BEING HUMAN

I wonder if the sun debates dawn

some mornings

not wanting to rise

out of bed

from under the down-feather horizon

If the sky grows tired

of being everywhere at once

adapting to the mood swings of the weather

If the clouds drift off

trying to hold themselves together

make deals with gravity

to loiter a little longer

I wonder if rain is scared

of falling

if it has trouble letting go

If snow flakes get sick

of being perfect all the time

each one trying to be one-of-a-kind

I wonder if stars wish

upon themselves before the die

if they need to teach their young to shine

I wonder if shadows long

to once feel the sun

if they get lost in the shuffle

not knowing where they’re from

I wonder if sunrise and sunset

respect each other

even though they’ve never met

If volcanoes get stressed

If storms have regrets

If compost believes in life after death

I wonder if breath ever thinks

about suicide

I wonder if the wind just wants to sit

still sometimes

and watch the world pass by

If smoke was born knowing how to rise

If rainbows get shy back stage

not sure if their colors match right

I wonder if lightning sets an alarm clock

to know when to crack

If rivers ever stop

and think of turning back

If streams meet the wrong sea

and their whole lives run off-track

I wonder if the snow wants to be black

If the soil thinks she’s too dark

If butterflies want to cover up their marks

If rocks are self-conscious of their weight

If mountains are insecure of their strength

I wonder if waves get discouraged

crawling up the sand

only to be pulled back again

to where they began

I wonder if land feels stepped upon

If sand feels insignificant

If trees need to question their lovers

to know where they stand

If branches waver in the crossroads

unsure of which way to grow

If the leaves understand they’re replaceable

and still dance when the wind blows

I wonder where the moon goes

when she is hiding

I want to find her there

and watch the ocean

spin from a distance

Listen to her

stir in her sleep

effort give way to existence

-Naima Penniman, Climbing PoeTree

Adrienne Rich (1929-2012)

 

The Poetry Box honors the life of poet Adrienne Rich (1929-2012), 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.”

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.”

POWER

Living            in the earth-deposits     of our history

Today a backhoe divulged     out of a crumbling flank of earth

one bottle     amber     perfect     a hundred-year-old

cure for fever    or melancholy     a tonic

for living on this earth     in the winters of this climate

Today I was reading about Marie Curie:

she must have known she suffered     from radiation sickness

her body bombarded for years    by the element

she had purified

It seems she denied to the end

the source of the cataracts on her eyes

the cracked and suppurating skin     of her finger-ends

till she could no longer hold     a test-tube or a pencil

She died     a famous woman      denying

her wounds

denying

her wounds     came     from the same source as her power,

-Adrienne Rich, 1974

Waking Up

Look if you like, but you will have to leap. – Auden

In waiting there is hope—there is hope,

and dread: both somehow preferable

to certainty, if outwardly appropriate,

that may scathe. You are due your ineffable

deliberation, but I’ll concede

in the flash of my waking (in guilt

you hadn’t let me drive,

                                                you fetched a quilt,

                                                            closed

your eyes—

morning caught us hungover and clothed

though no accountability exists,

no reason to diminish, fear, or forgo

this                        ) I was happy. Yeah, I said so.

-by Jen Coleman

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.

Destiny Is a Red

Light filters through a crystal glass of red

Wine smoky and pure merlot

shines a color down to your very soul.

Heart red sounds a pure note

like a Flugel horn from a deep canyon

quiet, then suddenly full of chesty call.

In these passing storms of love,

one minute drenched, the next thundering dry,

A note echoes—in white porticoes

whose columns frame winsome gestures

of tender touch enfolding a young face

in time’s winnowing hand-held by some design.

In these corridors, where destiny walks naked

for all to see, hang ornate tapestries of time

scriven on by human multitudes unguided

save for some design because destiny dances

to a far off horn, blushing the color of dawn’s

light through a crystal glass of red.

-by Monte Rosen

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.

Kicking Cairns

Nothing recommends this boulder

over the ten thousand others

in the field, except that

someone else, as lost as you,

thought to pile some stones here.

