Leto in memoriam

Doggone days
of dearest doggie
true to my mistress
true to my woggie
I followed
I swallowed
my pride - my side
only her words
were my herd
she commanded
I obeyed
she demanded
I obeyed.
Alas, lass'
Your mistress
still miss
your gentleness!

fit survival

Stupendous stubbornness
from the gene pool
morphs into
serendipitous spunk
and willful wavering -
those strange people
we came from
and we became
just because of
having sex
and blended too
much of our own oblivion
into the mixture -
will genteel humanity
survive in the long run?

The Birthing

Volva Vigga had been meandering - musing
Along her preferred path near the village
Soaring seedtime had appeared somewhat late
Today is was the vernal equinox
with tonight a luminous full Luna,
An ominous day where she had to collect
The first flower that she saw in the thicket
It was an anemone - that bright blossom
With its white purple crown.
Cried out in her muddled mind
- her Shmuel - the father of her child
would not be there for the birthing.
With a sigh and a slight moan
She sat down heavy - as she was
On an old oak tree stump
Surrounded by a circular copse.
Her trusty cape was around her full body
in her pocket she had little ring
That Shmuel, the herbalist, gave her.
The ring was too small now
For her swollen fingers
But she kept it with her at all times
So she would have a tangible symbol
Of her summer in the North
Apart from the gift she was bearing
For nine lunar months, this being her tenth.
As she was sitting breathing deeply
The sun came out of the clouds
And the wood spoke of early and earthy
joy and pleasure of being vitally alive.

The waiting Volva sensed a particular pain
Suddenly it became utterly unbearable
Realizing that not only did she feel agony
All over her lower back body
But she also sat in a puddle of birth-water.
Slowly, she raised herself holding on
with one hand to the thick tree trunk
while massaging her back with the other.
She had to get back to the hut
But it was a fair distance away
She was not sure she would reach
The domed dwelling of security
And she started to pant and puff
So she could beat the birthing pains.
Her mind was not cooperating
She was thinking of Shmuel
And of their last passionate night.
Vigga the Volva talked sternly to herself
As she found a bough she could lean on
Waddling when she had another contraction.
At the end of the pain all she could think of
Were the numerous orgasms she had had.

How far did she have to walk -?
And she knew very well - all the way back
Because her hut was a hermitage
Being fairly far from everybody's hovels
And the village - preferring freedom
To roam and gather healing herbs
Yet now it seemed foolish and frankly
She would not have minded a home
In the little gentle village with the green
Where she and Shmuel first met.
Strange how you could change
In such a short stretch of time.


Her skirt and her cape weighed her down
Because of the wetness from the birth-water
The stretch of road seemed too far
In addition the dampness was now cold
The wind adding to the high skies
Another pain seized her tortured torso
She had to stop and breathe in and out
Slowly while the travails took their toll
She found another tree - she leaned over
And again she cried out not knowing
That she made a savage primitive sound
Heard by all the ancients so many eons ago
She called up her gray grannies - the stones -
and they sent her an unusual messenger.

Somebody who had made true amends
The one who had truly repented his misdeeds
So her old nemesis - the man - who raped her
Came to her rescue whether sent by
Ancient powers or new ones or accidentally.
He had been sent on an errand by his new master
- An elderly magician who needed filling
Of life-saving essences in his medicine larder
Via the healing woman with whom
The wintry wizard sometimes scribed.
The latter had sent a letter so the demale
Could bring back the much needed herbs
To the outskirts of the Northern Hebrides.

Vigga was at her wits end - kneeling down besides
Another trunk lying in the woodsy underbrush
Her screams rang through the woodland
And she was no longer human, but feral
Frenziedly she became a female mammal
Due to her strong first-time birth pangs

Last time she howled when he raped her
This time when he heard her scream
here and now the demale had changed
He felt nothing, but compassion and a need
To help whoever wanted his hands
The healing woman had taught him that
And the wizard he worked for
Stressed that only through bettering
You yourself will have a harmonious
And happy awareness of accomplishment.

He ran to where from he heard her screams
He already knew it had to be her.
Vigga the Volva who with her sister had
Spared his life, but not his manhood.
He did not hold that against her
Because he knew now that taking a woman
Against her will at any time is a crime.

Vigga the Volva was kneeling holding on
To a strong beech branch lying in the forest
She held her other hand behind her back
crouching and leaning close to the ground.

"Let me help you," were the eunuch's first words
And Vigga recognized with terror in her eyes
Her old perpetrator whom she had spared.
"I come in peace and I can get you home
For you to deliver a healthy child.
If you cannot make it, the healing woman
Has had me help her many a time."
He knelt down and began to gently rub her back.

