Perle Champion

Merry paradise falls as
destiny posing, stops
to eat joy, kiss dreams
and fast grasp
celestial means
off to court the stars
frolic mid clouds
drink violet dreams
breathe orange skies
bathe in velvet winds
slide on moon beams
home again
oh dreamscape – so real
much more than
corporeal.

The children asked her again and again to tell them of the before time.  Today, red-haired Jenna, thirteen and serious, asked.  “Tell us of the last day, the day of the Fall.  Please Mistress Seti, tell us about that day.  What did it smell like, taste like, sound like.”

Seti’s clear gray eyes became the stormy slate of a winter sky.  “Smell?  It smelled of smoke and burning things – things that were not meant to burn.  It tasted bitter blood  and salt.”

“It sounded like a lullaby – I eyes grow moist when I hear it.  It was there by the roadside.”  She began softly speaking while sending mind pictures to the children around her.  It was time they knew.

“There by the roadside, a woman lay dead and flies buzzed around her and a little girl sat by her side and held her hand and rocked to and fro and sang over and over ‘ToRaLuRaLuRa ToRaLu RaLa , ToRaLuRaLu, mama don’t you cry…’ singing her mother to her final sleep and I bit through my lip and tears mixed with sweat trickled down to sting the wound, and the acrid billowing smoke made rainless clouds that obscured the sun.”

“It sounded like a lullaby, It smelled of smoke and burning things – things that were not meant to burn.  It tasted bitter, of  blood and salt.

That memory is forever forged into my very soul.

“Who was the child, Mistress?  Did she live?”  Jenna asked in a voice scarce above a whisper.

“Yes, she lived and thrived and she daily makes me proud.  That child was you.  You loved well, and you live well.  Your mother would be proud.

“The oldest known set of footprints… are 117,000 years old and thought to be those of a woman and possibly a child…” (New Scientist magazine, 31 January 1998)

I climbed the rock at dawn and gazed long at the footprints.  The scientists want to cut them out and take them away soon – seal them up in a back room somewhere far away from prying eyes and questioning minds.  Before they do, I must do this.  I step barefoot into the small indents of stone, and I fit.  I knew I would.  Like a glove, the stone holds close my soles.

I close my eyes and feel deep into our mother’s bones, these stones.  Does she remember me?  I remember her, so long ago.  All our works are gone; it is so strange that our solitary prints remain.  What quirk of nature prodded the saving of so small a thing as the trace of two small pair of feet, when all else was leveled and washed away beyond all recall.

The prints tell but a breath’s worth of our trek; they do not show our haste, or the dampness of the child’s tears against my flesh.  They cannot begin to tell of the woman-child I was, the family I left behind all dead, the fear and dread of venturing beyond the ends of the known world.

The archaeologists in search of traces to prove we lived then will be sorely disappointed.  What traces remain are faint and deeply buried if indeed they are there at all.

We few souls have gone on rebirth upon rebirth to the world of now.  Too few of us remember the before time.  I do, and here I stand again, poised on a small precipice, looking out to the march of destruction that looms on this world’s horizon.

The millennia rushed past us at a dizzying pace.  The faithful once again prepare to meet their maker each in their own way.  Armageddon nears again.  It is not the first time, nor will it be the last.

I shake my head and smile; they’ve not yet learned the lesson of the mother, who, ever hopeful, gives us life again and again.  Some were with me then, and some are with me now.  Nature will once again wipe the works of man from her face and banish some of us for a small time, but some always survive. We will wait in queue to enter the willing wombs of those believing in tomorrow enough to harbor new life and bring it forth in joy.

Life is a circle not come full, always ending at the beginning.  We travel new paths and learn new things until, like the one called Christ and many whose names we never knew, we finally understand and can shed the flesh and ascend – never to return again.

© Perle Champion

Here’s to a wonderfully indolent weekend.

I at once enjoy and cherish spending time and

and reflect as the Italians do ‘dolce far niente‘

it’s a flip way to justify the doing of nothing which

has a place in our lives to be sure.

But I wonder, too, how many more days I have

that I can spend many more so out of hand

like so much loose change.

The Robins must know more than the

groundhog,

or they just want to prove him wrong.

There are robins everywhere these last few

mornings from the boughs of barren trees,

to the air and the noticeably greening ground.

