tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68921875893717312052024-03-13T04:20:06.327-07:00Jackson Hole Poetry BoxThis blog is an archive of poems that have appeared in the Jackson Hole Poetry Box. The box lives at Valley Bookstore and is stocked with a new poem every week.Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-29375827827548201972012-04-26T12:04:00.001-07:002012-04-26T12:04:57.775-07:00BEING HUMAN<span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span>
I wonder if the sun debates dawn<div class="Section2">
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some mornings</div>
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not wanting to rise</div>
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out of bed</div>
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from under the down-feather horizon</div>
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<br /></div>
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If the sky grows tired</div>
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of being everywhere at once</div>
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adapting to the mood swings of the weather</div>
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<br /></div>
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If the clouds drift off</div>
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trying to hold themselves together</div>
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make deals with gravity</div>
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to loiter a little longer</div>
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<br /></div>
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I wonder if rain is scared </div>
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of falling</div>
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if it has trouble letting go</div>
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<br /></div>
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If snow flakes get sick</div>
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of being perfect all the time</div>
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each one trying to be one-of-a-kind</div>
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<br /></div>
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I wonder if stars wish </div>
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upon themselves before the die</div>
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if they need to teach their young to shine</div>
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<br /></div>
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I wonder if shadows long</div>
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to once feel the sun</div>
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if they get lost in the shuffle</div>
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not knowing where they’re from</div>
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<br /></div>
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I wonder if sunrise and sunset</div>
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respect each other</div>
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even though they’ve never met</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If volcanoes get stressed</div>
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If storms have regrets</div>
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If compost believes in life after death</div>
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<br /></div>
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I wonder if breath ever thinks </div>
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about suicide</div>
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I wonder if the wind just wants to sit </div>
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still sometimes</div>
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and watch the world pass by</div>
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If smoke was born knowing how to rise</div>
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If rainbows get shy back stage</div>
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not sure if their colors match right</div>
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<br /></div>
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I wonder if lightning sets an alarm clock</div>
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to know when to crack</div>
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If rivers ever stop </div>
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and think of turning back</div>
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<br /></div>
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If streams meet the wrong sea</div>
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and their whole lives run off-track</div>
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I wonder if the snow wants to be black</div>
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<br /></div>
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If the soil thinks she’s too dark</div>
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If butterflies want to cover up their marks</div>
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If rocks are self-conscious of their weight</div>
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If mountains are insecure of their strength</div>
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<br /></div>
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I wonder if waves get discouraged</div>
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crawling up the sand</div>
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only to be pulled back again</div>
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to where they began</div>
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<br /></div>
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I wonder if land feels stepped upon</div>
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If sand feels insignificant</div>
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If trees need to question their lovers</div>
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to know where they stand</div>
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<br /></div>
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If branches waver in the crossroads</div>
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unsure of which way to grow </div>
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If the leaves understand they’re replaceable</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and still dance when the wind blows</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wonder where the moon goes </div>
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when she is hiding</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to find her there</div>
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and watch the ocean</div>
