tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28752696773160889952012-02-02T11:25:36.103-08:00RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.comBlogger5121100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-43047460722423694262012-01-13T16:44:00.000-08:002012-01-13T17:25:17.795-08:00

In the dreams of a dragonheat sings, fire, crackling bonesa shimmer of scales and the smellof hot mammalian fear,a flash of prey refracted sixteen times over by faceted lizard eyesWhen dragons dream, they call downall seven senses, no mere technicolor:sapphire, black and rose,when the tongue is flooded overwith scalding feral blood, and the south-winddraws a winged membrane with a~ whoomp ~into

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-47777648111162723572012-01-04T16:49:00.000-08:002012-01-04T16:49:00.344-08:00

I could write about how the night airmoved and shimmered, envelopingthe polluted river in a silky fog.How our skin itched and crawled when we pulled ourselves up onto the rocky bank, and rubbed ourselves raw with stiff, line-dried towels.How our clothes clung and rolled upagainst our clammy skin as we tugged them on,and how we scrubbed our arms energeticallyto try and tame the flocks of goose

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-74112256429013656402011-12-11T11:06:00.000-08:002011-12-11T11:09:06.725-08:00

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-1635658853398120112011-12-05T16:39:00.000-08:002011-12-05T16:39:00.186-08:00

I’m ashamed of this corrosionthe rust in my gearsthat came about from standingout in this icy drizzletoo long. Too stubbornto drag my sorry, welded assinside, too melancholyto think the mechanical effortwas worth it. And nowhere you are, all springing stepand bright sunshineand I can onlymournfully creak alongbehind you.Rachel WestfallDecember 5, 2011In tandem with Christopher

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-49603068074248908302011-12-01T16:45:00.000-08:002011-12-01T16:45:00.146-08:00

Angels aren’t meantto burnnor should their feathersglint of hardened steel.Madder is wrong hereand ochre, that snakingstrand of sun-firethat licks your anklesand draws out poisonlike a song. There is a grey in your eyesthat hasthe sheen of an impostor,a reflection of this skygone wrong, the weathered skinof a long-dead treeor the sorrow of a forestbereft of its loam.Rachel WestfallDecember 1, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-40868930316970042222011-11-24T08:43:00.000-08:002011-11-24T08:45:11.851-08:00

I flung you round meround and away, into the wailing dark.You say I pushed you.I thought it would be safeto let you go.I thought you would be back,drawn again and againto my endless solar song.Now I see you there,shifting through the far reaches,pulling me retrogradeas you chase the fire of a faraway sun.I hope you never reach her.I hope the ice stings your cheeksand the chill fog pullsthe wind

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-2085966808006488552011-11-22T12:17:00.000-08:002011-11-22T12:17:00.156-08:00

As you swing by meon your erratic orbitaround some greater forcehow can I be the earth,the moon, a celestial bodyso perfectly round, a mother,a sphere like a jewelwithout falling hard againstyour rough edge,without brushingyour scarred surface overmy cheek, withoutshifting my courseirrevocably towardsyour aching curve?Rachel WestfallNovember 22, 2011.... in response to Christopher

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-41659852231455769962011-11-21T16:51:00.000-08:002011-11-21T16:51:00.665-08:00

With the heat of your fingertipsyou shatteredthe cold, hard shellI'd wrapped aroundmy shoulderslike a tattered cloakstiffened by thewinter frostand with a groanthe first of the tearsbroke throughRachel WestfallNovember 21, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-6644424473434165772011-11-12T06:42:00.000-08:002011-11-12T06:43:31.359-08:00

You crush the sunlight in my dayand scatter it, broken and dead,like litter on the ground.I wonder if you’re pleasedwith this dull grey lightyou’ve wrought. I wonderif you stop to reflect at all.Bitter snake, your venomdrives me out, despairingfor clean air, fresh joy.Rachel WestfallNovember 12, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-31514525771767242132011-10-17T09:11:00.000-07:002011-10-17T09:12:49.083-07:00