I’m’ with the robins –

I’m ready for Spring, even if

I must image it leafing through

the pages of ‘White Flower Farms” catalog or

just watching robins from my aerie window.

Life is about balance.  You’ve given work its due all week long.  Now it’s time to set it aside and get your due.  Stack it all neatly, post-it notes attached, a quick to-do list perched on top, power down the computer, check your work mindset at the door; turn off the lights and leave.

It will all still be there on Monday

The weekend is for family, friends and fun or just plain lying under a tree or basking in the sun or walking in the rain considering the forecast for tomorrow.

There’s lots to do in Birmingham, Alabama if you just peruse the Black & White and the Birmingham Weekly.

I’ve got my itinerary for tonight.  First stop is Forest Park for their monthly “Third Friday in Forest Park”.  All the shops and restaurants are open.  Check out Naked Art’s site for details – – Vero keeps everyone in the loop about her neck of the woods.

From there off to Daniel Day Gallery at 3025 6^th Avenue S.  Melody and Daniel know how to have an art reception – Great art, food and music.

Well, soon as I post this, I’m powering down and I’m out of here – happy Friday y’all.

I love my old Dell Inspiron 750.  It’s barely 12 x 10 and goes easily from home office, to kitchen bar to balcony bistro, to couch.  But it’s 9 years old.  Yep, once upon a time they made things that lasted instead of programming to self-destruct in 2-3 years.  Alas, recently, he caught a serious bug.

I was reduced to my iPhone for answering all e-mails and worse, posting my blog.  Reading that tiny little screen and finding the tag and post buttons without inadvertently pressing something unintended was a nightmare.

The techs at Office Depot on Greensprings were amazed, not only at my Dell’s age, but that it had survived so long without catching anything.  I left him in their care on a Saturday morning and did not get him back until the following Monday.  Although I don’t log on all day everyday, I felt somehow unmoored.  It’s like you car in the shop.  It’s not that you want to go anywhere, it’s that you can’t if you wanted. Rough couple of days

When I picked Dell up, Andrew told me, “you know you may want to consider upgrading soon.  You’ve gone this long, but it is an old computer and it’s just a matter of time before we can’t resuscitate”. 

I thanked him and went home.  I’m not sure I’m ready to trade him in just because he’s old.  I can do everything I need to do just fine.

If an iPad were MS Word friendly for editing etc., that would be my first choice, but it’s not yet.  Couldn’t they ‘channel’ Steve Jobs – he could do it.

I hate it, but I’m looking. Sigh.

I want to know what madness is

and where the edge of its beginnings are

I have skirted its hem and felts its cold breath

raise the hackles on the back of my neck

each hair with a life of its own

a cat’s whisker sensing what

comes in stealth to

rob me of peace

of mind of

me

winter’s kiss lingers

spring’s breath freezes

tender buds born

too soon.

Organized? I’ve read all the articles; I know all the rules.  In some areas of my life, I succeed.  By the door are 2 terra cotta white wine chillers.  They were gifts from some people who know I drink wine, but didn’t pay attention to one small detail.  I only drink red wine.  I found that their absorptive nature makes them the perfect container for wet umbrellas.

Also by the door is a waist-high 3-shelf bookcase of sorts I found at a yard sale.  The top shelf has holds a carved wooden dish. This holds keys, sunglasses, outgoing mail and coupons, my hats…

The next shelf has two doors to conveniently and discretely hold my purse and anything else personal or messy hidden from view (the cat treats reside there- Jazmine’s toll charged each day before I’m permitted to leave for work).

The third shelf holds anything that needs to go out door with me the next day: library books to drop off, magazines to pass along, etc.  The big red bowl holds the smaller stuff.

The bottom shelf holds books I’m currently reading, and the small space beneath it is where I kick off my shoes on entering.

Each day, I open the little door, dole out a treat to Jazmine, grab my purse, toss anything outgoing into a carry bag and I’m out the door. Each day, on my return, I doff the hat, toss keys, sunglasses into the dish, tuck the purse behind its door, kick the shoes under the bottom shelf, pick up Jazmine and head toward the kitchen.

This part of my life is organized to the point of ritual.  But, other areas of my life just flat defy organization.  My studio is one of them.  My writing space is another.  Organization here is a carrot in the dangling just out of reach.  No matter how I try, I never quite reach it.  But I’m working on it.

© Perle Champion