Poetry Journal

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I decided to begin an exploring poetry notebook but didn’t like its flimsy yellow cover, so I glued on a sheet of cardstock from my Mariposa collection and then one thing led to another. I gessoed the edges near the spiral to cover the yellow, added a Photoscape collage, then blocks of lettering made from the leftover cardstock. The back cover got a different pattern cardstock, a Wordle and some text. A pretty envelope went inside the front cover to hold collected bits, but the inside back cover is still unadorned and sad; maybe I’ll do that later. Right now my floors need swiffering.

 

Not Here, but There

I have a specific blog devoted to writing for Soul Food and I will be using that now and then.

 

Dream Housekeeper (The Land of Dreams)

Fast asleep, I hear the rhythmic thud-whisk-thud-whisk of a straw broom sweeping nearby. I shift position and slide into, rather than out of slumber, happy to let someone else clean for a change.

My eyes shut, body blissfully relaxed, I recognize the sound of cabinet doors gently opening and clicking shut and tip-toing footsteps that seem oddly metallic. I hold my breath to listen more intently and realize someone is in my bedroom going through my things. Survival instincts kick in and whatever wisp of a dream still remains bursts like a pricked balloon. In an instant, I’ve flung off the blankets and am up and on my feet.

“Who the dickens are you?” I ask a trembling, barrel-shaped woman dressed in a haz suit and combat boots.

“One of the dream housekeepers. I’m supposed to tidy up your mind so that you can start fresh each day. I tried not to wake you, but I guess I haven’t got the hang of things yet; you’re my first customer.”

“I fell asleep in the Land of Dreams?” I ask, not believing it for a moment, and she nods her head vigorously. “I’m not awake then?” She blinks and shakes her head. “What’s in the bag?” I ask.

“Scraps. Snips and swatches, bits and pieces of your old dreams.”

“My dreams are precious! If you want to toss the worries and aggravating crap I’ve been thinking lately, feel free, Lady, but not my dreams. Give me that bag,” I demand and make a lunge for it.

She sidesteps gracefully considering her age and the bulky suit and clutches the plastic bag protectively to her chest. “Can’t. They’ll let me go for sure. Customers aren’t allowed to see.”

“Listen, Toots, I don’t want to get you fired, but this is my head you’re in and I call the shots. Hand it over.” My words have the ring of an oldtime movie and for the first time I notice the lack of color. Everything, including the woman, is in black and white–I am dreaming!

“You really should let me clear out your dream clutter,” she continues. “You’ve been accumulating it for years and your cabinets are bulging.

Just as I’m about to decline her offer my bedroom dresser shudders, the hinges on the overhead cabinet strain and begin to creak.

“If I don’t catch that, you’ll be sorry,” she warns, making a wild dash to the swollen door and covering it with her black bag.

“What’s in there?”

“Nightmares! Old ones that have been breeding and festering for years! Got it!” she yells triumphantly, as the door blasts off and shoots into the bag along with whatever propelled it. The momentum of the crash flings her to the floor where the bag wrestles and kicks at her as she tries valiently to twist it shut. I rush over, drag her to her feet and together we stomp on the hideous thing until it lies still on the floor. When we back away a thin stream of black oozes out and along with it a pair of enormous fangs and a revolting stench.

Breathless, I can only point in horror at the fangs, while this dumpy old woman leaps straight into the air and lands with both feet smack on top of them. A resounding crunch and they are history.

“Awesome!”

“Steel soles,” she says, turning pink, whether from pride or exertion I can’t tell. “I didn’t realize I’d need them so soon. Now, you’d better let me put some salve on those feet before they blister. Don’t need these any more,” she adds kicking off the boots and unzipping the haz suit, until she stands before me in a faded house dress and fuzzy slippers.

For the first time I realize my bare feet are itching and there’s a peculiar burning sensation in my ankles. When I lift my pajama legs I see tiny red lines snaking their way up my calves.

“Poison! That thing with the fangs was poisonous.”

“Not to worry,” she says with a reassuring smile, “It’s serious but not fatal; after all, we’re in The Land of Dreams.”

 

Mnemosyne’s Stream

Silver and White

The entrance to the Alluvial Mine is smaller than I expected; heavy timbers brace the earthen walls and ceiling. Earth under, above and on both sides of me, I walk down the sloping road carrying a pick and a bucket, while stowed in my backpack, are the small items, water bottle, flashlight, whistle and a shallow pan. A mining hat illuminates the way and every fifty feet or so a dim lantern hangs from a spike hammered into the wall and flings shivering shadows out to startle me.