I was bitten by a black widow spiderher web a cape of silvertrailing along behind her.I was making muffins in the kitchenThe fire in the woodstovehad the whole room glowing orangeAnd still she sidled upand nipped me hard, right on the leg.Her wicked face turned up at meas I yelped in pain, and thenshe scurried off to find the fleshof some other helpless victim.Rachel WestfallOctober 17, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-10683000874307218842011-10-04T12:41:00.000-07:002011-10-04T12:41:00.253-07:00

I knew you’d come backslowly scuttling backonce your rage wore downto an aching nub and your stomachgrowled for belonging.You had no place else to go.I kept an ear on the doorand my mind sharp, readyto pounce, hungryto get the fight over withso I could fold you in my armsmy pale, lonely armsand weave my fingers tightthrough your sad, sorry spider hair.Rachel WestfallOctober 4, 2011 I don't know

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-46354369409730614012011-10-03T16:42:00.000-07:002011-10-03T16:42:00.642-07:00

When she hit you backyou didn’t see it coming. Your swaggergot knocked sideways, shaken downto a stumblethat broke your sweet high.It’s a long way down when you havespittle running down your cheekand your girl’sjust walked offwith the last of the weed and a curseflung sharp over her shoulder.Rachel WestfallOctober 3, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-53656795955449496872011-10-01T08:00:00.000-07:002011-10-01T08:00:03.101-07:00

I would feed you dinner, child.A feast fit for a king.When you stumbled inwith vomit on your sweater, eyes glazedand a red weltquickly rising on your cheekbone,my heart turned upside down.To the table, come.Pull out a chair, sit.Here is the linen,the cutlery, the shufflingpacing order of the kitchen,steam called from a platefreshly loadedwith such hearty delights.Rachel WestfallSeptember 30, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-3281280613659282502011-09-30T08:50:00.000-07:002011-09-30T11:39:54.997-07:00

I had promised to bring back more of my raven poems. Here is one. I thought of it this morning, as I met up with some locals-- human and otherwise-- on my way into work at ravenrise, that slip of pale sky just before dawn.Raven's delightThe angry flight of birds blackenthe late-morning dawn, feathers crisp with frosty breathan arrow painted by the streakand shriek of the hollow-boned ones,

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-73224862405253080342011-09-02T12:30:00.000-07:002011-09-02T12:30:00.444-07:00

There’s a restlessness that stirs these feathers, draws the mask tight against our skins, calls us to dance from the heart of the leopard’s prowling night. Our blood remembers the thrumming of the drums, the pounding of our feet on the cold sand, wet from the lapping of the river’s briny tongue. The girls, four of them almost ten, tie sheer fabrics taut around their waists and pull each other’s

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-46614005937080660322011-08-30T19:53:00.000-07:002011-08-30T19:57:13.308-07:00

I've been thinking about the ravens, lately. They are starting to drift back into town, slowly, as the gulls and other summer birds line up their baggage and head for milder climates. This brought me back to a series of raven poems I wrote a few winters ago, and I decided to revisit just a few of them, one by one. Here is where it begins. the ravens have eaten her heart see how the thunderhead

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-70229656073022083542011-08-14T07:22:00.000-07:002011-08-14T07:22:00.173-07:00

You drew sacred fire from that place deep inside me where I thought I had it well enough hidden, tamped down to conceal treacherous smoke. Now I howl for you, chase you, hunt you down to find more of that same magic, magic that feeds deep hungers that I had thought gone. Rachel Westfall August 12, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-51166399201625694372011-08-12T21:06:00.000-07:002011-08-12T21:08:33.945-07:00

You’re the broken edge of a dream, shattered by the abrupt intrusion of the early morning alarm, shrill and persistent. Roses wither in the ice of your breath, petals receding, clutching tight about the bud like a tearful school girl’s slender arms. Dead promises are your nectar, dripped in the dark of night onto the hungry ground, then lapped up by the dawn. Rachel Westfall August 12, 2011 　