The chaos that confronts you

will evolve into a pattern

that bigger things broke into.

The freedom measured by each fall:

No one knows where you are.

It’s easy to make a statement out of

stones piled up within arm’s reach:

Here I have been; harder to know

which of the piles you come upon

you should kick down.

-by Rick Kempa

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.

The Choice

My body and soul are entwined,

chained unto yours

until the mental sword releases us.

What then…?

Will my heart be finally silenced,

or will it quicken and bloom again?

Is there a spark in these dying embers –

one to allow mending, to reweave the chains,

transforming them into golden threads of an

exquisite tapestry – a design woven to flow

from me to you and back again,

devoid of the strangling tentacles.

The essence of that choice

hangs in the air like smoke from burning incense,

            and yet

I cannot choose, oh God…

            not yet…

-by Claudia Gillette

Claudia Gillette lives in Jackson, Wyoming.

Whole list teabags dance on desks

                            Bones of the dresser sound elegant

ability, drag and sweep stairs. Far farm studio shakes all

different nuts to chew loud pieces.    

Paramedics save energy laughing all over the country. 

Worse than plans in glass “won’t recognize me the street

started fishing well, frozen pond. A long time remembered

emergency room.

Huggy people erase the legs of a chair and all this paper. 

Daughters came in fear of lunch pitied by Geppetto’s

forceful finish. Stealing across the square,

the legs of The Wooden Chair. Fell dogs fuss perfectly mountains of

confetti on the tongue. Bench journals lunch. James Page mittens documentary.

The poor don’t want, are happy only earthlight weaves to the spot,

moves on to the best received innocence written on tables,

enwreathed in ghosts.

I’ll disappear if one were to ask how erasing any awkwardness

candles in the street. Angles bend the line fish a busy room full of

shoes need repair.

Deep peg grocery bags change his sign to closed.

Guests arrive having picked the familiar face  I ‘ m  s u p p o s e d  t o 

think is insistent upon the faith of a trombone someone plays.

In the flash of a cackle, she warns, like me, the morning will capture,

needs to be praised.

-by Hanz Olson

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 Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, Open Window Literary Magazine, and Haggard and Halloo Publications.

Enormous gentle beasts

Speaking and recognizing more than humans know

Cooperating and following one another until death

A female at the stern, milk from her belly

Living almost as long as we, yet in harmony

Posing a threat only in defense, using their size only as deterrent

When they could control and cause infinitely more destruction

They are more keen to mourn loss, greet one another in celebration

And move on toward the next watering hole

Their wrinkled thick skin effective for sun and heat

Beauty more deeply expressed through intelligence and remembering

Survival depending on knowledge and community

Lessons cultivated over 25 million years evolution

Better equipped are they than us in so many ways and on all levels

Communities strong, traveling far distances together, for food, for water

And for love and family, mating a celebration of a continuum, not competition

Among these female giant gentle beasts of plain and jungle

-by Laura Garrard

Laura Garrard is an artist, editor, nationally certified massage therapist, certified lymphatic therapist and Reiki master teacher who lives in Jackson, Wyoming.

At Sunrise

Just at sunrise

a brilliant white arc flashes

around the corner of the

Dutch hip of my home,

beaks black against the morning green sky.

Looking up I catch only the thrust of eight wings,

long necks wobbling with the beat.

Swans.

They’d not announced their approach,

only soundlessly curled toward the east

to light on still water and feed.

- by David Porter

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.

Stoke the Red

What do you do upon waking up one morning to find your northern world turned winter white,

Wondering, quietly over a pre-dawn mug of tea,

If in your pursuit of peace—all unruffled serenity and communion with silent mountains—

Has been at the expense of passion?

It’s been so long since you felt red in this gigantic, pristine white,

You almost forgot you missed it.

Stop what you’re doing; put down the mug;

Seek the Red immediately.

That fierce, hot, southern thing that won’t be frozen into stillness.

The wild woman who lives inside the wise one.

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—

One song leads to the next; something is leading me on, click, click, click.