All this talk about finding treasure and discovering El Dorado amuses me–no, that’s not quite it, I suppose embarrasses is the better word. Maybe age has something to do with it, I’m sure I’m the oldest one here. I know I’m too old to be dropping down manholes and mineshafts and charging off on romantic quests.

I’ve set a smaller goal for myself.

It’s colder than I thought it would be, a still, eerily silent cold, and I’m a bit out of breath from the long walk. The ground begins to level out–and the narrow corridor I’ve been following opens into a circular area. I take the rubbing I made of the manhole cover with the compass rose from my pocket and study it. Eight points surround a circle. Seven passages lead out from this location, one for each miner, plus the entrance passage. I hear the sound of digging from two of the passages. I would like company, but this is solitary work–there will be time to talk if I meet someone in the chamber or topside, but not here.

I choose one of the quiet ways and follow until it comes to an abrupt end. I suppose I should continue to lengthen the passageway and wonder if I can dig in a straight line. Lifting my pick, I aim it dead ahead. Dirt rains down and scatters at my feet. I strike again and again until I’m standing in a huge mound. Soon I’ll be swimming in dirt and blocking my own exit. I’ve seen nothing that even hints at gold and I’ve been digging for hours.

It’s time to go. I fill my bucket and gather my equipment.

I return to the chamber and look towards each point, listening intently but I don’t hear what I’m seaching for. It must be along the entrance passageway. I wander back, the way I came in and carefully play my flashlight along both walls. All the writing advice I’ve ever heard has said: use your five senses, see, hear, touch, smell, taste. There’s nothing to taste and I am already looking and listening. Wait. The cold feels suddenly less intense–a minute difference, but something has changed. I stop and sniff the air. Nothing can grow down here but I smell the scent of green things. Vegetation. There is a barely discernible movement of air, warm air, and the far-off sound of running water. I find the branch-off I’ve been seeking deep in the shadow between lanterns, a black hole easily over-looked when following the light from a miner’s hat.

The less traveled path is narrower and cramped, the dirt ceiling brushes my hair and pebbles trickle down onto my shoulders and back. I struggle not to turn an ankle on the stones and slippery gravel. There is no light except from my miner’s hat and the instant I’m aware of it, it blinks out. I freeze in the blackness, afraid to move and overwhelmed with despair.

Nothing but faith will sustain me now and after a murmured prayer, I stumble ahead feeling the way with my hands, heading for the light that will always exist even in the darkest night. The way narrows again forcing me to crawl and drag the heavy bucket after me until I finally sense, more than see a glimmer of light ahead.

Have I traveled an hour, a lifetime or an eternity? Without a way to measure time or distance I can’t tell, but the ground beneath me begins to smooth, the walls widen and I find I can stand again. Warm, soothing air with a sweetness to it I can’t identify surrounds me and, with deep gratitude, I pray again, knowing how unworthy I am for what lies ahead.

The gate is rusty but the compass rose design is unmistakable, and after a major push the hinges creak open. Dappled sunlight pours through tall trees and the stream I’ve been searching for beckons a short distance from where I stand. I had hoped to find Memory’s Molten Stream and surely this must be it. I sit down on the bank and dip my hand in the clear, bubbling water. A school of minnows reroute themselves around my fingers and then reform instantly into a tight knot once they have passed. When I remove my hand it is clean and healed.

A white butterfly with silver markings brushes my cheek and I hear the whisper of a question. Mnemosyne!

“What is it you wish?”

“The gift of words,” my voice trembles as I answer.

“But you have that already, in your thoughts, in your memory.” Her voice is mellow and soft as a summer breeze. She sits, now in her human form, just across the narrow stream and she smiles at me. Dark hair tumbles onto her shoulders and her white and silver gown shimmers in the sunlight.

Her laughters ripples toward me, as she asks, ” Too easy? So, shall I set you a task? Would that suit you?”

My heart nearly skips a beat. I know I’ll do anything she asks.

“Relax and rest here, by my stream. Let the dreams come and remember them. When you leave, visit the Lemuria garden and take from it what you need. It is all there.”

“May I return here?”

“Any time you wish.”

“I was digging for gold,” I tell her, “to wash in your stream, but there’s nothing here to pan.” I hold up the empty bucket I struggled so hard to bring.

“Nothing? Are you sure?” Her voice quiets again to the whisper I’d first heard and wings again touch my cheek as she flutters off.

A single grain of pure gold gleams in the bottom of my empty bucket