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spin from a distance</div>
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Listen to her</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
stir in her sleep</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
effort give way to existence</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>-Naima Penniman, Climbing PoeTree</i></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><i><br clear="ALL" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</i></span>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-37718362648871135502012-03-30T10:56:00.000-07:002012-03-30T10:56:29.282-07:00Adrienne Rich (1929-2012) <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b>The Poetry Box honors the life of poet Adrienne Rich (1929-2012)</b></span>, who so eloquently dedicated her life and work to justice, love, and beauty. Upon learning of Rich’s death on March 28, Stegner Fellow David Biespiel called Rich, “The greatest American political poet since Walt Whitman.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Rich was awarded the National Medal of Arts in 1997, but she declined to accept, saying, “I could not accept such an award from President Clinton or this White House because the very meaning of art, as I understand it, is incompatible with the cynical politics of this administration...[Art] means nothing if it simply decorates the dinner table of the power which holds it hostage.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>POWER</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Living<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>in the earth-deposits<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of our history</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today a backhoe divulged<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>out of a crumbling flank of earth</div><div class="MsoNormal">one bottle<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>amber<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>perfect<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a hundred-year-old</div><div class="MsoNormal">cure for fever<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>or melancholy<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a tonic</div><div class="MsoNormal">for living on this earth<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in the winters of this climate</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today I was reading about Marie Curie:</div><div class="MsoNormal">she must have known she suffered<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>from radiation sickness</div><div class="MsoNormal">her body bombarded for years<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>by the element</div><div class="MsoNormal">she had purified</div><div class="MsoNormal">It seems she denied to the end</div><div class="MsoNormal">the source of the cataracts on her eyes</div><div class="MsoNormal">the cracked and suppurating skin<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of her finger-ends</div><div class="MsoNormal">till she could no longer hold<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a test-tube or a pencil</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She died<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a famous woman<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>denying</div><div class="MsoNormal">her wounds</div><div class="MsoNormal">denying</div><div class="MsoNormal">her wounds<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>came<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>from the same source as her power,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>-Adrienne Rich, 1974</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-39895622491609778392012-02-27T09:24:00.002-08:002012-02-27T09:24:32.634-08:00Waking Up<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><i>Look if you like, but you will have to leap.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> – Auden</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In waiting there is hope—there is hope,</div><div class="MsoNormal">and dread: both somehow preferable </div><div class="MsoNormal">to certainty, if outwardly appropriate,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">that may scathe. You are due your ineffable</div><div class="MsoNormal">deliberation, but I’ll concede</div><div class="MsoNormal">in the flash of my waking (in guilt</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">you hadn’t let me drive,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>you fetched a quilt,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>closed</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">your eyes—</div><div class="MsoNormal">morning caught us hungover and clothed</div><div class="MsoNormal">though no accountability exists,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">no reason to diminish, fear, or forgo</div><div class="MsoNormal">this<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>) I was happy. Yeah, I said so.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>-by Jen Coleman</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Jen Coleman is from Lynchburg, Virginia, where she dropped out of high school. She received a fellowship from the MFA program at Hollins University. “Waking Up” is featured in the Fall 2011 edition of Jackson Hole Review, www.jhreview.com.</i></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-83675414844395699022012-02-27T09:23:00.003-08:002012-02-27T09:23:56.083-08:00Destiny Is a Red<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Light filters through a crystal glass of red</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wine smoky and pure merlot</div><div class="MsoNormal">shines a color down to your very soul.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Heart red sounds a pure note</div><div class="MsoNormal">like a Flugel horn from a deep canyon</div><div class="MsoNormal">quiet, then suddenly full of chesty call.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In these passing storms of love,</div><div class="MsoNormal">one minute drenched, the next thundering dry,</div><div class="MsoNormal">A note echoes—in white porticoes</div><div class="MsoNormal">whose columns frame winsome gestures</div><div class="MsoNormal">of tender touch enfolding a young face</div><div class="MsoNormal">in time’s winnowing hand-held by some design.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In these corridors, where destiny walks naked</div><div class="MsoNormal">for all to see, hang ornate tapestries of time</div><div class="MsoNormal">scriven on by human multitudes unguided</div><div class="MsoNormal">save for some design because destiny dances</div><div class="MsoNormal">to a far off horn, blushing the color of dawn’s</div><div class="MsoNormal">light through a crystal glass of red.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>-by Monte Rosen</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Monte Rosen is the assistant facilities manager at the Center for the Arts. His poetry has been published in Birdcage Review, Dakota Home Journal, and other publications. He lives in Victor, Idaho.