Am I Blue?

June is gone. The rainy season is here. Dancing under the sky hydrant, the garden is splashing color everywhere. Racing up the trellis, running over the bricks, it is wild... lush... slightly impudent...

I think a nice big puddle will do me some good.

(copyright photo Wren Walker 2011)

warming trend

warming trend

The sound of Brid’s forge

Wakes up the roots

shudders the earth

pens a new song

that I need to learn.

(copyright text and image Wren Walker, 2011)

one way ticket...

You’ve got a little tan.

I tugged at her backpack,

Set it on the curb.

Another jet leaves.

She didn’t hear

Until I repeated

A bit louder this time,

“I said it looks like

You got a little tan”.

She rubbed her hands up

And down her smooth arms.

“I guess I did” she nods.

The door slides open.

“I can take it from here.

You don’t have to wait.

And the no crying rule

Is now in effect.”

We always did that.

Pretended it was

No big deal, her leaving.

Like we did this all

The time. She smiled again

Across the car roof,

Glanced at her ticket,

Headed for the lobby.

The door swooshes shut.

Later, she will call

To tell me she’s okay.

Home, safe and sound,

And that she cried at the gate

Not even getting

As far as the plane.

I tell her I bawled too

coming back from the airport.

Above my house, this new address,

The room she never got to sleep in,

the jets come and go.

I live under these planes now.

They streak like stars

Roaring over my garden walls.

They never touch down,

But I wave sometimes

At the silver wings,

Think maybe she’s flying

Up there somehow

On her way back

To sound, to safe, to home.

Another jet leaves.

“Honey, I miss you," I whisper.

"I promise to pretend

not to cry.”

(Copyright Text Wren Walker; Photo Rob Landry 2010)

after the movie...

after the movie,

she blinks

at the sunshine,

hides her reflection

in the window,

and waits for the tears

to stop falling.

she tries on

a little smile,

her lips

too numb

to be convincing,

but still good enough

for where she is going.

I am particularly fond of this poem. There are so many possible scenarios. Did the woman go alone to the movie? Did she watch the movie… did she sit in the darkness thinking of other things?

Where is she going?

I’ll ask…

(copyright text and photo Wren Walker 2010)

school bus...

so many mornings

we stung on the curb,

heat tucked underneath

waiting for buses…

what didn’t we know

that could have saved us,

wee falling angels

wings bound in mittens?

snapping at snowflakes,

salty jaws drooling,

another day comes

to eat us away.

(copyright text Wren Walker 2010; vintage photo)

Rhetorically Rhonabwy…

the wood flickers red.
the hearth burns so slow.
sparks give a voice
to the settling flame.
the waiting knights shift
and keep murmurs low.
two mighty men lean
intent on their game.

a battered sentry
flies in from the field,
weaves through the knights
to the side of his sire.
rude laughter and shouts
now heighten the roar
struck from the ravens
heard screeching in ire.

gray eyes meet green
with no trace of real dread.
‘your move, sir’ was all
that King Arthur said.

with never a wince
Owain stares at the scene,
while the fire
still sputters and glows.
the battle cry sounds
high like a keen
in the flurry that rages
and grows.

waving his hand,
Owain makes his next move.
dark knights take form
as they shape and they shift.
then down from the trees
a swirling wild hoard
slashes the pages
with talons so swift.

not changing expression
as he raises his head,
‘your move, Lord’
was all that Sir Owain said.

the dream is now over;
the pieces are crushed.
those brave men long lie
asleep in their dust.
the swords are all buried
bound in their rust.
the silence is deep;
the echoes are hushed.

yet sometimes, it’s told,
on the dark of the moon,
red fire is seen
in the midst of the gloom
and a promise still lingers:
Arthur’s not dead.
one day he’ll return.
that's what is said.


The Dream of Rhonabwy is a story written in the Welsh Red Book of Hergest. Lady Charlotte Guest incorporated the tale into her translation of the Mabinogion. Whether the story is to be read as a literal tale, enjoyed as a satire, or is to be interpreted as a mystical vision, is unclear.

Within my own mind, the chess scene takes place in a darkened inn. Arthur and Owain are each so intent upon besting the other that their moves on the chessboard become glamoured and are now replicated in reality out in the nearby fields. The two men ignore the pleas of knights, pages and ravens to halt the game. Finally Arthur, realizing that Owain is not the true enemy, shakes off the glamour and crushes the chess pieces, thus breaking the spell.

Sometimes we get so caught up in a game that we forget that it is just a game. Sometimes we confuse friends and enemies. Sometimes we have to shake off our illusions. Sometimes we need to listen to what other people say.

Sometimes we really need to wake up.

(copyright Wren Walker, 2010. photo by Fritz Jung)

It is okay to start over...

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

– Wild Geese; Mary Oliver

It is okay to start over.

It's okay to shake things up.

It’s okay to do what you love.

So sometimes we start over.

It is okay to start over.

(copyright text and photo, Wren Walker 2010)