Sunday, May 14, 2017

GUEST POST "a mother glows" by BETH ANNE BOARDMAN #mOTHERSday #SundayMorning #ReasonToKeepGoing #mythopoetry


a mother glows

a mother glows
a mother gets sick
a mother swells
a mother dances about
a mother waddles
a mother wails
a mother dotes

how precious the hands!
how sweet the toes!

how frightening the wails,
how lovely the cradling….

a mother loves
a mother helps
a mother waits
a mother tries

to be redundant
to be unneeded

to be heartbroken
to be older

to be a mother
to be a lover
to be chosen
to be blessed

to love
to leave
to live

©2017 a mother glows Beth Anne Boardman
©2017 a mother glows Beth Anne Boardman All Rights Retained


Beth Anne Boardman, RN, MA, PhD lives in California and New Hampshire. She travels and lectures on the Mythology of Sport; Women and Myth; and the Alchemy of Adolescence (her dissertation topic), in addition to consulting as a writer to websites.  

Recently, Beth has served on the board of the Pacifica Graduate Institute Alumni Association and as Regional Coordinator for local alumni. Her career spans work as a registered nurse, the study of world dance and music, and the profound joy of raising two children.


For stories and essays on creative life and culture visit Dr. Beth Ann Boardman at MYTHMUSE



Wednesday, May 10, 2017

GUEST POST: "day and night/silent wings" by BETH ANNE BOARDMAN #wedwip #mythopoetry #poetry

day and night/silent wings

day and night
my house is surrounded
by sacred wings….

two hawks call to each other across my roof
in the still dawn….

their screes grace the silence,
point to the silence….

they dance on the lifting currents of air
caused by the difference between night and day,
cold and warm,
dark and light….

often they come back just before noon,
when drafts of air surge up off the warming hillsides….

their calls ring like temple bells:
reminding me to be still for a moment,
to stop and touch the eternal in the day,
to take a breath and offer myself to the mystery….

another calls
as the sun turns orange
and falls slowly down
into the billowing cotton layer
that covers the western ocean,
drawn up over the day like a soft blanket….

this one summons the night-shift:
the ones who will soar over us as we
live on in the darkness,
as we sleep,
and dream,
and sometimes dance….

when the night is well-established,
their sounds, too, pierce the trying-to-be-silence:
shrill ghostly gliding white cries
of barn owls
and great horned owls
tracking their crawling prey….

if you’re outside walking in
that rare warm coastal air,
oohing and ahing over the surprising sharp blue glints
(priceless diamond stars making a
one-night-only appearance….)

if you’re out there,
you can sometimes catch a glimpse
of white wings glowing high above you in the night,
coming in fast,
and soon gone –
right over your head,
without a sound….

but a sheerly distant whistle drifts somewhere behind
those silent wings,
leaving a certain trace
of untouchable presence….


on the very darkest nights,
there is one who comes to the roof-corner
right outside my room….

and even though the window might be closed
against the damp night air,
he announces his landing
with an unmistakable, commanding scree….

I am here for the night.

I sleep and wake
under the jurisdiction
of sacred wings….


Beth Anne Boardman, RN, MA, PhD lives in California and New Hampshire. She travels and lectures on the Mythology of Sport; Women and Myth; and the Alchemy of Adolescence (her dissertation topic), in addition to consulting as a writer to websites.  

Recently, Beth has served on the board of the Pacifica Graduate Institute Alumni Association and as Regional Coordinator for local alumni. Her career spans work as a registered nurse, the study of world dance and music, and the profound joy of raising two children.


For stories and essays on creative life and culture visit Dr. Beth Ann Boardman at MYTHMUSE




Saturday, May 6, 2017

WHEN THE FIFTH IS WITH US #mythopoetry #slapdashsat #ThingsJesusNeverSaid #amwriting

May The Fifth Be With You


      "May The Fifth Be With You," my friends on facebook repeatedly exclaimed yesterday.  Well last night the spirit of the fifth was with me!

Last night, Cinco De Mayo, May the 5th was filled with a night of dreaming.  I decided earlier in the day a “staycation” was in order, a staycation of another sort.  My sweetie and I stayed home and created our own celebration which included a fifth of another sort as well—tequila instead of whiskey (naturally!)