</i></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-45217390719807812982012-02-27T09:23:00.000-08:002012-02-27T09:23:12.650-08:00Kicking CairnsNothing recommends this boulder <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">over the ten thousand others</div><div class="MsoNormal">in the field, except that</div><div class="MsoNormal">someone else, as lost as you,</div><div class="MsoNormal">thought to pile some stones here.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The chaos that confronts you </div><div class="MsoNormal">will evolve into a pattern</div><div class="MsoNormal">that bigger things broke into.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The freedom measured by each fall:</div><div class="MsoNormal">No one knows where you are.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s easy to make a statement out of </div><div class="MsoNormal">stones piled up within arm’s reach:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Here I have been</i><span style="font-style: normal;">; harder to know </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">which of the piles you come upon</div><div class="MsoNormal">you should kick down.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>-by Rick Kempa</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Rick Kempa lives in Rock Springs, Wyoming, where he teaches writing and philosophy at Western Wyoming College. “Kicking Cairns” is featured in the Fall 2011 edition of Jackson Hole Review, www.jhreview.com.</i></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-55733328311882027002012-02-10T06:54:00.000-08:002012-02-10T06:54:00.680-08:00The Choice<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">My body and soul are entwined,</div><div class="MsoNormal">chained unto yours</div><div class="MsoNormal">until the mental sword releases us.</div><div class="MsoNormal">What then…?</div><div class="MsoNormal">Will my heart be finally silenced,</div><div class="MsoNormal">or will it quicken and bloom again?</div><div class="MsoNormal">Is there a spark in these dying embers –</div><div class="MsoNormal">one to allow mending, to reweave the chains,</div><div class="MsoNormal">transforming them into golden threads of an</div><div class="MsoNormal">exquisite tapestry – a design woven to flow</div><div class="MsoNormal">from me to you and back again,</div><div class="MsoNormal">devoid of the strangling tentacles.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The essence of that choice</div><div class="MsoNormal">hangs in the air like smoke from burning incense,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and yet</div><div class="MsoNormal">I cannot choose, oh God…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>not yet…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>-by Claudia Gillette</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Claudia Gillette lives in Jackson, Wyoming.</i></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-57312822345476582992012-02-01T07:44:00.000-08:002012-02-01T07:44:06.248-08:00Whole list teabags dance on desks<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Bones of the dresser sound elegant </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">ability, drag and sweep stairs. Far farm studio shakes all </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">different nuts to chew loud pieces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Paramedics save energy laughing all over the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Worse than plans in glass “won’t recognize me the street </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">started fishing well, frozen pond. A long time remembered </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">emergency room. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Huggy people erase the legs of a chair and all this paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Daughters came in fear of lunch pitied by Geppetto’s </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">forceful finish. Stealing across the square, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">the legs of The Wooden Chair. Fell dogs fuss perfectly mountains of </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">confetti on the tongue. Bench journals lunch. James Page mittens documentary.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The poor don’t want, are happy only earthlight weaves to the spot, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">moves on to the best received innocence written on tables, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">enwreathed in ghosts.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ll disappear if one were to ask how erasing any awkwardness </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">candles in the street. Angles bend the line fish a busy room full of</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">shoes need repair.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Deep peg grocery bags change his sign to closed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Guests arrive having picked the familiar face<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ‘ m<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>s u p p o s e d<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>t o<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">think is insistent upon the faith of a trombone someone plays. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the flash of a cackle, she warns, like me, the morning will capture, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">needs to be praised.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>-by Hanz Olson</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="hoenzbadl">Hanz Olson is currently a writer of poetry living in Casper, Wyoming after finishing school in Laramie. His poems have been selected for publication and appeared in <i>Expression Literary and Arts Magazine</i></span><span class="hoenzbadl">, <i>Open Window Literary Magazine</i></span><span class="hoenzbadl">, and <i>Haggard and Halloo Publications</i></span><span class="hoenzbadl">.