Catching Moonlight

Baskets

Catching Moonlight © 2013 Bo Mackison

At night, I open the window and ask the moon to come as press its face against mine. Breathe into me. ~ Rumi

 

At night.
When my part of the world is mostly asleep or rumbling in their night games,
warm milk, pacing the floor, listening to sirens in the street far below,
I seek the brightness of the moon.

Its beams slip through my fingers, dusty cool light,
deep breath and I swallow pure light, cleanse those old words,
reverberating, angry. The echoes linger.

I push away their swirling energy before their voracious appetite eats me alive,
nibbles at my heart, carves a cavernous hole
in my chest where the pain and rejection lives.

Wild animal claws.

Moon, dress me with your blue light,
your calm, your wisdom, guide me as I walk away, past the
words flung from darkness, curses to corral my spirit,
you who do not believe in hope, do not steal mine.

I move on, the past drifts into faraway fog
again I breathe in the cool light, step from the shadow
of whispering doubts flung my way,
break from the shackles of your claustrophobic grip.

Breathing freedom.
Cast in the soft glow, awash in light.
I am whole. I am.

~~~~~~~~~~

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC. Rumi inspires poetry, late night in a far-away-from-home airport.

The Mind — An Amazing Container

Tree Shadows, Watching

Tree Shadows, Watching ©2012 Bo Mackison

. . . collect glances, glimpses, nuances, images, and tonalities
. . . remember the essences of performances
. . . snap-shot memories.
~ Eric Maisel, describing artist’s memory in his book Creativity for Life

I read the above quote while taking Eric Maisel’s Advanced Creativity Coaching training and wondered if I could write a vignette using these words — glance, glimpse, nuance, image, tonalities, essence, snap-shot.

I decided to tackle a memory from my childhood, one that I recalled but had never fleshed out in writing. In using the words as prompts, I discovered this was a potent way to kick-start the writing process.

I also discovered that the mind is an amazing container of details. When I focused on a specific memory, I could re-create the setting in my mind.

In this poem, an example of the technique, each stanza addresses a single word, in this order — glance, tonality, glimpse, nuance, image, essence, snap-shot.

Entering Ward B-3 at Jacksonville State Hospital*

The grizzle faced men sit like stone statues in their straight-backed chairs.
Hard to ignore their faces, I sneak glances while keeping
my head down, I pretend-watch my feet.

Tree branches grasped by swirling winds, November trickery,
knock against a window. A blind man curses
each time the branches strike the dark beyond.

My grandfather lies asleep in his bed, the last cot
on the left. A sheet covers his head.
His feet stick out from the edge of the brown wool blanket.

I walk on sunlit shadows, patterns of leaves
on the black and white tiles, avoiding the cracks.
“Step on a crack, you’ll break your mother’s back…”

Rows of metal beds, head-boards of white enamel bars,
windows of frosted glass, more bars; two men play checkers,
another covers his bed with sections of the Chicago Tribune.

These beds are like church pews, evenly spaced
on either side of the aisle; and the nurses station is a sacristy
protected by glass and metal grating.

A ruddy-faced patient, dressed only in striped pajama pants,
peers into the nurses’ station. No one notices him.
He spits on the glass and demands that his toe nails be trimmed.

 

*Jacksonville State Hospital was one of the first state hospitals built in the United States to specifically care for the mentally ill. It was built in 1848. The hospital closed due to deteriorating conditions and budget cuts in 1975, and was demolished.

———————-

Bo Mackison is artist, photographer, book-maker, collector of stories, naturalist, poet, curator and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC.    She and her family spent many Sunday afternoons visiting her grandfather. They often brought Kentucky Fried Chicken and had a picnic lunch on the grounds of the hospital. Her grandfather loved Kentucky Fried Chicken.

From the Labyrinth – Part II

photo(25)