I made beef chimichunga, pico de gallo, mango salsa, refried black beans all from scratch, got out the Mexican placemats, tabletop sombreros, Our Lady of Guadeloupe candle stick and a set of authentic maracas.  Then my sweetie and I got the bright idea to share our fare with the BFF couple who live across the street.  Gathering up a share of the feast and a pitcher of my sweetie’s marvelous margaritas we had one of those unplanned perfect evenings.

This morning I awakened from a dream.  In it I was roller skating through Texas.

The dream me was tired and looking for her hotel among the many shops and restaurants about her.  She stopped into a neat restaurant to ask directions.  They didn’t turn her away but they did have a strict dress code and wanted to seat her in the fast food, casual dining area as opposed to the fine dining section.  This is when she looked down towards her wheeled feet and noticed she was missing the right pant leg of her jeans.  She also realized the folks at the restaurant misinterpreted why she walked through the door! 

Here’s where I awakened feeling the mood of things.

I tried to work with this dream today without success until I got the bright idea to work not from my own image associations for the dream but hers.  Let me call her Texas Roller Girl.  This means she is now a personified notion.

Texas Roller Girl has a missing right pant leg.  She could never keep her pant legs rolled, she can only keep the left pant leg rolled.  She has a mortal side, her left side and an immortal side, her right side, the one already missing its fabric.  Yet, Texas Roller Girl stays rolled or “rolling” by the nature of her soles, a polutropic dream pun, perhaps, for “soul” and maybe too, an image gerund-ing to presence “a wing-ing” movement in the dream figures that moves us, first, beyond our own perceptions of things to its perception of things and then through it again, moving (us) from object (the itness or psychic realness) to fabric or to fabricating (that gerund-ing notion again) what may be working the next room of the dream.  The fabric is the image telling its own story we experience as a dream. What seems like a strange fabrication makes no sense at first until seen through the eyes of the pilgrim roller girl passing through it.

Now, let me turn to “the working in”, “the next room of the dream.”

Long before supper time yesterday I had just read about the ancient Greek sculptor Lysippus and his ideas regarding a certain figure in the Greek pantheon, Hercules Epitrapezius, Hercules of the Table.  For Lysippus, he is the guest who may knock at your door anytime, that guest for whom you must always reserve a seat at the table.
The sculptor goes so far as to say, “to this guest goes the seat at the head of your table.”

This is a figure that begs hospitality.  Moreover, this figure’s herculean effort over sees and rebalances the boundary between interiority’s and exteriority’s too rigid divide.  The outsider and the outed sides are suddenly showing up as part of a dream figures context. Under this theme of guest, host and pilgrim, interior figures and exterior figures can speak their peace freely to each other, be welcomed and be listened to, exteriors and interiors performing together  i.e. gerund-ing to presence like a pair of wings on a lyre, that is soles no longer soles are signaling a winged instrument at work, an ensoulment. 

Ensouled with wings, the spirit of the fifth reminds me of one of the epithets for Hermes, homogenie.  This is the idea in the word homogenized. Coming and going, Hermes Homogenie unites inside and outside and this is like a pair of wings on a lyre playing together. When the fifth is with us soul claps its hands and there is singing school.

©2017 When The Fifth Is With Us stephaniepope

Thursday, May 4, 2017



              If one could bottle the elixir of motivation, one might make millions.  What moves someone from stillness to action? 

 - Dr Beth Anne Boardman
cultural mythologist


If one could bottle the elixir of motivation, one might make millions.  What moves someone from stillness to action?  How does one overcome complacency or emotional paralysis and take healthy, constructive, creative action?

Motivation fades and surges according to its own inconstant logic.  How wonderful would it be, as one slumps at one’s desk, preparing to prepare one’s yearly taxes, to be able to chug down a quick shot of elixir-of-motivation, and get the job done?  How fabulous to conquer stage-fright and let one’s passion fly with an effortless sleight of hand, or get that dissertation done by just opening the laptop.  One hears the phrase liquid courage, but the spirit of action is more mercurial, more insubstantial than Jack Daniels. 