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-63397703676698878212011-07-29T17:38:00.000-07:002011-07-30T08:00:07.852-07:00

At first it felt so good,so exhilarating to be freefrom the prisonof that cursed, confining shell.I could breathe again,sing,even shout, expandingmy chest broad as rubber,and I could twistfront to back, loose and lithe.But slowly I became lost,forgetful of who I wasand there was just that hollowfeeling that comes with twilight,the cooler nightsand voices distant,but nobody close.My limbs

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-76993978283965248882011-07-27T12:43:00.000-07:002011-07-27T12:44:21.019-07:00

Help me cover my tracks,sweet howling wind,sweep them full of sandand autumn’s bitter rubble to helpmake fast my escape. The rabbits,the foxes will press the earthsmoothly into neat new grooves,confusing the trail, collapsing itinto a weave, a sieve of dotted lines,around and through the bush.Rachel WestfallJuly 27, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-29183911057960567692011-07-27T07:48:00.000-07:002011-07-27T07:48:00.683-07:00

Forgive my long absence.I have been held hostage, wristschafed and limbs withered,so longuntilonedayhis attention wavered, his delusionsshifted and I felloutside his peripheral view,andslitheredas silentand fast as I could, a snaketasting the air blindlywith each flick of pink tongue,on a desperate searchfor home. Now, I think,I am back, but muted;concealed; my stripes hidden.I don’t dare risk

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-27719796123079080292011-07-26T09:08:00.000-07:002011-07-26T09:09:37.077-07:00

When the sweet rain falls,pulling the pollen downlicking your parched hair curly,your cracked lips swell,softening like the thirsty clayunder your feet, like a kissyou’ve waited longand lonely years for,and can’t quite savour fast enoughto ever appease that ache,that ravenous, infinite hungerRachel WestfallJuly 26, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-35914190853837705442011-07-18T07:03:00.000-07:002011-07-18T07:03:00.926-07:00

Bleed, and I will lick the saltof your sap, the pain of the sudden pruningflowing rich as honey over my eager tongue.Recoil, and I will cradle youfirm and tender until my chin and breastare sticky with your tears and you melt again.Mine and yours is the sting of betrayaland the anguish of our bond,the bittersweet ache of our reunion.Rachel WestfallJuly 15, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-16446263098330759622011-07-15T10:03:00.000-07:002011-07-15T13:37:32.366-07:00

I sift your ancient sandand draw out a beadof my own making, a beadolder than your stories,older than your earth’s caressand drop it tinklinginto my sieve of antler and bone.These artefacts I gather:a crow’s feather, tattered and glintingblue in the pale spring sun;some weathered strands of seaweed;a ring of whale boneand a slip of rainbow shell.The mask I weave is sparse,salty and hollow as a

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-66267131795973872152011-06-13T16:37:00.000-07:002011-06-13T16:37:00.436-07:00

It was one of those feasts, you know, not the ones you plan like a family reunion months in advance, right down to the potato salad and where the kids will dry off after the waterfight, but the spontaneous kind, when a truckful of crab tips over on the highway tossing its slippery load across the baking asphalt, so you call the relatives in from all around to drag the salty carcasses to a safe

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-68129988594777155322011-05-22T16:20:00.000-07:002011-05-22T16:21:49.539-07:00

Your back bent over the gardenas you laid mottled stones in a row:a highway for slugs or rain-slick homes for shining black beetlesshovel and rake leaned by the wallhandles crossed like dear old friendscompanions in the long winter months of dusty shed hibernationand the pansies, reseeded from last year quite by accident, purple and white faces shamelessly gazing skyward until youcarefully loosed

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-88984343210677625302011-04-29T16:45:00.000-07:002011-04-29T16:45:00.532-07:00

seeds of grackle iceskitter, lost in wind-blown sandsun-blind, screeching thawRachel WestfallApril 29, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-17215156350272333492011-04-14T16:29:00.000-07:002011-04-15T09:07:20.167-07:00