Maiden, Mother, Crone – Entrance to the Labyrinth © 2-13 Bo Mackison

I walk again, collect the sticks loosened
from the oaks by yesterday’s storms.

Gather leaves. The first, a shiny narrow leaf,
The second, full with smoothed points, with a leaflet attached to its stem,
The last, a yellowing leaf, splotched with black, its edges withering.

Maiden, mother, crone.

Rows and Rows

Rows and Rows © 2013 Bo Mackison

From the labyrinth, the rows and rows
of sisters’ stones rise on the nearby hill, precise like soldiers’ formations.
The dead, in their final resting places, each marked with a rock and a name.

Once they dedicated their lives in faith, to love and community. Hard work.
What kept their faith alive, those that remained in their vows?

What happened to the mute ones, the angry ones, the hysterical ones?
The unwanted fifth daughter, the child raped by a neighboring farmer,
the daughter who ran from home with the rag and bone man only to return carrying her shame?

What happened to the ones with startling visions,
those who followed a calling they understood only in their hearts,
those who sought a home, any home, as a safe haven?

Did this sacred community quiet the demons that screamed when the women were alone?
Hold their visions in reverence? Embrace them
in their desperation and their joys?
Accept them with their frailties and in their strengths.

I hear their voices as I walk along the grassy paths.

Friends with Magdalene

Friends with Magdalene © 2013 Bo Mackison

One stone draws me, holds my attention. There lies a polished rock on
Mary Magdalene’s stone. “Friends” it declares.

I could be a friend with the ancient one, His Mary Magdalene, I think,
though I know little of her life, only those I learned as a child,
stories of her cryptic life, the sainted penitential prostitute.

I wonder what I do not know.
What of her story was lost in history? Or re-purposed.

Closing the Gate

Closing the Gate © 2013 Bo Mackison

The church tower chimes twelve times, noon
I open the gate, walk out.
Shut it. Firmly. Shake it hard to test its latch. I am shaken, too.
Bury my grief, and theirs, but hold their stories dear.

I carry their stories as I walk the cracked road.
The birds sing in the ancient oaks.
An acorn falls.

—————–

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC. Recently she has also been pondering labyrinths and journeys.

On Watch

photo(21)On Watch © 2013 Bo Mackison

A lake is a landscape’s most beautiful and expressive feature.
It is Earth’s eye, into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature.
~ Henry David Thoreau

Skies hint of purple,
the sun withdraws.
Winds calm in the heavy summer air.

A tumble of rocks deep
disappear in gray shadow.
Ghost carp glide under the dock.

The spirit trembles, shaken, then
regains its equilibrium
On watch for the first star.

No Trespassing

Beach Scene

Sand Grasses © 2013 Bo Mackison

Sand dunes.
Protected.
No trespassing.

A ragged, twisted, never-ending fence
lines the sandy beach. Trapped
between the Atlantic’s cold waves
and brittle fencing. This is shadow land
cross-hatched, undulating zigzags
etch the sun-baked sand.

Waves in cadence, rush and roar,
past the beyond, murmur in melancholy.

Driftwood weathers silver-gray, a rotting
crab snags in the jagged fork. A purple jellyfish
upside down, adheres to a protruding stone–
will it rehydrate in high tide or disintegrate
in the blistery sun?

Two women walk near the waves,
an elder protected by a red straw boater,
carnival striped blouse, her daughter’s arm.
She steps with deliberation, settling into each step.
Her eyes seek the horizon,
she knows the strength of the tide
swelling near her canvas shoes. The sea holds her gaze
until the daughter grips her elbow, guides her inland.

The waves tumble in, the winds rush through beach grasses
and trees, tangle our hair, blow sand in our eyes.
We swallow grit. Our arms protect
our faces as we hasten along the path in search of the car.

The distant air is effervescent,
like a gauzy veil, one cannot peer through.
It is future, always hidden.

————–

Bo Mackison is a photographer and owner of Seeded Earth Studio LLC.  She strolled the beaches of Long Island and recalled the lyrics of a favorite song . . . “the ocean is a desert with its life underground.”