</span></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-63977073638100384112012-01-23T12:39:00.001-08:002012-01-23T12:39:49.003-08:00Enormous gentle beasts<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;"></span><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">Speaking and recognizing more than humans know</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">Cooperating and following one another until death</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">A female at the stern, milk from her belly</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">Living almost as long as we, yet in harmony</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">Posing a threat only in defense, using their size only as deterrent</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">When they could control and cause infinitely more destruction</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">They are more keen to mourn loss, greet one another in celebration</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">And move on toward the next watering hole</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">Their wrinkled thick skin effective for sun and heat</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">Beauty more deeply expressed through intelligence and remembering</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">Survival depending on knowledge and community</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">Lessons cultivated over 25 million years evolution</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">Better equipped are they than us in so many ways and on all levels</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">Communities strong, traveling far distances together, for food, for water</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">And for love and family, mating a celebration of a continuum, not competition</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">Among these female g<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>iant gentle beasts of plain and jungle</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>-by Laura Garrard</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt;">Laura Garrard is an artist, editor, nationally certified massage therapist, certified lymphatic therapist and Reiki master teacher who lives in Jackson, Wyoming.</span></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-38074240543747179462012-01-13T12:01:00.001-08:002012-01-13T12:01:32.776-08:00At Sunrise<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Just at sunrise</div><div class="MsoNormal">a brilliant white arc flashes</div><div class="MsoNormal">around the corner of the</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dutch hip of my home,</div><div class="MsoNormal">beaks black against the morning green sky.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Looking up I catch only the thrust of eight wings,</div><div class="MsoNormal">long necks wobbling with the beat.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Swans.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They’d not announced their approach,</div><div class="MsoNormal">only soundlessly curled toward the east</div><div class="MsoNormal">to light on still water and feed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>- by David Porter</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>David Porter lives in Jackson and teaches at Journeys School where he is the Upper School Curriculum Coordinator. David teaches students to have an empowered voice in writing and in speech.</i></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-24520787417913815452012-01-06T13:32:00.000-08:002012-01-06T13:32:24.940-08:00Stoke the Red<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"></span>What do you do upon waking up one morning to find your northern world turned winter white, </div><div class="MsoNormal">Wondering, quietly over a pre-dawn mug of tea,</div><div class="MsoNormal">If in your pursuit of peace—all unruffled serenity and communion with silent mountains—</div><div class="MsoNormal">Has been at the expense of passion?</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s been so long since you felt red in this gigantic, pristine white,</div><div class="MsoNormal">You almost forgot you missed it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stop what you’re doing; put down the mug;</div><div class="MsoNormal">Seek the Red immediately.</div><div class="MsoNormal">That fierce, hot, southern thing that won’t be frozen into stillness.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The wild woman who lives inside the wise one.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Take some moments to stoke the red—me? I seek music, the kind that is flounce-filled, foot-stomping, with flames that lick my fingers—</div><div class="MsoNormal">One song leads to the next; something is leading me on, click, click, click.</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I feel that inner gallop in my veins</div><div class="MsoNormal">That stirring, that heating, that happens from</div><div class="MsoNormal">Refusing to forget</div><div class="MsoNormal">That the part of us that sinks into peace</div><div class="MsoNormal">Is the same part of us that burns.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>- by Amely Greeven</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Jackson resident Amely Greeven started out as a fashion journalist, became a health and wellness author, and now writes about spirituality and the sublime. Find her at <span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"></span><a href="http://www.thereishopeinbeauty.com/">www.thereishopeinbeauty.com</a>.</i></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-28245861309167133912011-12-24T07:38:00.000-08:002011-12-24T07:38:14.204-08:007 STARS FOR 7 BEARS<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">A Praise Poem for our Teton Stars: Mama Grizzlies 399 and 610</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>by Lyn Dalebout</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">1. our Bears are numbered</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">610 and 399</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">a daughter and her mother</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">five cubs in tow </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">combined</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">these Bears were given numbers</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">the first time they were trapped</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">marked with ear tags~choke chains</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">a way of being tracked</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">2. we’ve watched them trade one cub</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">traveling</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">between two moms</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">sometimes it seems all 7</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">are functioning as one</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">3. Bears are sidereal Sagittarians </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">born in the underground spring</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">hatched beneath the Earth</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">in the sign of</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">vision</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">birthing the new dream</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">4. we are blessed by</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Bear ambassadors</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">fierce love and protection</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">inhabits