I want to dream of pretty things, and draw them up my arm. Put feathers on my necklace, and beads of glass and ice. With bells, I'll softly jingle like a dancer's hammered treasure, thin copper, slice of dawn. Rachel Westfall April 14, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-5039145860089262011-03-20T13:18:00.001-07:002011-03-20T13:20:02.068-07:00

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-4662003361592867032011-03-09T14:50:00.001-08:002011-03-09T21:42:44.216-08:00

When I run my cool hands under your layersseeking your chest, strong and warmthen onto your shoulders, their familiarcurve drawing heat down through me, searchingfor your tongue roughly with my mouthit is to call you MINE without wordsand with complete trust, to fall into abandon:this is what love isDefiledby talk of freedom, whores and 'men have needs'cheap trash talk, fast-food sex so rancidmy

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-15519604247590229932011-03-06T20:02:00.000-08:002011-03-06T20:03:06.164-08:00

A seam torn open, soft jelly exposedto the sweet licking of ants,the barbed beaks of scavengers.No hearts for the ones left grinning,for the beaks, for the scavengers,only the jelly, the sweet soft jelly torn open.Rachel WestfallMarch 6, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-25065557199132006162011-02-17T12:37:00.000-08:002011-02-17T14:51:36.360-08:00

I’m not the one.There is naked air fallingover the rough ground,frost-heaved into longingand regret, the sorrowof small birds, plumpand frosty-beaked.There are wolves, roughscavengers, grizzled,thin, silent as lost pups,unbirthed throughthe hungry dark months.There is an empty placein the land, that hollowwhere we putwhat we thought we had;the earth has eaten love.Rachel WestfallFebruary 17, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-85048312107303636312011-02-15T10:21:00.001-08:002011-02-15T10:24:31.348-08:00

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-62925173601977706442011-02-14T08:59:00.000-08:002011-02-14T09:38:44.888-08:00

We rattle our pikes and sighthin goblin sighsin green and brown,tired of the weight our helms,fatigued by these codpiecesof beaten leather.We hope you don’t noticethe rich soil under my nails,a telltale signof my secret gardening habit, northe softness of the tunicmy companion wears,chewed and sewn so lovinglyby his dear, sweet goblin bride.We rattle our pikes and sighwhistling goblin sighsin red

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-57925905927142514002011-01-28T06:35:00.000-08:002011-01-28T06:37:12.352-08:00

Lupine jawswith a flick of spit, a frothy commarunning shallowas a laugh along your spine,hackles raised intoa sacred crown of splintered frostRachel WestfallJanuary 27, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-43962400327673315792011-01-26T16:13:00.000-08:002011-01-26T16:15:09.395-08:00

I am looking for you, my friendsand that is whyI sing of the hollow ground.The wind carries my thin songthrough the stonesstones of cairn, barrowand forsaken wood,the scrub brush of the divide.The sharp tinder scent of nightgives an answer,silent and long, the end of song.Rachel WestfallJanuary 26, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-42571904755717834202011-01-21T17:00:00.000-08:002011-01-26T16:15:52.162-08:00

Your hand is gnarled by its timelessgrip on the weathered fence post,that last frail marker of where we endand the next begins. Between your roots,we dig rough graves in thin rocky soiland mark them lovinglywith found-stone cairns. They singin scattered rows, measuring timeimperfectly through their slow tumble,frost-heave, and lichen’s patient growth.Rachel WestfallJanuary 21, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-76570563539036417162011-01-15T13:08:00.000-08:002011-01-15T13:09:43.317-08:00

There was a small hope of lovelike a game between fickle birds　not those who mate for lifeand grieve into bone-racked hungerwhen one loses the other.　That small hope flickeredor was it more of a withering　a cactus bloom, pearledand gaudy as an everlasting yetturned to twisted crepe overnight?　Rachel WestfallJanuary 15, 2011

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-69478431791718137962011-01-04T16:31:00.000-08:002011-01-04T16:31:00.048-08:00

