Hadaig, you are so smart
With your large cawing voice,
Unique and patient in flight
Your compact body with
long-legs and thick neck
a heavy, straight bill.
with broad, rounded wings
and wing-tip feathers that spread like fingers
I am amazed at your fine body
you have not a speck of any other color –
all black, even your legs and bill.
you could teach us a lot about being with others
living in large flocks, sometimes of millions
how do you do that
when I have trouble with only a few?
you are inquisitive
and very mischievous, my friend
and so good at solving problems
I just don’t know how you do it
eating almost anything
… even robbing chicks from nests
Oh, bold Hadaig,
you are so aggressive
you often chase away hawks
I know you must surely be full of yourself!
I see you In fields, open woodlands, and forests
on lawns and in parking lots
you raid garbage cans and
pick over what we throw out
you are a great teacher
of cleverness and versatility
It is no wonder you are beloved of the Goddess
Jodi outside, tough as nails
Brightly colored tattoed skin
Jodi inside, soft as silk
Never nurtured by mother’s milk.
Hurt by life, this child of pain
Hurt by those whose love she’d gain.
Battered, beaten, bruised and torn
By those around her she was scorned.
She tries her best to be fierce
Her toughness hides her fragile self.
Inside her soul, the gentle fawn
Dares not be another’s pawn.
With her friends she seeks to grow
Goddess led, she now knows
That love will heal the hurt and pain
And through knowledge she will gain.
She must start her life again
As if a child in school, begin.
She must read to get ahead
And learn the rules as she’s led.
Someday she’ll see she has no need
For smoke and stuff to hide her pain
The Lady wants her pure and clean
On the Goddess she can lean.
It is not easy to learn to love
When love’s not taught.
It’s not easy to hide the dread
When lovers find new paths to tread.
I hope her teachers guide her well
And teach by doing what they say
Living smart and choosing right
Showing that the path is bright.
When Jodi learns to love herself
Then love from others will be a boon
Not a need to fill a hole
But fluffy frosting for the soul.
Deanne (who knows when – many years ago)
the hardest part of growing older
is the loss one suffers.
it may be parents, lovers, or friends.
the deep sadness that never really goes away
the missing, the longing,
and the thinking of what could have been.
so many once known and loved
become memories instead of being there with us.
the hardest of all I am sure
is the loss of one’s own child,
the one we put our dreams into,
the one we think will carry on for us
when we are gone.
how does one ever recover from that great loss?
how does one ever smile again
or laugh again or find meaning in life?
we find comfort from our friends
told they are in a better place
but no words help, nothing consoles.
for what has been lost
are the dreams unrealized,
the potential not yet unlocked,
the future cut short,
and yet, we remain to grieve …
and go on …
Deanne Quarrie August 2009
Holly trees are rarely allowed to grow to their full height of sixty-five feet and are instead trimmed down as hedges or ornamental bushes.
I am a Holly Tree. Many of us are Holly Trees. As strong women – women whose voices want to shout out to the world – women who have a really hard time being silent in the face of injustice – women who rebel at being the fairer sex – rebel at being trimmed down or at being ornamental bushes!
From early in life the process of being “trimmed down” begins. We are silenced – shushed – trained to be “good little girls” and not assertive – bold or daring!
I am a Holly Tree who has not been trimmed – a Holly Tree who has grown to her full height – a Holly Tree with full spiky leaves – sharp barbs – rich color – full and robust berries – a battle waging spear – who will not – can not – be silent in the face of injustice. A Holly Tree – strong and tall in service to Goddess!
salmon swims from her memory
long forgotten, never known
all she knows is she must be there.
driven to a place
returning as ancestors before
generation after generation.
called home once more
alive – alert – swift
riding on her memories
ancient as time
is this what I feel
in my yearning?
my own bones knowing
an aching at times,
a body longing for home.
am I as the salmon,
pulled by ancient memories
calling me home?
Poetry and drawing by Deanne