And I feel that inner gallop in my veins

That stirring, that heating, that happens from

Refusing to forget

That the part of us that sinks into peace

Is the same part of us that burns.

- by Amely Greeven

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 www.thereishopeinbeauty.com.

7 STARS FOR 7 BEARS

A Praise Poem for our Teton Stars: Mama Grizzlies 399 and 610

                                              by Lyn Dalebout

                              

1. our Bears are numbered

610 and 399

a daughter and her mother

five cubs in tow

combined

these Bears were given numbers

the first time they were trapped

marked with ear tags~choke chains

a way of being tracked

2. we’ve watched them trade one cub

traveling

between two moms

sometimes it seems all 7

are functioning as one

3. Bears are sidereal Sagittarians

born in the underground spring

hatched beneath the Earth

in the sign of

vision

birthing the new dream

4. we are blessed by

Bear ambassadors

fierce love and protection

inhabits their souls

Grizzly Mothers

Bear Mothers

in honoring

them

we become more

whole

5. Ursa Major   Ursa Minor

7 stars in each heavenly Bear

Ursa Major    Ursa Minor

Great Bear and Little Bear

celestial Bears   earthly Bears

mirror one another

emissaries

visionaries

~how to live amongst each Other~

6.are Bears days numbered?

indeed

if we ignore their needs

vast room to roam

              free

hundreds of miles to move

             unseen

our Bears are numbered

so in deeds

we must hold strong

guarding the wildness of territory

more land

that’s what keeps them from harm

7.               These 7 Bears

                  are our 7 Stars

                     thankfully

             ~they hold our hearts~

 

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: www.earthwordskyword.com, lyn@earthwordskyword.com

Exquisite Praying Mantis

In my grandfather’s garden on St. Mary’s Street,

they crept, stemmy creatures with Popeye arms.

Every day at lunch we assembled toy blocks

with letters around the chipmunk’s fountain.

Eating peaches, juice running down our chins,

sticking fingers tossing pits in the grass,

watching the clouds fly by and imagining the

exquisite animals,

feeling the clouds filling my eyes, throwing

all the strange creatures into shadows of shapes.

The winged creatures donned their shadows,

landing beneath the clouds in peace,

two and two flew throughout the night,

and all five felt the magic of flight.

- by Mary Lynn Callahan, Tammy Christel, Meg Daly, Alice Grant, Sue Mortensen, Benj Sinclair, and Olivia Wheeler

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.

Exquisite Heron

The great blue heron broke her driftwood pose;

her wings plumed wide, over the stream she rose.

Rising high above the crystal waters,

a journey to a far off place she goes.

Floating on the air

the eagles’ wings flow,

gnashing their teeth

on a rumpus they go.

Glistening in the moonlight,

the blue, blue moonlight,

shimmering beams of stars

dance gleefully in azure.

Points of light coming from

how far? No one is sure.

- by Meleta Buckstaff, Carrie Geraci, Amy Goicoechea, Jennifer Hoffman, Doug Miller, Terry Roice, and Carol Schneebeck

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.

Exquisite Chickadee

Dapper chap in your cap

and ebony cravat, sing, sing!

Though darkness brings fearsome shadows,

within the blackness there be stars.

So sing into the night,

sing until the sky shines like diamonds.

In the dawn, the cold rocks grace your skin.

Pick up the red balloon and run.

And the sun

calls all beings into life.

Livin’ the dream!

- by Meg Daly, Kjera Strom Henrie, Elizabeth Kingwill, Rob Kingwill, and Abbie Miller

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.

Exquisite Porcupine

She nibbles on old wooden steps,

wild roses shrink away in awe,

ambles on her way

poking around… curiously,

wondering why…

but knowing not.

The dark lines

would lead her back.

The bees get their breakfast,

“Eat at Joe’s.”

I didn’t know I would come

but I wanted to.

The snakes undulating all the way

through wildflowers.

- by Matt Daly, Fred Kingwell, Wendy Merrick, Mimi, Sue Mortensen, Carol Schneebeck, and Connie Wieneke

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.