Mercurial: difficult if not impossible to pin down, grasp, define.  Uncontainable.  Not always apparent.  Unpredictable.  Written in the wind.  Words point in the direction of mercurial; images, though, evoke more complex meanings and help illustrate the enigmatic.  Ancient cultures around the world drew or painted or carved the likenesses of winged humans, angels, gods, fairies, and mythic beings who moved between the worlds—between heaven, earth, and the underworld.  Wings signify the unseen power of the air, the mysterious aspects of communication (prayer, intuition, meditation) between humans and what they perceive as invisible, divine energies outside of themselves. 

In addition to angels, gods, goddesses, and other mythic beings, people also honor and pray to saints, prophets, stars, the spirits of the Ancestors, and/or the planet’s natural elements.  Celtic tradition collectively names these unseen energies the Otherworld.  Fantastical images and stories of otherworldly beings emphasize that Divine Power(s) exist outside of the human world and thus remain unpredictable and inscrutable to humanity.  Jungian and Archetypal psychologies suggest that each individual’s mind and imagination can reflect these otherworldly energies, with the caveat that one may contain aspects of the divine but cannot possess all the power of the divine.  In other words, we recognize Love in ourselves, but we do not command the power of Venus or Aphrodite.  One may embody qualities of a Warrior or Defender, but one cannot bend the energies of Mars or Aries to one’s personal human will.

Diverse sacred traditions admonish humans not to gaze directly upon the gods.  The gods/the angels/the spirits – all shy away from explicit contact, and their reticence must be honored.  When the Biblical Moses encountered I Am that I Am on the mountainside, he saw only a burning bush, and through this interaction, understood that the human form cannot contain or withstand the actual power of God.  In the Greek myth of Semele’s contact with Zeus, her pleas to see him directly resulted in the spontaneous immolation of her human form.  These stories and others like them reinforce the reality of human frailty, our divinely ordained imperfection.

Early Greeks and Romans told of Hermes (Greek) or Mercury (Roman), gods who traversed between the worlds, passing messages between

gods and humans and accompanying beings that needed to travel to and fro between heaven, earth, and the underworld.  Represented by wings on his cap or the heels of his boots (or both), Mercury’s essential responsibility and quality, therefore, is to come and go; and since he is a god, his movements are beyond feeble humanity’s ability to predict or command.  Mercury gives a face to the unseen spirit of action, illustrates the ephemeral power of motivation. Alchemists, the philosopher-scientists of old, called this spirit Mercurius, the force they recognized as the power behind both worldly and spiritual transformation.

This is the mystery of motivation: human will-power can achieve much, but only inspiration, the visitation of the mercurial spirit of action, can lead us to accomplishments beyond our planning.  Mercurius provides us moments of its otherworldly power to transform ideas into actions, dreams into realizations. Like any of the other gods, the Spirit of Action will not be summoned, only invited.  And when invited, it may or may not coalesce.  A humble stance honors that the great energies of the universe defy human containment.  Creative, purposeful action requires a sensitive dance between power and receptivity on this spider’s web of life. 

In paying attention to the quiet whisper of our inner guidance and gathering up our human willingness, we take the first step on a new journey.  Along the way, we honor the otherworld and welcome the mercurial power of action to suffuse us with inspiration.  Honor the gods, the old stories say, and remember to give thanks for those times when we find ourselves wonderfully mid-action, not knowing quite how we got there, and amazed at finding done what we thought we couldn’t do. 


Beth Anne Boardman, RN, MA, PhD lives in California and New Hampshire. She travels and lectures on the Mythology of Sport; Women and Myth; and the Alchemy of Adolescence (her dissertation topic), in addition to consulting as a writer to websites.  

Recently, Beth has served on the board of the Pacifica Graduate Institute Alumni Association and as Regional Coordinator for local alumni. Her career spans work as a registered nurse, the study of world dance and music, and the profound joy of raising two children. 


For stories and essays on creative life and culture visit Dr. Beth Ann Boardman at MYTHMUSE



Sunday, April 30, 2017

POETS OF MYTHOPOETRY: BRADLEY OLSON : Four Poems #mythopoetry #guestpost #NationalPoetryMonth2017



You have me disadvantaged, dear Arthur.
You possess the sharp, quill tip of your pen
And your youth.
I have only this pistol…
If only my wounds were so easily mended.

I have not yet come to terms with written words
As you have--when you were yet a boy!--
And now you leave them,
And me,
Adrift in a drunken boat.