their souls</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Grizzly Mothers</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Bear Mothers</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">in honoring </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">them</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">we become more</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">whole</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">5. Ursa Major<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ursa Minor</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">7 stars in each heavenly Bear</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Ursa Major<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ursa Minor</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Great Bear and Little Bear</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">celestial Bears<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>earthly Bears</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">mirror one another</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">emissaries</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">visionaries</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">~how to live amongst each Other~</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">6.are Bears days numbered?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">indeed</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">if we ignore their needs</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">vast room to roam</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>free</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">hundreds of miles to move</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>unseen</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">our Bears are numbered</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">so in deeds </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">we must hold strong</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">guarding the wildness of territory</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">more land</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">that’s what keeps them from harm</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">7.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These 7 Bears</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>are our 7 Stars</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>thankfully</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>~they hold our hearts~</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> </span></i></div><br />
<div class="widget-content" style="color: black;"><i> Lyn Dalebout lives in Moose Wyoming in Jackson Hole beneath the majestic Grand Teton mountains. For more information about her astrological services, teaching, writing and poetry, please visit her web site: <a href="http://www.earthwordskyword.com/">www.earthwordskyword.com</a><a href="mailto:lyn@earthwordskyword.com">, lyn@earthwordskyword.com</a></i> </div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-32812541750044341132011-12-17T09:20:00.002-08:002011-12-17T09:20:36.677-08:00Exquisite Praying Mantis<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In my grandfather’s garden on St. Mary’s Street,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">they crept, stemmy creatures with Popeye arms.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Every day at lunch we assembled toy blocks</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">with letters around the chipmunk’s fountain.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Eating peaches, juice running down our chins,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">sticking fingers tossing pits in the grass,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">watching the clouds fly by and imagining the</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">exquisite animals,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">feeling the clouds filling my eyes, throwing</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">all the strange creatures into shadows of shapes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The winged creatures donned their shadows,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">landing beneath the clouds in peace,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">two and two flew throughout the night,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">and all five felt the magic of flight.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>- by Mary Lynn Callahan, Tammy Christel, Meg Daly, Alice Grant, Sue Mortensen, Benj Sinclair, and Olivia Wheeler</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">This poem was created at the National Museum of Wildlife Art in conjunction with the “Exquisite Animal” exhibit, which runs through February 5, 2012, at 2820 Rungius Road. </span>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-50880004222579535852011-12-17T09:20:00.000-08:002011-12-17T09:20:10.487-08:00Exquisite Heron<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The great blue heron broke her driftwood pose;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">her wings plumed wide, over the stream she rose.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Rising high above the crystal waters,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">a journey to a far off place she goes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Floating on the air </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">the eagles’ wings flow,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">gnashing their teeth</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">on a rumpus they go.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Glistening in the moonlight,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">the blue, blue moonlight,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">shimmering beams of stars</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">dance gleefully in azure.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Points of light coming from</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">how far? No one is sure.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>- by Meleta Buckstaff, Carrie Geraci, Amy Goicoechea, Jennifer Hoffman, Doug Miller, Terry Roice, and Carol Schneebeck</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">This poem was created at the National Museum of Wildlife Art in conjunction with the “Exquisite Animal” exhibit, which runs through February 5, 2012, at 2820 Rungius Road. </span>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-38719984580116013852011-12-08T09:27:00.000-08:002011-12-08T09:27:21.668-08:00Exquisite Chickadee<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Dapper chap in your cap</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">and ebony cravat, sing, sing!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Though darkness brings fearsome shadows,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">within the blackness there be stars.