Again against her will another birthing pang
Jilted her fear of her former evildoer
And she let him stroke her lower back
Due to her excruciating parturition pains
She panted, "I cannot bear it."
"Sure you can - you are part of the chain
You of all people should know that."
"Yes but I..." another pulsation hindered
Her speech - she suddenly passed out.

The eunuch briskly spread out his cape
On the grass and revived the Volva by
Pouring water from his full flask
over her head and slapping
Her face not too gently -
He knew she was getting weaker
But it was also a matter of the child
She sputtered as she came through


In contrast to the last time he violated her
He gently lifted her dress and pulled off
Her panties wet from the water already gone.
"Spread your legs, I see the head coming,
Can you stand?" "Why should I stand?"
"You will use the gravitational forces!"
Vigga the Volva strived to get up
Yet, for her it was impossible
The eunuch then saw that the pressure
Labor pains had begun heavily
"Alright, we do it this way, then
Next time you have a labor pain
I will feel around inside to see
If I can ease out the bitsy bairn."

He then used the last water he had in his canteen
Over his hands - to try and be fairly clean
Such as he has learned from the healing woman
He sought again - he had some olive oil left.

The labor pains continued - he inched in her insides
Realizing the bairn had the cord around its neck.
Sweat ran down his temples but he relived
How once he had seen the Healer save a child
And to make amends he prayed to his Gods
The old spirits and even the old grannies
He knew there was not a moment to waste
And by the next labor pain he twisted his hand
Inside the womb again and forcefully, but gently
Freed the bairn's head getting his finger
Between the neck and the pulsating cord
"Push one more time and the bitty bairn will out"
Vigga the Volva was beyond care except obeying
Ancient rites of birthing letting her body take over.
By the next throbbing contraction the child slid out,
- Slime and blood - the eunuch caught it, a little lass
And he found some piece of cloth used for storage
Of herbs and spices and swaddled the child,
Gently swiping the bairn's mouth clean with
His little finger - now dipped in mint oil -
And gave her to Vigga the Volva, saying
"Let her suckle. That will help the afterbirth
To come - and you know it can hurt too"

Vigga took - her daughter - in her arms
Looked at her with such wonderment.
She, now a mother, turned around on the side,
Opened her blouse and eased the suckling
On to her swollen breast.

The eunuch smiled, but pressed down
On the Volva's now empty womb
Urging the important afterbirth to come.
The pains were extremely excruciating
But Vigga the Volva bore them
Because from this time on she held something
So precious and dear that nothing else
Could compare to her cherished child.
Before the afterbirth came
She shifted the bairn to the other breast
And looked so calm - in pain
The eunuch stared in wonderment
Bewildered at his own feelings.

"It's coming," and again lots of blood
and a stiffening placenta slid out.
The eunuch knowingly caught it
The healing woman would like to see it
He had again rummaged in his sack
Sacrificing a sermon he wanted to read.

"You will be getting too cold soon
So I shall go and get a cart to carry
You and the wee one, but I am sorry
To leave you alone unprotected."
"It will be alright if you go and find
The gurney, I do not think I can walk
Or at least not that far - today.
Master Healer - Thank you for being here."
Vigga the Volva beamed brilliantly
At him and then at her daughter.
"I shan't be long. - Do you still have your knife?"
"Aye, that I have" was her proud answer.
"You have now fully redeemed your deed
and I wish for you to return to your manhood"
"I wish so too, one day, but not the way I was."
He bowed slightly and smilingly said
" 'will be back shortly, Be safe "

While the eunuch was gone the Volva
Talked to the ancient ones out loud
"Protect my daughter from harrowing harm
Let her have a cheery character
And may she one day meet her father.
I thank ye all for sending a rescuer
I from this day forth forgive him his dire deed
May he one day get back his manhood".
The blossom that she had picked
Earlier - the white and purple anemone
She took each leaf of the crown
Tossed it around herself and her newborn
Chanting silently ancient incantations
Not wanting to wake the sleeping suckling
at her motherly breast - Her sight showed:
A vernal equinox awaiting tonight
With an illuminating Luna over her hearth
Surrounded by Sophia, the Healing Woman
If she had nothing else to do, the Eunuch,
And in her arms her darling daughter Gemma Sarah.

a cell's life

the waves I have met
the ripples and tumbles
driftings, rollings,
twistings, coilings,
my bonnie cells
move along their path
I see the wrinkles
I ogle at my flabs
even though my abs
are not too untight
do I deplore
what I cannot have
my insecurity
my mood swings
my doubts
of my youthful years
yearning for wisdom
now wisdom stands
and laughs in my face
for what for whom
only the experience,
the road
and then some?

puzzle-struggle

Cross-word puzzle
in my local newspaper
strengthens the gray
materials every morn
to the nth degree
my hubby is better
at it - walking the dog
yet, sometimes I finish
some of the clues
at other times he does
but we enjoy the daily
mental struggle -

Buyers' beware!!