©2017   Paul Verlaine’s Aim   Bradley Olson
©2017  Paul Verlaine’s Aim    Bradley Olson  All Rights Retained


When I first heard it, I thought
It was really only rumor,
That this late in December's unforgiving draught
One golden leaf could still be in good humor.

Yet there it was, a palsied beggar,
At the mercy of winter's biting caprice.
How often have I (unwitting figure!),
Governed by an unattractive eye, failed to give notice.

I entered his world a puzzle, mostly skulking about
Then, by turning each leaf, I saw myself reflected.
His folios revealed me, so shockingly fleshed out,
That the sound, the fury, the Lear-ing suspicions no longer infected

A dislocated soul.  A corroded spirit.
The littered psychic landscape unveiled by a warm spring sun
Is healed by the call away from winter if one can hear it
And grasp that, though logos contradict it, there is never, finally, a "done."

©2017   Winter Leaves   Bradley  Olson
©2017   Winter Leaves   Bradley Olson  All Rights Retained


I watched her from behind my newspaper
Trying to read a pulpy paperback
While the disembodied voice of flight information
(in both English and Spanish)
destroyed her concentration and sent her
eyes scouting the page for the word she last read.

When she left to board I wondered if she would ever finish
If the heroine would find love at long last
If the evils in her life would be overcome by good
If the someone waiting for her at some other airport gate
loved her Passionately, Deeply,
And Truly. 

She looked like someone I usually wouldn't think about twice
Unless she were to trade the battered paperback for Hegel
Or someone else I couldn't understand.
I don't want what's familiar to me; I ran from the provincial long ago
I know instinctively by watching her
I ran away from everything like her; not towards anything.
She looked happy--comfortable in her own skin--it alarms me to think she actually was.

©2017   Flight Information   Bradley  Olson
©2017   Flight Information   Bradley Olson  All Rights Retained


I am puzzled of  late
by my single and peculiar life.
I am not what I used to be:
An airy dreamer
with a too truant disposition,
nor any longer a dark, upheaved soul
alone and lonely,
but rather betwixt and between
suffering from a usurpation of the senses.

La belle dame sans merci
draws from her black sack
“beautiful untrue things,”
the necessary deceptions
symbolizing and signaling life;
those heralds most deeply felt and dreamt of,
yet remaining oddly unapprehended…
the soul’s fugitives
bringing substance to an insubstantial life
and imagination  to a mundane world.

From this sack,
the very same one,
She brought forth Ilych’s death.
Grotesque to those who watched,
but did not see,
beautiful to him
whom it brought forbearance and joy.
Beautifully used and artfully worn was It.
Beautiful and holy.
So holy It seems
It can hold nothing at all
but air…
and light…
and time…
and space.
Giving room enough to live,
saving room enough to die,
proposing room enough to discover (to my surprise!)
where It is,
Death cannot be.

©2017   Liminal Space   Bradley  Olson
©2017   Liminal Space   Bradley Olson  All Rights Retained


Bradley Olson, Ph.D is a former police officer who returned to school to earn a Bachelor’s degree in psychology and literature, two Master’s degrees in psychology, and a Ph.D. in Cultural Mythology. Dr. Olson is currently a psychotherapist in private practice at Mountain Waves Healing Arts in Flagstaff, Arizona; his work with clients is heavily influenced by his interest in Jungian Analytical Psychology and Mythological Studies. Brad is also the author of the acclaimed Falstaff Was My Tutor blog, which has earned him a nomination for the 2012 PUSHCART PRIZE in nonfiction.








Saturday, April 29, 2017

POETS OF MYTHOPOETRY: BRIAN LANDIS Two Poems #guestpost #mythopoetry #NationalPoetryMonth 2017



Avocado trees planted in rows
       walnuts and grapes
In the arroyo, pampas grass
       as if trilled or plucked
A chord of pampas grass
singing down the breezy caƱon
       to the sparkling sea
Two dogs in the sideyard
A lazy cat opens one golden eye

©2017 El Rancho Grande Brian Landis
©2017 El Rancho Grande Brian Landis All Rights Retained


Pablo Picasso
          sits with Jean Cocteau
          praising miracles
(not life, which is common).
They drink espresso
          and eat Italian pastries.
"God," Jean philosophizes,
"judges us by our appearances
          and is the ultimate idiot."
Pablo paints God's portrait
          and is the ultimate idiot.
Idiocy is relative.
Albert Einstein, at the next table
          scribbles in the margin
          of his New York Times:
                   "Relativity is next to godliness"
He signs his name.
He leaves it on the table
          for the waiter to see.
(If you don't promote your own work,
          who will?)