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">So sing into the night,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">sing until the sky shines like diamonds.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In the dawn, the cold rocks grace your skin.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Pick up the red balloon and run.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And the sun </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">calls all beings into life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Livin’ the dream!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>- by Meg Daly, Kjera Strom Henrie, Elizabeth Kingwill, Rob Kingwill, and Abbie Miller</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">This poem was created at the National Museum of Wildlife Art in conjunction with the “Exquisite Animal” exhibit, which runs through February 5, 2012, at 2820 Rungius Road. </span>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-14759520362802865292011-12-08T09:26:00.000-08:002011-12-08T09:26:23.979-08:00Exquisite Porcupine<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">She nibbles on old wooden steps,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">wild roses shrink away in awe,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">ambles on her way</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">poking around… curiously,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">wondering why…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">but knowing not.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The dark lines </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">would lead her back.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The bees get their breakfast,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">“Eat at Joe’s.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I didn’t know I would come</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">but I wanted to.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The snakes undulating all the way</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">through wildflowers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>- by Matt Daly, Fred Kingwell, Wendy Merrick, Mimi, Sue Mortensen, Carol Schneebeck, and Connie Wieneke</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">This poem was created at the National Museum of Wildlife Art in conjunction with the “Exquisite Animal” exhibit, which runs through February 5, 2012, at 2820 Rungius Road. </span>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-48712116986273828442011-11-06T14:44:00.000-08:002011-11-06T14:44:42.296-08:00Marilyn’s Sunday Morning<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I got up very early and thought that I would write</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Of this November dawning while it still was dark as night.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I sat quietly in my leather chair with Sammy at my feet</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">And Jack, our Weimaraner, looking to me for a treat.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">With my journal in my lap and pen gently tapping at my chin</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I gazed out of my window and felt gentle darkness peeping in.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">A peaceful reverie ensued, my pen dropped to my journal</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Jack settled down upon the rug as my mind played with thoughts, eternal.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">When next I glanced about me the darkness had turned gray,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">And I started thinking strongly of a brisk ride to start my day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">With a last sweep of my pen I finished my latest entry.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Jack ran to the pantry door and stood there like a sentry.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I soon passed out the doggy treats sought by Sam and Jack</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Then grabbed Indy and me a bite to eat and left, not looking back.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">My horse, Indy, heard me coming and nickered his delight,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Reaching for his carrots as though he had waited for them all night.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">A quick brush down and saddle up amid some gentle talk,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Then I jumped into the stirrups and we launched upon our walk.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I looked up at the bright blue sky, smiling back clear as gin;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">And felt myself in heaven, as I was riding out – again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">-<i> Harlan E. Finnemore</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Harlan E. Finnemore (a.k.a. Old Ug) is a retired engineer who dabbles in poetry while enjoying life in Salmon, Idaho.</span></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-37070608206704995422011-10-29T07:52:00.000-07:002011-10-29T07:52:19.273-07:00Cynical Travel Poem, with StereotypesLet’s go to the Canadian wilderness <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Paddle canoes across crystalline ripples</div><div class="MsoNormal">See Indians glare and set their traps</div><div class="MsoNormal">Avoid those earthen iron teeth</div><div class="MsoNormal">Watch your step, or else they’ll snap</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or, no, let’s go somewhere different today</div><div class="MsoNormal">How about the famed Oregon Coast?</div><div class="MsoNormal">Getting lost on Portland’s one-way streets</div><div class="MsoNormal">We’ll eat some crunchy Starbuck’s toast</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or see posh artists paint and boast</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, maybe not. We’ll try somewhere else</div><div class="MsoNormal">What do you say, somewhere sunny?</div><div class="MsoNormal">Let’s drop down to California’s bays</div><div class="MsoNormal">Watch plastic people soak up the rays</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then smoggy skies might darken the day</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know, what do you think?</div><div class="MsoNormal">They’re all screaming with personality</div><div class="MsoNormal">Some are urban, some are abandoned</div><div class="MsoNormal">And summer time in one,</div><div class="MsoNormal">is like winter in another</div><div class="MsoNormal">So you choose, or I’ll choose the other</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>- Chantel Roice</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Chantel Roice graduated from Journeys School in 2011. She is enrolled at Pacific Northwest College of Art in Portland, OR. Chantel is contemplating a major in English, yet her true love is fine arts.