Dragons

A Note To A Soul-Brother

Dragons, huh? Suddenly
you’re playing with dragons?
When did that happen? And just
what is this connection between us?

The dragons who come to me
live on their own planet
in their own dimension.
They cross between the worlds.

They are my friends. I might even
be one of them, from some ancient
past existence, they feel so true.
They are swirling around me now.

Is it this or some other mob
hanging about with you?
My friends are loyal, but
their tribe has room for many.

You are red dragon today,
you tell me. So you merge?
My closest friend stays separate,
though linked; she is midnight blue.

She is chaos dragon. I won’t
tell you her name. Well, not
in a public poem. I know them all
by name, and by their shape and colour.

I called one day and they came,
the first two. Others later.
Sometimes when friends need help,
I ask and dragons attend them too.

Phil, who wasn’t sure of believing,
felt the breath of his protector
warm on his cheek, gently,
one night while he washed the dishes.

I see that the dragons you know
present you with their images
in flames, or hunks of crystal. I wonder
who they are and why they come to you?

 
NaPoWriMo Day 10

You're the Reason I ...

Wednesday prompt: Write a poem on 'You're the reason I (blank).' You decide what the blank is and who the 'you' is.

I'm late with this one. Didn't get it written until Sunday; then had to let it sit awhile after much tweaking, before I could see if there was more work to be done.


I think of a strange desert,
and you’re the reason.
Wild wolves and coyotes
lurk outside your cave.
The dog-wolf you claimed as protector
cowers beside you, afraid.
But you are not afraid.

You write of wandering,
of meeting the earth
on the earth’s terms.
(I steal your words
that entered my head
with the force of truth.)
You are learning, you say,
in small steps.

Beyond the far edge
of the vast Pacific
and further, deep inland,
you sit at a public computer
on a brief visit to town.
Time is short, but you find
enough to send one message.

Here in Australia
the desert is harsh.
It kills people.
Strangers it kills quickly.
We’re taught early:
“Don’t leave the road.
And if you break down,
don’t leave the car.”

There are no wolves
and very few caves.
This is no country for wandering.
How can I imagine where you are?
You mention a mountain, a stupa.
You plan a pilgrimage.

You’re the reason I play
with these contrasts,
waiting today for customers
at my stall in a cold market.
The wind-chill defeats
the clear sky, the climbing sun
bright silver through the trees.

I huddle in my jacket
of black wool,
pulling it around me closer.
The last of the summer tourists
went home weeks ago.
The locals, with dazed faces,
totter past in the wind.
It’s not a buying day.

You’re not the only reason
I’m dreaming of heat
and other places!
But you are the reason
I turn in my dreams
to an unfamiliar corner
of New Mexico.

And I think you move and travel
in the country of your soul –
as I in my tropics, despite
the shock of even a short winter,
am also right at home.
Yet, you’re the reason I wonder
what other lives and dreams may be,
what landscapes unexplored.

15/6/08

Serendipity

April Challenge 24: Use a photo to create a poem.

He comforts me, this little dog
in the picture, big ears cocked
(the sort of ears you need
if you're mostly wolf)
and his eyes fixed on me
quizzical, knowing.

He sits by a set of drums
on the floor of a desert –
white sand and stones,
pale, tangly scrub –
and waits for a word
from his human comrade.

I've had a wild five months!
Old friends ill or troubled,
my marriage uncertain,
my cousin dead. And all that
trouble with my son. I'm glad when
this dog pops up on my desktop.

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2008

27/4/08

Familiars

Small and high and white,
the moon tonight
is full and very bright.

I stand outside in my garden
late and alone,
drawing Her down.

Where my frangipani blooms,
reality melts. It seems
there is desert; a cave forms.

Shadows in the far corner
take shape, grow darker.
A wolf's nose. A man's tall figure.

Across the world
between the worlds
our gazes meet and hold.


21/4/08

Sorry

April PAD Challenge 12 Prompt: We're going to write an apology poem. You can apologize for ending a relationship, breaking a chair, or maybe you can even apologize for not being apologetic.

Sorry


for loving you
sorry for leaving you

sorry for saying yes
sorry for saying no

sorry for hello
and sorry for goodbye

sorry for all the years
and for these recent days

sorry now
and sorry forever

sorry sorry sorry
sorry

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2008

13/4/08

The Screen's a Window, Or …

April Challenge 11: The prompt for today is to describe something--only one thing--that is either very interesting to you or something you think is often overlooked and taken for granted.

The screen's a window, or is it an easel?
I see through to you there
on the other side of the country
the opposite edge of the world
and you see me – or do you? –
seeing my words.

The background, which can be
foreground any time I choose,
has many revolving images;
I am the one who chose them
and set them to revolve.

Trees and flowers and fantasies,
a blade of grass, a drop of water,
a certain dog with ears cocked,
a set of drums, a certain man.

Wake in the morning,
open the bed,
turn down the curtains,
switch on the cats,
feed the computer….

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2008

13/4/08

The Man with the Wolf

The man with the wolf
has gone into the desert,
into the silence.