©2017 Famous People Brian Landis
©2017 Brian Landis Famous People All Rights Retained


Brian Landis is a Buddhist/Jungian psychotherapist, because poetry is a very bad way to make a living, living and working in San Luis Obispo, California.  As the years unfold, he looks more and more like his beloved arroyos and potreros, wild and unkempt.  He likes it that way and is ecstatic to be going to seed after a lifetime of bloom.


Visit Brian on facebook


Friday, April 28, 2017

POETS OF MYTHOPOETRY: LINDA SUDDARTH : Three Poems #mythopoetry #guestpost #NationalPoetryMonth 2017



When I walk past
the fragrant forest
after heavy rain,
which smells like
the freshest salad
you ever ate,
some vegetation
from Otherworld
that when eaten
makes you feel alive,

then I listen, listen
and there is
nothing, nothing but.

When it is almost dusk
and the horizon is tinged
with the most delicate
hint of lavender,
against it dark
silhouettes of tiny
fruit-tree branches,

I listen, listen
there is nothing, nothing but.

When I pass the small mountain
rising like a god
impressing the night
and the still liquid sky,

I listen, listen
and there is nothing, nothing.

But nothing is something
curious and rich,
and I have heard it.

©2017 Curious And Rich Linda Suddarth

©2017 Curious And Rich
Linda Suddarth All Rights Retained


“Curious and Rich,” Featured poem for Parabola Online, Summer 2014


My comfort falls on deaf ears.
Though you are only volunteers,
comical encroaching
forest with your odd smells:
sweet, tangy mid-spring,
hints of honeysuckle, cedar,
thyme, vinegar, rose, float,
don’t you know tomorrow
will be the back-hoe,
saws, bulldozers,
and your lovely thickets
will be undone?
Strange tiny flowers, like bells
and purple prehistoric shaped,
beside the poke berry
monster, decorated
with pieces of old fence.
You’re not sad?
Little birds, find other nests.
Yesterday when the crow
sat eating your young
on the telephone wire,
stolen from you,
and from the maple,
didn’t you see
that was a sign to scatter?
Yet you still sing,
sitting in the tree
that will be gone tomorrow.
The maple who has given
much shade and color
isn’t sad either. She
is giving me strength.
In my heart,
borrowed forest, rented thicket,
you are forever,
many and varied shades of green,
and ever joyous in your singing.
Someday I’ll put some money
down and buy some wild place:
let it be what it is.

©2017 Borrowed Forest, Rented Thicket Linda Suddarth

©2017 Borrowed Forest, Rented Thicket
Linda Suddarth All Rights Retained


With every rain the woods
grow another foot,
on the breeze
rose and honeysuckle
faintly permeate
the corners of the sky.
In the far-seeing
of distance is
the blue of mountain
through the tree tops:
the mountain that looks
down on all of us.
I’ve been there,
these are the apple groves
up on top of the blue.
One fall we sat
under an apple tree,
spread a blanket
and ate apple pie,
while the bees
resembled angels
singing all in harmony.
People strolled in a daze
with apple nets
in their hands,
collecting the harvest
in this happy
©2017 Happy Other Place Linda Suddarth

©2017 Happy Other Place
Linda Suddarth All Rights Retained


First publication of the poem, HAPPY OTHER PLACE occurs April 15, 2017 on Linda's blog, LINDA WORD AND IMAGE


Linda Ann Suddarth sees the creative life as a vital expression of the psyche. Linda has been writing poetry and drawing/painting for more than thirty years. She has recently published poems in Parabola, Silver Birch Press, Anima, and Red River Review. Linda has a BFA in painting, an interdisciplinary MA in Aesthetic Studies, and a PhD in Mythological Studies with an emphasis in Depth Psychology. She teaches English, Art, and Humanities at the College level. Linda’s blog is, and she can be reached at linsudd (at) aol (dot) com.