And then the sun comes outa pale winter surprise kicking small dust-mothsinto a startled flutter　And the pale yellow lightis open-souled as your ruffled headon my pillow　And I’m drunk and lostin the enchanted smell of your sleep　Rachel WestfallJanuary 4, 2010

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-29459725845424089162010-12-14T20:46:00.001-08:002010-12-14T20:46:59.759-08:00

When you tumbled and fell, hair tossedin seaweed strands over sandy shelland beach glass, those slippers tangled,their golden laces forgottenthe tide came in,sweepby cunning sweep　to lick your soles, your palmoutstretched, a hopeful fan of fingersrigid with the effort to drink in joyRachel WestfallDecember 14, 2010

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So I lap the small seedsfrom your hand,that delightful reekof you a tinglein my brown specklednostrils, whiskers flaringinto a shower,a tentative showerof white spun goldRachel WestfallNovember 30, 2010

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-54769728451210277092010-11-29T07:36:00.000-08:002010-11-29T09:37:44.254-08:00

Lace winged fairyA plush smileThis little box of woodintricate, adorned witha medieval heartChocolates stolen froma childhood memoryof sweet crackling maltA spilled rainbow of tissueSuch a plump handful of beadsfacets laughing their shockof cracked blue and greenAll entrapped in clever strandsof some light stembraided Celtic boldRachel WestfallNovember 29, 2010

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-43669516717579847522010-11-06T06:26:00.000-07:002010-11-06T06:39:05.912-07:00

If I could lay my handson you, I’d scrub you pinkin a steaming tub of froththen run my rough tongueover your spine in steady strokeswith all the love and tenacityof any mother cat.Your ears sit closed,the accumulated wax of decadesshutting me out untilmy footsteps fadewith muffled thumps awaydown the worn carpeted hall.　Rachel WestfallNovember 6, 2010

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-23458076966646123892010-11-01T16:23:00.000-07:002010-11-01T16:23:00.896-07:00

You’ve found a wayto carve knotwoodinto balsam wings,and there you glideall grins above the streeteven your ragged cuffsstay clean now, asyour giggle swellson your bright new highyour eyes graze me andI wonder what you seesince they throw offshards of blue and green,no hint refractedfrom my bitter grimeRachel WestfallNovember 1, 2010

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-61795711981778879312010-10-29T14:50:00.000-07:002010-10-29T14:52:17.778-07:00

Credit for the inspiration goes to Christopher.In the year you leftYou thought you kept them hidden,those confused thoughts of yours,as you tried to walk dignifiedout of my life and awaydown the street. You tuned out　my bitter laugh as I read throughyour bluster to seeyou so flustered. I knew thenjust how well my game had worked,how clearly I had wonthe final prize of my owndry, empty heart.　Come

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-23922132516466024152010-10-27T16:36:00.000-07:002010-10-28T11:24:36.829-07:00

I had a little fun with a Halloween word (spectre) as well as a word lifted off my daughter's spelling list (hungry). Here is the result.Just look　Just look at howa month slid by bare-boned,slim as a solitary chickadeebeaking rain-swelled remnantsfrom the miserly cracksin the feeder.　This is no timefor golden shoes, for hairpiled high then tumbling downin gleaming rivulets, for thelaughter and

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-25334041730510751672010-10-15T16:51:00.000-07:002010-10-15T16:51:00.291-07:00

(First posted here)There’s that postcard of you,the small dancing hairson your neck like you had as a baby, and that beadof sweat, runningjust down below the collar.I slice my tonguealong its worried edge,and it tastes like rain.Rachel WestfallOctober 15, 2010

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-88223905371218897992010-10-11T09:32:00.000-07:002010-10-11T10:16:24.299-07:00