Marilyn’s Sunday Morning

I got up very early and thought that I would write

Of this November dawning while it still was dark as night.

I sat quietly in my leather chair with Sammy at my feet

And Jack, our Weimaraner, looking to me for a treat.

With my journal in my lap and pen gently tapping at my chin

I gazed out of my window and felt gentle darkness peeping in.

A peaceful reverie ensued, my pen dropped to my journal

Jack settled down upon the rug as my mind played with thoughts, eternal.

When next I glanced about me the darkness had turned gray,

And I started thinking strongly of a brisk ride to start my day.

With a last sweep of my pen I finished my latest entry.

Jack ran to the pantry door and stood there like a sentry.

I soon passed out the doggy treats sought by Sam and Jack

Then grabbed Indy and me a bite to eat and left, not looking back.

My horse, Indy, heard me coming and nickered his delight,

Reaching for his carrots as though he had waited for them all night.

A quick brush down and saddle up amid some gentle talk,

Then I jumped into the stirrups and we launched upon our walk.

I looked up at the bright blue sky, smiling back clear as gin;

And felt myself in heaven, as I was riding out – again.

- Harlan E. Finnemore

Harlan E. Finnemore (a.k.a. Old Ug) is a retired engineer who dabbles in poetry while enjoying life in Salmon, Idaho.

Cynical Travel Poem, with Stereotypes

Let’s go to the Canadian wilderness

Paddle canoes across crystalline ripples

See Indians glare and set their traps

Avoid those earthen iron teeth

Watch your step, or else they’ll snap

Or, no, let’s go somewhere different today

How about the famed Oregon Coast?

Getting lost on Portland’s one-way streets

We’ll eat some crunchy Starbuck’s toast

Or see posh artists paint and boast

Okay, maybe not. We’ll try somewhere else

What do you say, somewhere sunny?

Let’s drop down to California’s bays

Watch plastic people soak up the rays

Then smoggy skies might darken the day

I don’t know, what do you think?

They’re all screaming with personality

Some are urban, some are abandoned

And summer time in one,

is like winter in another

So you choose, or I’ll choose the other

- Chantel Roice

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.

I Am of the Mountains

I am of the mountains…

            and of the wind

Forged within the embrace

            of the skyward reaching arms

                        of Earth itself.

She is within me…and I am made whole

            in her hands…

She calls to me…and I come unto her

            to be taken in…

To be healed…she fills my

            hollow places

                        with her breath…

And I am saturated with newness…

Made known…known fully

            and revealed…even unto my self…

for I am of the mountains…

They know me…as I am fully known…

            they sing back to me the song

                        that echoes in my soul…

and I am remembered.

- Heidi Ramseur

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.  

 

The Rider

A boy told me
if he roller-skated fast enough
his loneliness couldn’t catch up to him,

the best reason I ever heard
for trying to be a champion.

What I wonder tonight
pedaling hard down King William Street
is if it translates to bicycles.

A victory! To leave your loneliness
panting behind you on some street corner
while you float free into a cloud of sudden azaleas,
pink petals that have never felt loneliness,
no matter how slowly they fell.

- by Naomi Shihab Nye

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. Among her many honors, she was elected in 2010 to the Board of Chancellors of the Academy of American Poets.

Mountain Time

We are a mountain people,

Great lovers of land and time.

Of seldom trod peaks and valleys,

Of swift rivers under stone,

Of snow slowly freezing to ice.

We are a great tribe of many peoples,

Great lovers of trees and wind,

Of bear and marten, eagle and pika.

We mark our lives by the time of the mountain,

We live and die,

cherish and sorrow,

rise and fall

we become our truest selves,

all on the mountains’ time.

Oh! To be in the moment, to feel the now of hard stone and to breathe the bluest sky-

That is why, we are mountain people,

Living our lives by the mountains’ time.

- Tenley Thompson Bowen

Tenley Thompson Bowen is a wildlife guide and photographer from Jackson, Wyoming.