</div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-47241017991727780572011-10-12T08:53:00.001-07:002011-10-12T09:23:17.068-07:00I Am of the Mountains<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">I am of the mountains…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> and of the wind</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Forged within the embrace</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> of the skyward reaching arms</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> of Earth itself.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">She is within me…and I am made whole</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> in her hands…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">She calls to me…and I come unto her</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> to be taken in…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">To be healed…she fills my </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> hollow places</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> with her breath…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">And I am saturated with newness…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Made known…known fully</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> and revealed…even unto my self…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">for I am of the mountains…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">They know me…as I am fully known…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> they sing back to me the song</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"> that echoes in my soul…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">and I am remembered. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: Garamond;">- Heidi Ramseur</span></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><i>Heidi Ramseur was born and raised in Jackson Hole, where she trained from a very young age to dance, sing, paint and write her little soul out. A performing member of Contemporary Dance Wyoming, her passion for art, dance, and music fuels her desire to share with others the joy of creating. </i> </span></div> <i><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><br />
</span></i></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-32352772430032987952011-10-12T08:50:00.000-07:002011-10-12T08:50:54.403-07:00The Rider<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">A boy told me<br />
if he roller-skated fast enough<br />
his loneliness couldn’t catch up to him,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">the best reason I ever heard<br />
for trying to be a champion.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What I wonder tonight<br />
pedaling hard down King William Street<br />
is if it translates to bicycles.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A victory! To leave your loneliness<br />
panting behind you on some street corner<br />
while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas,<br />
pink petals that have never felt loneliness,<br />
no matter how slowly they fell.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><i>- by Naomi Shihab Nye</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Jackson was fortunate to enjoy a reading from the esteemed poet, Naomi Shihab Nye, on September 19 as part of the Wyoming Humanities Council’s “Civility Matters” project. <span class="content-speakers">Among her many honors, she was elected in 2010 to the Board of Chancellors of the Academy of American Poets.</span></i></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-69647780490601933472011-09-30T16:37:00.001-07:002011-10-12T09:22:07.994-07:00Mountain Time<style>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">We are a mountain people,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Great lovers of land and time.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of seldom trod peaks and valleys,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of swift rivers under stone,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of snow slowly freezing to ice.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We are a great tribe of many peoples,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Great lovers of trees and wind,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of bear and marten, eagle and pika.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We mark our lives by the time of the mountain,</div><div class="MsoNormal">We live and die,</div><div class="MsoNormal">cherish and sorrow,</div><div class="MsoNormal">rise and fall</div><div class="MsoNormal">we become our truest selves,</div><div class="MsoNormal">all on the mountains’ time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh! To be in the moment, to feel the now of hard stone and to breathe the bluest sky-</div><div class="MsoNormal">That is why, we are mountain people,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Living our lives by the mountains’ time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>- Tenley Thompson Bowen</i><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Tenley Thompson Bowen is a wildlife guide and photographer from Jackson, Wyoming.</i></div> <i><br />
</i></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-6032937180536922812011-09-30T16:36:00.001-07:002011-10-12T09:24:51.593-07:00In the Silence<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">In the silence the marbled moon</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Rests blue on the saw tooth silhouette of black pines</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Strung along the ridge and diffuses<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=6892187589371731205&postID=603293718053692281" name="_GoBack"></a> silvered translucence</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Across rocky terrain pocked with scattered drifts and clumps of snow.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"> Muffled thumping from cloven hooves striking frozen ground interrupts.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">I stand, listening in the burning chill of a rising wind,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Straining to discern something recognizable among darkly shadowed trees.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">A puff of hot breathe mists in the frigid air at park’s edge.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Indistinct shapes scramble through gray and black lodgepoles,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Becoming a dozen elk, closely bunched, steaming heat. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">They abruptly halt. One coughs. Then, another. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">The lead cow, ears forward, listens.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"> I can barely see her head turn toward me</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">When shrill yelps and clipped howls erupt ,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Shattering the calm in a scattered, eerie chorus.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">The old cow lunges down slope, leading her throng deeper into the night.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i>- Terry Roice </i><br />