Wednesday, April 26, 2017

POETS OF MYTHOPOETRY: PHILIP ROSENBERG: RAGS AND BONES MUSIC VIDEO: THESE BONES and A Poetry Reading of "The Way I Love You" #mythopoetry #guestpost #NationalPoetryMonth 2017

featuring Philip Rosenberg / RAGS AND BONES



©2017 Philip Rosenberg, Rags And Bones Music All Rights Retained


© 2017 Philip Rosenberg, All Rights Retained


"The Way I Love You" is published in the book Raised In The Shadow: A Collection of Twenty-five Poems by Philip Rosenberg, Sunland Press, 2007.


Rags & Bones
The foul rag and bone shop of the heart,” Yeats called it – that repository of musings, detritus and discarded emotions out of which we assemble art.  Songwriter-poet Phillip Rosenberg, performing under the name Rags and Bones, has spent a lifetime sifting through the leftover parts of the world and himself to try and create an archival record.  At 70, he feels like he may be getting close. In 2008 he left Nashville for the People's Republic of Joshua Tree where he hones his craft, teaches guitar, plays for the lunch crowd at the JT Saloon, writes poetry, and organizes the monthly Songwriters in the Round at the Beatnik Lounge.


Monday, April 24, 2017

POETS OF MYTHOPOETRY: DEANNA MCKINSTRY-EDWARDS Song And Poetry #mythopoetry #guestpost #NationalPoetryMonth 2017

Written and performed by Deanna McKinstry-Edwards of Carmel, CA. Hopeful Ground is written and performed by Deanna McKinstry-Edwards and uploaded to SoundCloud by Stephanie Pope April 24, 2017 ©2017 Hopeful Ground Deanna McKinstry-Edwards All Rights Retained


I remember the world
when I was a girl,
And it all spun round
on hopeful ground.

I remember the way
The songs of that day
Carried the sound
Of a higher ground.

We are the girls
Who never stopped believing.
Our voices should be heard
For there are dreams worth keeping.
We’ve crested life’s fierce waves,
We’ve honored all the graves
Of those who came before us
Who even now implore us
To live on hopeful ground.

 I remember the way
the light shaped the day.
There were great things to do,
whole worlds to renew.

We took up the call
Risked taking a fall,
But it all made sense,
We were now off the fence.


BIRD DOG      For Asher

His mind moves
like a prophet
the beauty of food.

Every footstep a sacrifice,
a praise song of breath and motion,
a stamina born of tall grasses
and woodlands full of
ripe birds and the games of men.

Dreams soaked with hunger
pad his footfalls in promises.
He must not disappoint himself,
and his comrades.

The tall grasses have not forgotten him,
nor he their history
brushing against his fur,
hiding him as he moves
almost without moving, closer.

It is a foolish music
that can only win now and then,
but the now and then is the
music that drives his body.

And at night on the couch,
when he sleep with his legs
in the air like bent reeds,
I know I am seeing far, far
back into the friendship of fur
and human need
played out in olden times by firelight,
roasting the beatitudes of food
from the shared hunt.

©2017 Bird Dog Deanna McKinstry-Edwards
©2017 Bird Dog Deanna McKinstry-Edwards All Rights Retained


The dead. Rarely are.

Even if you walk in moccasins
through a mossy wood,
and disturb not a leaf,
the dead will be disturbed.
They can’t help it.

Even if rivers make promises
to swallow their ashes,
and mountains chew their bones,
their voices seep through
the smallest spaces.

The dead always slip through,
courting the living.

Something about death,
however, cannot last forever.
Something about forever
is little understood.

©2017 The Dead Deanna McKinstry-Edwards

©2017 The Dead  Deanna McKinstry-Edwards  All Rights Retained


Dying on the blacktop
from the wheels
of a fast moving traveler
the little mole
has waited for me to pass by.

Our eyes meet. 
He has me
the way an apple falls to earth
and the earth rises to greet it.

Lifting his
still breathing smallness
onto a large leaf,
I lay him in the soft touches
of spring throated grass
near the road
as sunlight and moonlight
sweep through each other
spinning tales of the
beginning and ending
of light.

