Amputated Moon

Climb along

            fractured

                        rock bed

                        follow the

            water flow

upward

rise into

            the backbone

                        of the east–

the mountains of Appalachia

This mother-river

            who tames one

            rebellious rise

            after another

River

            who renews

            soil, rock and

            landscape

This mother-river

            erases the old

            makes way for the new

 Pamela Olson

 
The New River is considered to be one of the oldest rivers on the planet and the current Appalachians rose around it; the river flows into the mountains instead of out of them.

Crow flies in near dusk

inky streaks across the sky

the shadow-bird nears

Pamela Olson, 2/25/08

This poem was written in

response to the prompt

from Haiku: One Deep Breath.

The Lord set me down in the valley,

            the fertile crescent beginning.

It was full of bones:     clavicle, carpal, calcaneus

            lying in the valley:       fabella, femur, fibula

                        and they were very dry.          hamate, hyoid, humerus

He led me around them:         ilum, incus, lacrimal

            in a slow dance:          parietal, patella

                        kicking up the bone dust:        sacrum, scapula, sternum

            stirring the breath of God.       tibia, talus, turbinate

Can these bones live?

Higher, higher they are piled

            800,000-plus dry bones

                        wrapped with sacred cloth:     red, whte and blue

            young, strong bones

groaning in their sorrowful hymn.

Still I dance around

            Seventeen-million more bones

                        lying on their natal ground.

And the dust swirls

            forming a cloud of garnet

                        raising the scent of blood.

Listen, mortal,

            your brother’s blood

                        your sister’s blood is crying,

crying out to me from the ground.

The sobs form the walls of this valley

            and its rhythm-beat

                        drives your dance.

Then He said to me,

            Prophesy to these bones, mortal.

So I prophesy.

            The bones fall together

                        end to end:      metatarsal, malleus

            bone to bone:  maxilla, vertebrae

sinews and flesh echo in the waiting silence.

Prophesy to the breath, mortal.

I prophesy,

            and the breath comes             from the north

                        and the breath comes             from the south

            and the breath comes             from the east

and the breath comes             from  the west

The dead cry out—

            our bones are dry,

                        our hope is lost;

each hour more join our valley with no end in sight.

Who will see us?

            Who will hear us?

                        Who will bring us peace?

And the Lord said,

            Prophesy mortal, prophesy.

*Based on Ezekial 37.  Bone numbers are derived from Iraqi Body Count and US military deaths multiplied by the number of bones in the human body.

Mostly it’s just Pam

one syllable

beginning with a puff of air

ending with a hum

It has been Pamela

on important papers in my life

birth, baptism, marriage,

driver’s license, tax statements

Only a handful

have ever called out

Pammie

it feels like something from the past

My father wrote to

Pammie

while he did tours of duty

in Viet Nam

A friend

recently deceased

also called me Pammie

I can hear her say it in my mind

I have wanted to change it

maybe to Kristine

but the change never

had the chance to stick

So I will remain Pam

short and to the point

beginning with a kiss of air

ending with a hum of song

Pamela Olson, 2/23/08

This poem was written as a response to a prompt from Poem, a virtual poetry group.

blue as my grandfather’s eyes

which are mirrored in my mother’s

and mirrored in mine

passed down the generations

like precious gems

maybe sapphire mixed with aquamarine

but somehow more gray

with flecks of darkness

scattered across

blue as the fjords

that my ancestors

traveled across

on a cloudy day

that threatens

snow

now the blue

has stopped its journey

remaining only in my eyes

blue as my grandfather’s

blue as my mother’s

blue

Pamela Olson, 2/22/08

This poem was written in response to a prompt at Word Catalyst Writers.

I want to remain completely still.

You may find me suspended in the sky

with the birds and clouds dancing around me;

perhaps in the Pacific

lying within the great currents

feeling the water flow above and below me.

Maybe I’ll stand in a field on a sunny day

my arms outstretched as a sundial

shadows following time’s passage.

If I am completely still,

what knowledge will come to me?

What peace?

Pamela Olson, 2/21/08

Let me follow

the moonlight across the rocks

along the wind-marks of the sand

Follow the sweet scent of hope

in the cold night air

of the high desert

Follow the gliding wings

of the yucca moth

searching for the perfect womb

to lay her eggs

Lead me

O moth

to your nursery

in the desert

Lead me

O moth

to the tree called

humwichawa

Can you hear the call

of the desert

to follow the yucca moth

to the Joshua Tree?

Humwichawa

giver of sparse shade

mother of moth

sign of water in the desert

Pamela Olson, 2/20/08

*Humwichawa is the Native American Cahuilla tribe’s word for the Joshua tree.

Thanks to Bolts of Silk for the publication of this poem.

When the last of the weeping fades away

when the shudders of sobs quiet

when the breath slows

While the earth turns

while the stars come and go

while the sun moves north to south along the horizon

Grief rises up and falls down like the moon-driven tides

and the oceans of tears speak in stillness

Pamela Olson, 2/15/08

This poem is in response to the “Grab and Go Poetry” Challenge at Poets Who Blog Interactive. The line, “the oceans of tears speak in stillness” was randomly generated at Poets Online .

My heart lies open

moonlight sighs on mossy ground

waiting for your touch

Pam Olson, 2/13/08

 

 

 

 Here I stay

between land and sea

neither here nor there

ribs and keel stuck fast

waves wash over and through

marked by tides and storms

you watch time’s passage

by my disappearance

timbers sent seaward

ship logs and maps

float toward shore

proof that I once sailed forth

north and south along the currents

in and out of ports

carrying cargo and crew

long gone now

barnacles, and chitons

have laid themselves

along my curves

content to remain

a part of land

a part of sea

neither here nor there

here I stay

Pamela Olson, 2/11/08