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Terry Roice is the Language Arts teacher at Summit High School, where he helps students host various poetry slams and events throughout the year.</i></div> <i><br />
</i></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-33957342941023221512011-09-12T08:57:00.000-07:002011-10-12T09:21:27.524-07:00Running at Night<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">We ran until our lungs gave out </div><div class="MsoNormal">Yelling at the top of our lungs like sirens passing each other in the field.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Laughing at ourselves and the joy of being irreverent </div><div class="MsoNormal">And then it hit me </div><div class="MsoNormal">Later</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the quiet cold of a lonely bed </div><div class="MsoNormal">That I needed to just keep running</div><div class="MsoNormal">And yelling</div><div class="MsoNormal">That I had so much to get out </div><div class="MsoNormal">That I needed to wail, sob, fall over exhausted and then still utter more</div><div class="MsoNormal">Moaning into the earth and heaving prayers up to the sky</div><div class="MsoNormal">Keeping time with the waves of emotion rolling up from within </div><div class="MsoNormal">The recognition of my truest self</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of loneliness</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of the soft underbelly of being that never gets exposed</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of the most desperate needing and longing for love and acceptance</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>- Hatton Littman </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Hatton Littman is a film & video teacher, independent filmmaker, writer, and private tutor in Big Sky, Montana.</i></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-86191803134257039712011-08-30T16:35:00.000-07:002011-10-12T09:20:59.248-07:00Dark-Eyed Junco <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">tickering, skittish</div><div class="MsoNormal">then purling to trees tiny with trills</div><div class="MsoNormal">hilo de agua…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">kew! indigenous knowledge pale bluish</div><div class="MsoNormal">or greenish egg compact</div><div class="MsoNormal">nest of rootlets</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Greet me Bees rats</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We’ve been called in to the visible world</div><div class="MsoNormal">We’ve been called in</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sombrita </div><div class="MsoNormal">de fieltro</div><div class="MsoNormal">chalice of petals</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Two birds are lost in my breast loose trill</div><div class="MsoNormal">lined with grasses or hair</div><div class="MsoNormal">parallel knowledge</div><div class="MsoNormal">flash in flight Aire voluto…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And the waves my only treasure</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">va y va</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>- Marcia Casey</i><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><i>Marcia Casey lives in Wilson and teaches poetry workshops at C-V Ranch. This poem is a “cento” composed of lines gleaned from field guides, poetry, texts on ethno-ornithology, and first-hand observation.</i></div> <i><br />
</i></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-56758518896603397212011-08-30T16:33:00.001-07:002011-10-12T09:19:54.071-07:00Tidal Locking<div class="MsoNormal">We know the trepidation of the spheres</div><div class="MsoNormal">and distances measured in beams. How near</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">does each arm of Donne’s compass</div><div class="MsoNormal">reach, like spider filament for a truss,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">spinning across a growing galaxy?</div><div class="MsoNormal">We orbit the blackness by degrees,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">our stuck faces, like Charon and Pluto</div><div class="MsoNormal">stretched beyond a desperate sostenuto,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">searching for how to agree</div><div class="MsoNormal">on our topography.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>- Diana Smith</i><br />
<br />
<i>This poem originally appeared in the Spring 2011 volume of the Jackson Hole Review. </i></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6892187589371731205.post-70035463852198440382011-08-30T16:33:00.000-07:002011-10-12T09:18:55.391-07:00Counting Wild Horses<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">The most efficient way </div><div class="MsoNormal">to count </div><div class="MsoNormal">wild horses</div><div class="MsoNormal">is helicopter flights—the great</div><div class="MsoNormal">speed and whir </div><div class="MsoNormal">of blades in air drives</div><div class="MsoNormal">mustangs from the brush</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We count them</div><div class="MsoNormal">three piebald</div><div class="MsoNormal">seven chestnut</div><div class="MsoNormal">two roan</div><div class="MsoNormal">all grey with dust of the plain</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Over the low thrum</div><div class="MsoNormal">of the heli comes </div><div class="MsoNormal">the rumble</div><div class="MsoNormal">of hooves black</div><div class="MsoNormal">cracked from shifting rocks</div><div class="MsoNormal">and shale</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They gallop towards the ravine</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">below them, the river</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Just when it seems</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">we will lose them all</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">they peel from the brink</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">manes swirling</div><div class="MsoNormal">like plover wings</div><div class="MsoNormal">over salt-damp sand</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>- Jenny Minniti-Shippey</i><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">Jenny Mininiti-Shippey is the managing editor of <i>Poetry International</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and a professor at San Diego State University. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">This poem was featured in the </span><i>Jackson Hole Review</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, Spring 2011.</span></div> <i><br />
</i></div>Meg Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04591858603664130635noreply@blogger.com0