Collective Sonnet

I will hand deliver you the moon

Ship it wrapped in silken hugs

Hold your breath, it will happen soon

And I will bring you liquid sunshine in jugs

For you, my dear, are the world to me.

And I cherish you as I do life.

I'll hold you lightly so you'll always be free

And do my best to banish any strife.

Silken hugs and poetry for hours

I want to tickle all your many senses.

With wine and chocolate and fragrant flowers

Smash all barriers! Burn your fences!

But with romantic liaisons comes strife.

I'll keep my solitary life.

Collaborative Sonnet

Note: I've indicated the changes in writer with the font changes below.

The crown of fire pulled her on
She grabbed her stick and moved
Her flame tiara was like a dawn
Shouting out that she was proved
That she was valued, honest, pure
And should no longer have to endure
The harshness of the world
She could remain a sweet and innocent girl
And sing and dance and skip and play
And awake sweetly for yet another beautiful day
"So hark, oh crown of fire, heed what I say!
A phoenix I am, not a lump of clay!"
Honest, pure and valient I shall be
With my passion make a tempest of the sea!"

Collective Collaborative Sonnet

She was a bride whose soul was shrinking.
The magnificent sunset of gold-orange left her feeling flat.
She pondered what it was she had been thinking
To marry a man who always dressed like that!
She chided herself-- so petty! So particular!
Why did she care what the poor man wore!
His sex appeal was more vehicular
the Mercedes coupe was a 4-door
His nose hair was a distraction
but knowing the Berkshires, a plus.
His invention of a new contraption,
and his large bank account a major bonus.
For lack of better choices, he'd do
Whatever the girl wanted him to

Collaborative Sonnet
Nov. 20, 2009

I watch the hands of the clock go round
Touching each number, counting
The sound of each tick, tocking a new second found
Crouching in memories, of doing this rounding
Silver lilies breaking through the frost
Dripping blood puddles on the floor
There he lies his hands still crossed
His life brutally ended - his pain no more
And buried beneath this red strained corpse
an envelope stained red and crumpled in half
No one will know, now of course
What led him down this path
Only the frosted lilies know
Why, oh why, he chose to go.

The Winter Walk

The Winter Walk

The clouds were misty and just out of reach over my head, and there was a ribbon of sand between the snow covered beach and the quiet, slush fringed river. Our dog, returning to her puppy-hood was running and circus jumping through the snow drifts, over the hidden slopes and rocks, then racing back across the empty strip of sand and into the warm river, to bark euphorically and begin all over again. Her black tail bobbed and rose, over each snowdrift, a bouncing flag commanding joy. My husband and I walked along slowly, watching her play, sometimes making footprints in the four inch deep snow, and sometimes on the pebbly grains, the three of us alone with the winter weekday Sauvie Island emptiness. Other familes were perhaps snug at their kitchen tables or cozy before their fires, but we faced into the frosty air and journeyed, hugging our back-packed picnics close, stopping to gaze into the mythical gray distance of the vanishing Columbia River. The familiar landmarks on the beach were hard to recognize beneath the blanket of bridal white, but the heaps of tiny crystals did not quite cloak the painful memories of that shore. The snow, like the veil of time, could only partly cover the sadness of past picnics and the absence of one dear picnicker. It was his childlike smile that still came unbidden to my mind, my big-sister eyes loving him as he toddled on another beach, so many years ago. But it was his man laugh that suddenly came into my inner ear, making me smile, before the crushing scenes of his last days turned my smile down. He would have loved to be here on that day, making footprints, sharing a little fire of twigs, throwing a stick for our dog. She loved that picnicker, too.
We found no remnants of other travelers that afternoon, except the chattering noises of the forest creatures, celebrating the space between the storms. Later, as we sat on a brushed off log, eating dark chocolate to spice the hushing cold, a blue heron rose and soared across our perch: elegant and graceful, a vision against a leaden sky. Like the snowy beach, its beauty caught our breath; until its harsh and bitter cry rent the freezing air.

Collaborative Sonnet

Collective Sonnet
November 20th, 2009

The winter branch hides
Wings too big to hold
I find my heart rides
My wings make me bold
My song fills my throat
My feathers brilliant down
I shake my down coat
Look toward the sky and frown
A storm is brewing
The wind forceful and strong
I find my weariness accruing
My resistance stretching overlong
I bundle myself inside these wings
And pray welcome to what storm may bring

Collaborative Sonnet I

Dancing shadows of leaves grace the windows,
The light blinking and waving.
Outside the maiden can hear the cows' bellows,
Can see the path, away paving.