You sit heavy at the kitchen tableshoulders rounded.A rough cough, nothing to say yet.I put the steaming mug of tea beside your handwhere it sits untouched until it’s cold as whiskey.　I cut down the apple tree, you tell me.It’s all firewood now.　My envy pulls sharp at your wallow of grief,at the depth of your sorrowfor her errant tangle of mistletoe hair,her limbs all askew in the field.　Rachel

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-28614259023270259622010-10-10T13:18:00.000-07:002010-10-10T17:20:29.549-07:00

You told me of loveand of blind regret as you swungthe axe deepinto my heartwood core　stirring clouds of summer dust　and moths, rising groggilyblinking away the tattered shredsof their precious noonday sleep.　Only I saw you placea kisson the perfectly honed tipof the iron blade beforeyou swung, betrayingyour ugly truthyour harsh allegianceto the ravenous spark　of the fire mage.　Rachel

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-72878893824265804862010-10-09T10:33:00.000-07:002010-10-09T10:38:06.988-07:00

Your flame enfolds me withits acid tongue, its cinnabar breatha foreign curse hissingfar too late of the recklessnessof heartwood love, of rooted longingfor so fickle a fire-mageas my one, my own belovedstone man, my green man,my dear beloved woodsman.Rachel WestfallOctober 9, 2010

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-17660260556709625142010-10-07T06:13:00.000-07:002010-10-07T06:14:51.098-07:00

You swing your axe and cleave mefresh in two, smooth hardwood grownin loving incrementswith each rough-handled bucket of water,each late-summer visitfrom the rust-brown pruner’s saw. Those daysI longed for you to come, to lay cool handson callused bark and climb to sitin the throne of my limbs, to wearthe crown I wove for youfrom fistfuls of cyanide leaves.I made you apples, divine fruitstheir

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-90843698511325840622010-10-05T12:00:00.000-07:002010-10-05T12:00:01.145-07:00

I was sleek, limbs freshand soft as waxnewly emergedwhen you first drew me upin a long embraceand spokemy true name in my ear.You told me I was real,grew me lean and strongto run colt-limbedacross the sand, the windstroking long ripplesthrough my hair.You say you do not know menow, you sayyou’ve lost my name.Without your hands,your breath, your hawk’s whisperI have no name at all.　Rachel

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-90264139586308280032010-10-04T08:34:00.001-07:002010-10-04T08:34:57.495-07:00

Something froze on the shoreetched in linesscratched by feet of the passing gullscast in red-gold raysof the sudden dawn startling night’s chillscuttling back to a huddled placeunder rocks, in the cool moist densof the red-backed crabsSomething frozeon the shore in the salt-tinged sandwhere the wind braided hairand summer freckles smiledas we combedtidal pools to fill our treasure chestsSomething

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-4264413853008662072010-09-06T20:20:00.000-07:002010-09-06T20:21:41.102-07:00

Goblin dreams are green, of course,and sometimes earthen red.　They scatter crude as folly, eacha lively joke, prodded alongits crude night pathwith the sharp end of a stick.　When goblins wake, they rub their eyeslike you and me, those gruesome eyesof pebble coal, sockets inflamed and rawand they recall the depth of dreamas light as moth, antennae searchingwith perfectly dissected fuzz,brutality a

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-60524314384533231872010-08-23T16:23:00.000-07:002010-08-23T16:23:00.342-07:00

As the nights grow longer and the dewfalls heavy, soon resembling frost, we moveinside from the tent at night, but nowI cannot sleep, suffocated by these pressing,airless walls. The tent’s chill mawhangs dark and empty in the lonely yard,chewing memories of shivers and storiesof the summer bedtime ritual, the warmingof the blankets with our own sleek sun-rubbed limbs.Rachel WestfallAugust 23, 2010

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-72693698516791216422010-08-08T17:46:00.000-07:002010-08-08T17:47:23.647-07:00

When you march through the mudin your golden shoes,then tear them offsmeared, tossedlike spoiled treasureonto the rich green,emerald grass　When you run, toes splayedinto the river wherespeckled fish breeze bystartled into trembling quakeby the rough tremoras you break the thin membraneof the sun-warmed,sun-kissed shallows　When you find hidden thornsin the berry jumble,pierced thumb sharing