©2017 The Last Light In The Moles Eyes Deanna McKinstry-Edwards

©2017 The Last Light In The Moles Eyes  Deanna McKinstry-Edwards
All Rights Retained



We carry creation’s seed
in the nest of our bodies.

We carry homeless
forgotten and forsaken.

We wear the earth
in baskets on our backs,
brimming with grasses and sticks.

We carry life-loving soil.
 dusty and flood soaked
 it stains our feet.

We carry the old wood
fires, and the future

We sit on mountain tops
weaving wounds into blankets
and balm for generations to come.

We carry the voices
of the valleys,
the deep, deep valleys
where meandering streams meet
the meadows singing
replenishing Hallelujahs.

We stand taller than pyramids
and buildings dedicated
to the sun, blinding light
and perfect measure.

We are the moon-keepers.
shepards of shadows
and shade, and the soul’s
never-ending thirst
for the murmurations
of meaning.

We carry our men
back to their hearts,
and they carry us
back to ours. 

have grown in each other’s
branches, twisting, tender
with longing, longing to trust
who we really are.
How vulnerable.

We carry death, and sing it
back to life again.

We carry songs.  We sing.
We always sing.  Especially
when we’re broken,
and the whole world feels broken, too.

We are the song
that allows starry nights
their moisturing dark
for dry days, and those to come.

We carry the hearth
of heaven
in our touch
and voices.

We carry.  We carry.

©2017 We Carry Deanna McKinstry-Edwards
©2017 We Carry Deanna McKinstry-Edwards All Rights Retained  


This is not a sad story.
Life moves on that’s all. Moves
around and through things
becoming something else,
continents shaking at their edges
trawling for missing pieces.

Take celery root.  It’s tuberous
hardness cooked supple and soft,
becomes celery salad.
“No, I ‘ve never had celery salad,”
I told her.

She lives alone,
by a sacred fire of small things
made meaningful by her attention
and 96 year old hands dicing, chopping,
peeling, mixing mayonnaise, onion
and vinegar.

Late afternoon traffic on Sunset Boulevard,
framed in her living room windows,
lurches homeward,
the drivers, listening to tapes, music,
the news of murders and quaking continents,
a hundred leagues away they are from where they are,
split by long drives and the misgivings
of the day.

But with her, there are no misgivings,
she is already home, into her
evening rituals, present to
the smallest, and her cat
circling around her legs.

The rush is somewhere else.
Celery salad is being composed here
by 96 year old hands and
old eyes dimmed by macular
degeneration. Her soul’s
eyes are another story.

She is not what she was,
but always what she is.

The cutting board crackles
under her knife, the cat’s bell
jingles the air. 
I’m sitting under the relaxed sky
of her roomy apartment, filled with
96 years of memories, china, photos,
animal figures, animal paintings,
stuffed animals, some who can speak
and sing…
Animals, animals, animals, part of
our shared sacraments and bond.

Her footsteps, barely audible,
fall like magnolia petals,
onto the linoleum.  Will I ever walk this softly?

She is content.  Prepared to live,
19 bottles of distilled water
within reach, and prepared to move on
to a place as certain and clear in her mind
as the purest stream and sky
she could imagine.

Do you know anyone like that?
To know even one soul,
like a single pelican
rising from a salty lagoon,
full of liftoff, fluidity and flight,
will lay you down at day’s end,
home again, with simple things,
and no rush.

©2017 Celery Salad And Old Eyes Deanna McKinstry-Edwards
©2017 Celery Salad And Old Eyes Deanna McKinstry-Edwards All Rights Retained

Celery Salad And Old Eyes by Deanna McKinstry-Edwards is previously published in Mythopoetry Scholar: Annual Reflections In Depth Perspectives Volume 2  “Matter And Beauty”, January, 2011


Deanna McKinstry-Edwards, PhD is a professional actress, singer, writer and Pushcart nominated poet.   Returning to college in 1999, she earned a Master’s and Doctoral Degree in Mythology and Depth Psychology at the Pacifica Graduate Institute.  Her doctoral dissertation, Singing; Soul’s Mythic Mirror, explores singing as the indigenous voice and language of human beings.   Her lectures on singing and myth merge her performance talents with her academic background.  She teaches a course on Ecopsychology, and is the author of Psyche, Eros and Me; A Mythic Memoir.