The Dream
Where her forefathers lived
-- they who built the Mayan temples,
To see another grandmother - one not like me,
Me, who watched Spongebob Squarepants with her
In the living room ... another grandmother, far away.
And so, for her, I boarded wings -
The first time for us both to fly - to unite her with her blood,
Finally tilting over a mass of black stone and mango trees,
Pink smoke, from the volcanoes -- And, at last
My counterpart, meeting us in her formal apron.
The one she wore for grand events.
We went with her, up the steep road into the ranchos.
The Visit
No tourist haven did we see;
In this central, unvisited navel of the tropics-
No plumbing and no power
Houses made of everything that man and nature could devise
Huddled along a winding road straight up to the coffee trees
That the monkeys worried at the volcano's tip.
And in the Senora's house a great black wood stove stood
Snorting the fire of a domestic dragon
In the center of a garden of ceramic pots
Fruit trees bloomed all round,
While children peeked from behind trees to see the
Gringa from America
And the people met my gaze with steady, curious eyes.
Bright flecks of paint hit the sky, squawking
As if hurled in error from the master painter's brush
Out of a pallet of primary colors.
Though only splatters, God left them there
Because they looked good against the azure.
They began to fly and sing and land in trees
As if they were merely birds.
One of these landed and said "ola," to me.
His name, I was told, was "Ratch."
Abbie played in the rainforest of Tikal, with her cousins.
All the pueblo children joined in,
Scaling the walls and pyramids, causeways and towers
Cimbing into the ancient tunnels...
Laughing excitedly echoing childishly into
An unknown wonder of the world,
Thinking nothing of the mystery that once had been...
The Mayans before them playing ball with human heads...
A powerful priesthood, fearsome in their headdresses - still not understood,
Silently disappearing from this jungle
Leaving these structures as a cicada leaves its dry and empty shell.
Showing some of what it once was.
It had been strewn with precious jade,
Until the Americans came, digging and clearing the brush.
They took the Jade back to their Pennsylvania school
- Abandoning the towers to the native peoples to stand as a monument to them...
Quietly, pensively, two grandmothers walked together through the chattering jungle trees
From the dark interior to the edges where the tourist areas crouched
apologetically, offering modern conveniences among
Muddy puddles of crocodiles,
Here they shared this granddaughter, their merged bloodline, in a celebration of mutual pride.
And both their worlds were the better for it.
The Departure
"The old ones are coming,"
My new friend told me,
The old ones from their remote enclave,
More than a hundred they said - a whole tribe,
So ancient they could read the glyphs off the pyramids,
Though archaeologists said it could not be...
The old ones were coming .
Winding their way toward the mountain in a caravan
Driving their pack of coyote before them,
A howling horde of terrifying protectors - pets!
The shamans, the ancients, the old ones were coming.
Traveling to see us.
They had heard about the American child, my counterpart explained, the one who was their own blood
Who had flown to this place and climbed the towers
And they had heard about the Americana who came with her,
And they were coming to the pueblo to see.
I took a long look at my pale, sheltered self.
I took a long look at my Abbie.
"Quite enough adventure," I said, "for a nine year old girl
And an old woman. Time to go."
Although I felt a tinge of shame for leaving
Because she belongs as much to them as me -
We departed before the shamans and coyotes reached us.
"Maybe when she is older," I whispered to myself and others.
"And better able to cope with this."
Photos and gifts left for the old ones...kisses and promises.
Hastily flying over the pink smoke of volcanos and great blue-green lakes,
Then over the familiar cities of the United States,
We came full circle...
to my familiar living room, and there we plopped.
And once again we shared the lesser ----- more manageable, adventures of Spongebob Squarepants.
I went to this place
Full of sunlight and space
And a people who smiled and were gracious
Where I stayed at the home
Of a sweet, brown-skinned gnome
Whose treatment of me was effacious
All went well til the dark
When I heard a dog bark
And the roosters began to go wild
That's when I heard a song
That went all the night long
Of a singing, guitar-playing crowd.
They were rowdy, robust
And they yelled and they cussed,
But mostly they yippee ki yayed
There was brass, there was strings
And a strange sound of wings
That I couldn't quite place, as they played.
So, unable to sleep,
I got up to peep
Out the window, to see their ensemble
And nobody was there,
I swear it - I swear.
Just the wind and an old terrier's grumble.
The dog was not pleased,
And he nipped at my knees
As I left the house to explore this
But he seemed more like scared
And continually stared
Into the sound of the chorus.
At the end of the night
When the morning came light,
My hostess appeared quite nonplussed...
The ghosts were so loud...
(There had been quite a crowd)
And she feared that her tenants might fuss;
She explained they don't hurt
When they play in the dirt
They just want to kick up some dust.
I had a friend Dan
Who had seen the same land
And had stayed in a nearby small city
The first night he was there
I heard him declare
That at midnight, he heard a strange ditty.
He went out to see
Where the singer might be
And guitar strings so loud, and yet fleeting...
The landscape was bare
But I heard him declare
He thought this was meant as a greeting.
Now when I talked with him
I was back from the inn,
And my trip had been many years after
I'd not told him the tale
Or how it made me pale
Cause I was afraid of his laughter.
As it was, he confirmed
As I squirmed and I squirmed
What I had convinced myself nada
So when I heard him say
He'd heard their melee
It blew me right out of the wadda.
Said Dan sallied forth
To the south and the north
And all around Santa Katrina;
Like me, he looked round
And surveyed the town
To find the concert or cantina...
Still finding no folks
He indulged in some tokes,
Went home and got drunk on his vina.
It's too spooky, he said
To go back to bed
After hearing such brassy commotion
With trumpets and strings
And voices and things
Without taking a small bedtime potion.
My trip was a treat
And a great chance to meet
The family who kindly received me,
But what struck me the most
Was the song of the ghost...
And I can't get a soul to believe me.
Nana's Former Poems
By: Sandra Good
Poet in Residence
I am a revolving door.
Never quite open, or completely closed;
Always in motion.
If you look at me and not into me
You will see only
Flipping reflections of yourself.
I can take you in.
And I can put you out.
I can easily take you 'round in circles...
And where you get off
Depends very much
On how you got in.
A Commemorative Poem to An Old Sorcerer
Infamous Sorcerer, Johnathon Timothus
Far from innocuous ere his decline
Chastising Horsa for villanies venomous
Rendered him aqueous, flat and supine!
Rogue of antiquity, Johnathon Timothus
What a ubiquity justice can show.
Others iniquities tempt us from innocence;
What an indignity! Zap! H2O!!!
Morning Fog
When I awoke today, my world was smaller...
My portion of it spooned off from the rest
Baby-Bundled in a frothy chrysallis that swathed familiar earth
And robbed me of my horizon...
And
I half-expected a long-necked prehistoric head and eye
To thrust up, swaying and unseeing
Cutting up the mist with treetop searchings
Into a primordial swamp
That once had oozed its fertile promise here.
Carefully walking, I could see more ahead, but less behind,
Swaddled and swallowed and at the same time hurried on,
A babe in the womb in the woods,
Awaiting the gestation that the sun would bring
Burning the birthing cataracts from my eyes
And giving me to a world more clear and bright...
And, being curious to a point of boldness, I wondered
But then the sun crashed through and I was birthed.
What secrets nature shrouds in fog,
And what things she is doing there
The whole meditation seemed like nonsense .
..... Til the next thick blanket drifted in,
Reminding me that I - no, not even I - was yet old enough
For the mysteries Mother Gaia folds in her chiffons.
