end is still to be determined. Maybe it's just part of the human state with almost 8 billion people trying to make it through the day on one fragile planet.

I wonder why?

I wonder why I, who believes in no dogma,

Who can no longer wear the badge of Christianity,

Keep asking myself, “What would Jesus do?"

And receiving an answer so different

from what I see around me?

I wonder why?

I wonder why we who live in the shelter

of freedom and abundance, allow mega-corps

a free ride while our wounded wander homeless,

our children go to bed hungry, and those who

have never known freedom or abundance

are turned away from our door?

I wonder why?

I wonder why we lock our doors at night and then

turn our backs on the creeping devastation coming our way?

I wonder why we still pour our money into weapons of mass

destruction as we climb into our cars and drink manufactured

water out of invincible bottles that will inherit our earth?

I wonder why?

I wonder why the heroes of our grandchildren are vampires,

zombies, and dead souls weaving their way through a dystopian

world without hope or reason, and why they inflict pain 

on their tender bodies in a search for art and meaning?

I wonder why?

I wonder why we lost our way?

These things ... these joyous things

These Things ... These Joyous Things

elegant, long-needled, sunlit Jeffrey Pines,

clinging rabbit brush draping shadows

across the sparkled and crevassed granite rock,

Walker River riffling through the canyon,

Shingle Mill day use area inviting 

passing travelers to stop, rest, 

admire these joyous things...

these joyous things,

waiting for you,

hoping you see them,

wanting your heart to open,

feel the connection,

feel the eternity 

flowing between you.

9/12/2021 driving Highway 395 through Walker Canyon, stopping to do my gratitude journal in one of my favorite places.

I miss the Eastern Sierra.

Flying Lessons

Most of us who have been using personal computers for awhile have a favorite software that acts like a junk drawer. Mine is Evernote and it passed the junk drawer stage years ago ... after twelve years, it is now a full on attic.  Evernote is an organizer's dream but can quickly become a tangled mess when discipline is slack. 

Charitably, I would describe my organization as mid-level, although it has been drifting toward tangled mess for awhile. With a little prodding from a highly organized friend, I've committed to tidying up. 

It may take awhile because, like any good attic, there are treasures hidden amongst the dust bunnies. One that appeared tonight was a bit of poetry that arrived a few years ago as I was reading about Unfettered Mind, the title of Kitty Ferguson’s biography of Stephen Hawking, which is a metaphorical paean to a life of freedom.

 While his body was locked in an immovable prison, his mind soared into the far reaches of space and time, unbound … unfettered … by the requirements of ordinary life (in large part thanks to his wife Jane’s constant care.) In spite of his decades of paralysis and continuing loss of physical abilities, Hawking said, “In my mind, I am free!”

I became fascinated by the fettered part of unfettered and wrote the following:

FETTERS are those things that bite and scratch,

Claw our spirits, drain our energies,

Withhold the light that shows us the way,

And, distract us from our path home.

FETTERS are the darts of judgment,

Telling us we’re not good enough,

No one will love us, we’re too old,

Slow, dumb, fat, ugly, clumsy,

IMPERFECT!

Darts thrown by the world.

Darts thrown by ourselves.

FETTERS are our neon limitations,

Blank spaces where there should be

Shapely arms or legs, IQ points, money, time,

Energy, mentors, a degree or certificate,

All the things we lack in order to be enough ...

Potholes, sinkholes, wounds, all the missing pieces,

All the many reasons we can’t do what calls us.

FETTERS are the gathered weight of the world:

Too much and too many ...

Stuff, expectations, pressures to fit in,

Be a success; be right; be normal;

Heaviness driving us into the ground while

The weighty expectation of future continuity

Sucks adventure from our bones.

FETTERS are the dark shadows of fear.

Creeping into the corners of our spirits …

Tendrils of failure, abandonment, pain, loss,

Sickness, poverty, entrapment, death,

Calling us to hide, lash out, freeze … or run!

FETTERS nurture the fear that clutches our heart,

And calls us to forsake the clear energy of flowers,

The kiss of morning mist shifting through trees,

The dance of children,

The frosted nuzzle of an old dog,

Or a slow afternoon of friends and family

Gathered around burgers and lemonade,

Joy traded for the weight of pieces of numbered paper.

For the protective shield of our limitations,

For our own acceptance of the world’s judgments,

For the comforting warmth of our hand-sewn quilts of safety.

Thank them, those many fetters, for their lessons,

And then let them go,

One by one,

and

FLY! 

-- Joyce Wycoff

yes, the world is going to end

Curly Manzanita

                                         yes, the world is going to end

                                         yes, democracy is in danger

                                         yes, COVID still sucks

                                         yes, people can be jerks

                                         yes, you can’t change everything

                                                                  however, 

                                          you can find and share beauty

                                          you can stay loving and peaceful

                                          you can be kind to yourself and others

                                          you can stop for a moment of gratitude

                                          you can live the one life you’ve been given

 Morning came with a gift of poetry, giving me recommendations for this strange time we find ourselves in.

I am in the wrapping up process for the second volume of The Granary Tree and the curly manzanita is the the back cover. I so love tree bark.

Olalaberry Lonesome

Olalaberry Lonesome

by Joyce Wycoff

Words call like forgotten lovers,

detouring sleep into lost alleyways.

    Ambergris … aardvark

    Adenoids … alchemy

    Aubergine … apoplectic

    Abattoir … argle-bargle

 

Jigsaw puzzle pieces … 

Seventeen sometimes … 

Dusty, wind-blown words 

follow Highway 66 

like high plains drifters. 

    Dweeb … dangle

    Doggerel … decidophobia

    Dillydally … doodle

    Dandelion … dotish

Every lost word frazzle-worn

from endless attention clamoring

    Calamity … catacombs

    Cabochon … cabriolet

    Candescent … calumny 

    Candalabra … constellate

Purple words with chartreuse edges.  

Dusty, old maid words left too long on the shelf.

Zingy words, here today and  tomorrow … poof!

    Pabulum … paparazzi  

    Pattycake … pendulum

    Panache … palpable

    Pandemonium … pecuniary

Lonely, lost, abandoned, alone,

Solo, solitary, isolated, inconsolable,

Deserted, desolate, empty, estranged,

Rejected, renounced, forgotten, forsaken.

Waiting to be embraced, entwined,

Folded, fondled, cradled and cuddled,

Hugged and held once again 

In the family of words.

    Warp … washout

    Wheelhouse … whiffle

    Wondermonger … warble

    Whack … wobble

Olalaberry lonesome no more.