She touches the doorknob, her hand trembling
Heart quick and sputtering.
Her feet take off to running,
Her mind muddy muttering

Down the path and past the cows.
She dances out to the shadows.
Her joyous moves arouse.
Methinks she is quite mad, though

Happy mad and madly happy.
This is what makes spring so sappy.

Animal Medicine Card Prompt

Of two minds, Rudie was a conundrum. Sweet Blackbird, mama's boy, played beneath the starlit sky. Hopped along the grassy banks, perched high in the cherry tree, swinging his legs and sending white blossoms down like snow. He was his mother's delight.

She made the cave which was most of their home warm and inviting. Rudie was free as a squirrel; played all day into the night, then crawled in between blankets and furs to sleep soundly. Simple boy. Simple Blackbird boy sleeping soundly. Soundly sleeping, this sweet Mama's boy, tucked snug inside cozy cave, his mother humming.

Dreamtime was not so kindly to Rudie. Inside his mind was bleakness and malice of every kind. Inside, behind closed eyes, below his boy smile, demons sought entry and gained access to his tenderness. Rudie was a Blackbird in his dreams, flying over field, tree top, brook. He'd wave to his mother far below, she'd squint her eyes as though looking at the sun, fear upon her face, and go inside.

Blackbird Rudie boy was terrorized by the deeds he did in his sleep. Dragon claws on his hands sliced tender creatures, his mouth of fire brought destruction when he tried to speak. Locked inside this dragon form, his mother fled, the small animals ducked underground afraid of his willful violence.

The Horse Accident

Prompt: Guilt

I was the archetypal horse-obsessed girl. I read every horse book in the library, had armies of model horses lined up across the shelves of my bedroom, made bridles from shoestring and jump ropes. When I was 14 my parents finally got me a horse, a tall bay mare we paid $500 for. I was to share the horse with my older sister, but she didn't feel it the way I did and was not a particularly skilled rider, not ever very confident or comfortable. We boarded the horse up the road at a ranch run by a stringy cowboy named Bill. A blind woman named Diane also lived there. My dad had represented her in a lawsuit. She had been kicked in the head by a horse as a child and lost her sight. She was a skilled horsewoman and trainer and rode her tall paint gelding all over the countryside even though she couldn't see a thing. Her relationship with the cowboy who owned the ramshackle place was unclear and seemed sketchy even to my 14 year-old eye. Attached to the decaying red barn was an outdoor riding arena, dusty and bare, baked hard as concrete in the summer heat. One day my sister and I were at the barn and took the horse into the arena to ride. Rather than put on a proper saddle and bridle I made a makeshift hackamore out of rope and climbed on bareback. When it was my sister’s turn I boosted her up. Her uncertainty and lack of confidence was immediately evident to the mare. She bolted away across the hard-packed arena, my sister bouncing unbalanced on her back. As if in slow motion I saw my sister fly off and land on her head on the ground. I ran to her side to find her barely conscious, moaning and rolling slowly in the dirt. She turned her head and there was blood in her ear. I screamed for help and Diane came running blindly across the yard. I told her my sister had fallen. She went directly to the horse to find my inadequate homemade bridle. It was instantly clear it was my fault that we had had no control when our mare bolted. My parents were called. Soon thereafter an ambulance roared down the road, lights flashing and circling in the dust. My grandfather wanted to get a gun and shoot the horse dead on the spot. To this day I feel bad about being more worried about that than about the fate of my sister.

Prompt - Lost & Found

Lost and found, like a box under the desk at the office, full of children's coats and mittens, all unmatched of course. Like the woman who sists there, her legs tucked under the desk that hides the box. She is the gaurdian of lost things. When a child comes in, like with his mother standing annoyed and impatient behind him, but also with that look I am teaching you a lesson here, the woman, the guardian takes out the box, reaching down past her pantyhosed legs to her boxy, comfortable shoes. She takes out the box and goes through it with the boy. What color did you say that hat was, hon? Red? Is this it? Often she was the reuniter. Often she bore the sad news.
Maybe you left it on the bus? You could ask your bus driver. Which do your ride? The Thumpuer bus? Well, you ask Mrs. Peters, dear. Maybe she's seen it.
And, always, the child looked dejected. Even if they refused to wear the hat which is why it was lost as the mother reminds him as they leave the office.
Carol is always sad after these encounters. She wants to run after the boy, take his soft, warm hand in hers and say: Child, you will lose many things. There will not always be a box to come looking in. Hold tight to the things that matter.
But the mothers are there, their impatient, efficient heels clicking down the hallway.
Instead, Carol pulls out her calendar and flips the pages backwards and tries to remember what she's misplaced.

Oct. 30, Alida's Friday morning workshop