Bad girls's image tempts
an old fogey like me
why should I remain
the nice, subdued
little elderly female
(I was going to say lady
but I was never one)
I like the friendly royale
who described me as
bad-assed -that spells guts
gumption - hell on wheels
WARNING - to everyone
I may have a slight bent
life is now too short
to be nice and easy-going
so I have elected to become
- a freely obnoxiously
fun-seeking older gal
and I can still be your pal
if you can take my attempt!!

Dream-mare

a dream-mare of going into the woods
with two kids - finding - losing
our ways in the maze called reality
actually one kid was just fine
other child lost a down jacket
and I, his mom, couldn't find it
it was a strange maze of
rejection and redemption
all in lush green -what did it mean
to the dream-seeker and -awaker
all around a little after 6 a.m.
portending this rainy day's fog?!

Free words?

Returned once more
to the land of the free
yet the free are not free
libels of legislators
many crying racism
words weigh
travesty of truth
alas,
words will never be free!

Seed spreads

Augurous autumn, trees were flaming red
a blood oak stood brightly against
the pale morn light of rose fingers
just before the aubade marks its domain
the Volva Vigga stood with her grown lassie
looking at the sunup wondering where
the years had altogether and wholly vanished -
Gemma Sarah turned into another stout tree
whose stem was sturdy and fiercely loyal
her unctuous umbra radiated real joy
and true sadness - a mixture of womanhood
just as mysterious and mellow as her foremothers
she was her own self - another Volva - not -
because her father's fashion was embedded
in her own being - she was a mixture
of runes and age-old Jahve's tribe
of the earth she had smelled in her mother's hut
near the old Yggdrasil, the tree watered
by her mother's tears dropped before her birthing
raised by the two sisters and their fiendly friend
the eunuch - he provided the father's sphere
sometimes when he was in their neigborhood
on the way or back from a trip from his master
- the medicine man up north near the
great wall and hollow hills of the moors.
Gemma Sarah was going away to a larger town
creating her own life - the Volva, sad, but proud
knew that her off-spring would make mistakes
make her own life worth while, create what
she thought would be right for her, not the ancients.
Vigga the Volva felt her forefemales most vividly
in her veins wrung the herstory of blood,toils,
felonies against the founding females -
but Gemma Sarah rejected that she was part of that
whole rigamarole and instead devoted herself
to another art form - a line of singing songs
created mostly by manly men whose stories
told the dualities of living together
in hormonious harmony - very few of those tales
were happy and the wondering Volva mused
that her daughter might be daring to dream
without counting on the world's bastardy ways
of cutthroat carelessness - of wanting it less
but it was for the young to find out for herself.
Sadness filled her but she turned away from
her daughter's form - and encouraged her to go on
to fly on her own wings - hoping only that
she would land safely wherever she was heading
nothing absolutely nothing she could do
and therein lies the irony of motherhood
sheltering the bitty bairns for a timely period
again hoping that their wings will be strong enough
to bear their hopes and high-flying dreams.
The Volva Vigga waved to her offspring
sprightly taking her own off-beat road of fatal phase
going away netting her to an unknown nexus
away from the grandmother's and their lines
into the arts of harmony and heroines' heroic plights.
A rare road less trodden deeply down
a square taskmaster much more demanding
than many other odd-sounding old fields of fares.
Knowingly the motherly breast squeezed her fears
and stepped boldly aside - letting fair fate decide
the morning light now broke out into the trees,
the autumnal leaves turned crimsonly cardinal
adding to the shimmering aurora's dashing day
and in the background as her beloved daughter left
the motherly squelzing but sustaining sphere,
Yggdrasil yonder seemed to spout another spur
and the grannies danced in the daunting daylight.

Lag

Jetlag propels
my foggy waves
through the winds
I lag everything
numb and dumb
I barely stand
my jet lags
in glorious power
is this how
death experiences
the souls pulsate
from nowhere
to this non-life?
The poet should
never try to write
when jetlagged
this poem lags
both spirit and guts
so spirit will
be spilled in my guts
to knock-out
and then the circus
starts again - jets
and jets lag lag lag....