The wolf at his side
is not the one that I knew,
and doesn't know me.

The small timber wolf,
his companion when we met,
has left forever.

That link is broken
and now I can't see the dance
beside the campfire.

I wonder if he
sees my dance by the river
under the dark moon?

Missing San Antonio

The small white square of the Alamo
was a glimpse only as we sped past,
one building in a street
of newer, taller, wider forms
that had it surrounded.

It looked ridiculously tiny
but pretty; its crenellated rim
like an edging of lace.

It was natural, I suppose,
that my mind would turn
to the old, sweet song about
the rose: Rose of San Antone,

Where in dreams I live
with a memory …
An interlude of joyful
dancing music, players
like jesters and troubadours.

And the tall stranger afterwards,
talking of shades and angels.
Enchantment strange …
but we had to go.

Broken song …
It plays in my head now
each time I recall those moments,

a tender lament
for dreams half-remembered,
that never were, or might have been....
Deep within my heart …
by the Alamo ...

Submitted (several years later) for dVerse Poetics: Trip the Poem Fantastic

Morning Routine

1. Wake too early,
embraced by heat.
The local weather? Or is he —
already out and about —
sending me warm thoughts?
My own thoughts are warm.
I stretch and snuggle
and start this morning’s poem in my head.

2. Look at the clock
with the usual surprise.
Wherever I am, in what country,
my body always wakes me up
after only five hours’ sleep.
Don’t talk to me about eight hours.
It isn’t the light that does it;
it’s still dark and my curtains are closed.

3. Get up. Pee. Head for the kitchen.
Examine more lines of the poem forming.
Repeat them aloud so as not to lose them.
Boil water to brew coffee.
Leave breakfast for later.
Take the cup back to bed.
Pile up the pillows behind my back.
Settle with coffee, notebook and pen.

4. Think censored thoughts.
(This has actually been going on
the whole time.) Also think
soft, sweet, sentimental thoughts (ditto).
Experience delightful spasms,
involuntary, aroused by thought alone.
Start scribbling. Sprawl. Scratch head
with end of pen. Sip coffee.

5. Remember last night —
jumping around on a low stage
with poets and musicians.
Already, here with these youngsters,
I find community.
They love me. I love them.
I’m wild and funny.
They say I’m a legend.

6. Re-examine clock.
Not yet an hour.
Decide it’s too early to phone,
knowing it’s probably not.
Imagine a conversation.
Realise they never go as imagined.
Turn into awkward adolescent.
Defer the call for now.

7. Think of his voice. Roll over
on tummy and squirm. Think of
his hair, his eyes, his everything. Wish
he could have seen the poet last night:
no glamour, just herself, in old black daks
and t-shirt, having a ball. Be deliciously aware
that happiness is a cool scene and a hot lover.
Be deliciously aware that happiness is now.

April 2006

This Morning

I wake hearing the ocean
thunder at my back door
like wind in the trees.
… I am not at home,
there is no ocean.
The trees outside are still
against the lightening sky.

The roar of the spirit wind   
is full of you; I breathe in deeply
the knowledge of you in my life.

The sound of wind or ocean
surges again. It might be a plane
or a truck. I think you must
be awake by now. I imagine you
waking, stirring and stretching
like a big cat. I imagine lying
next to you, stroking your body.

A cardinal flits through the branches
outside my window. I breathe
in Texas, a new day begins.

Note: Texas is very far away from my home in Australia

Linking (nearly 11 years later!) to The Tuesday Platform for 13 Feb 2018 at "imaginary garden with real toads"

Promises

Last night I made vows.
I will keep them.

I promise to love you
all my life. I believe
I will love you longer than forever.
I promise to share with you
whatever wisdom I have or acquire.
I forgot that you’re likely to get
all my folly and ignorance too.
I promise to send you energy
ongoingly for your wellbeing
and empowerment. This I have already
been doing ever since we met —that night
and every night. And finally, I promise
to stay in touch with you, if you
stay in touch with me, keeping me
up-to-date with your contact details.
I came so close to missing you!
I want … more than is possible,
but will rejoice in communication.

I ask for nothing in return.
I may ask for things, I probably will —
but nothing is owed. Nothing.
No obligations, nothing you don’t choose.
This I decided from the first,
not knowing if I would even
see you again. This is
my free choice. This
is my response to you.


The great advantage of time and years
is stepping into truth.
Believe me, as I believe you.



18 April 06 8.15am

Fib*

Dave—
why
do I
get stupid
when I’m around you?
I become a 15-year-old
on her first date and terrified of not being liked
on closer acquaintance. Bear with her, please. She’s just 
   shy and awkward, stunned by your beauty.

April 2006


* This name is nothing to do with telling lies! It's the name for Fibonacci poetry (aka Fibetry) based on the Fibonacci mathematical sequence applied to syllable count per line. The number of syllables in each line of the poem is the sum of the previous two lines: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, and so on. (The last two lines above are really one line, which is too long to fit into a one-line space.)

In this particular poem the first line doubles as title.