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-21901256290599424392010-07-24T15:10:00.000-07:002010-07-24T15:11:14.034-07:00

Things have been rougharound here, the cats are spittingfur and venom, each hissa punctual curse. Rippleshave run through the shellof protection, the meniscusa feeble illusion that wecan truly ever hopeto protect the ones we love.A shuddering death, a gaspbrought shock into the place,not silence, but roaring ragea molten burst, a livid serpentof searing flame, spilled overdeep magenta, a violent

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-43175032134384366002010-07-13T08:01:00.000-07:002010-07-13T08:09:05.643-07:00

The latest obsession in my house is Magic the Gathering. My son and I were at an event recently at our local gaming store, where we got to play and keep some of the new cards that will be coming out later this week. In the final match, I glanced over to my son's table to see how he was doing, and I caught a maniacal gleam in his eye. I could tell by his grin that he'd won again.The idea of trying

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-35949167374160873942010-07-02T08:48:00.000-07:002010-07-02T09:29:04.483-07:00

Thanks to everyone who submitted poems for the bear poetry challenge! It's so hard choosing who to send a prize to. I wish I could send each of you a bear package.First, the poems.From Michael Pealow:Bountiful berriesWe all grow in summer fieldsNom nom nom nom nom!Haha! Now what else would bears write poetry about?Michael also wrote this beauty:On the Origins of Groaler Bears and PizzleysTall,

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-25840874303469818942010-07-01T13:07:00.000-07:002010-07-01T14:23:49.571-07:00

Thanks everyone for the wonderful poems you've entered so far! I'll leave the contest open until midnight tonight. Tomorrow, I'll post a compilation of the poems, and I'll announce the winners. I have special little bear-gifts for the winners which I picked up at Jade City yesterday, as we made our way up the Cassiar Highway towards home. If you aren't local, and you ever have the chance to

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-39015227042572478212010-06-23T15:16:00.000-07:002010-06-23T15:16:00.098-07:00

We're on the road.... The cubs and I will be back soon, and I'm looking forward to reading your bear poems!

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-41208998755599888222010-06-16T09:02:00.000-07:002010-06-16T09:11:06.835-07:00

These beautiful bears greeted us as we travelled down the Atlin Road last week. To paraphrase my fellow blogger Rob-Bear, if elves can have haiku, then why not bears?Here is my challenge to you: craft a bear haiku, and post it in the comments. Other styles of bear poetry are welcome, too. No rush-- I'll leave the challenge open until July 1. I'll compile all the bear poetry and send a small

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-92210296080859670722010-06-08T17:05:00.000-07:002010-06-08T17:15:29.290-07:00

If the dust runs through on a lonely windand the dance of the downon the back of your hand weaves a shiver,the gods are grumbling now,trembling shake as they wakedisturbed by the mountain’s taleof a low, slow groaning whisperIf the wind skirts roundthrough anemic trees, leaves brownrattle-rattling their dry lamentdissipated as a long-ago kiss,pale mouth shale and witheredthen you’ll see why I’ve

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-52619671673935451042010-06-01T21:20:00.000-07:002010-06-01T21:22:53.325-07:00

Winding through night’s pathsilver thread, thin, hung with dewancient song's refrainRachel WestfallJune 1, 2010And why should elves not have haiku?

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-37347532865636969352010-05-16T06:54:00.000-07:002010-05-16T06:54:00.242-07:00

For ChristopherI held you in a locket, my love,your image perfectly castand frozen in time. You thoughtyou were free to grow,live and learn, become old.But I had you there,borne pendulous, trappedon a silver thread, a spider’s charmspun perfectly around my neck.Rachel WestfallMay 14, 2010

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-70031181889017891232010-05-12T16:55:00.000-07:002010-05-12T16:55:00.558-07:00

Step over to Catvibe Creative and check out the image prompt and contest Cat has started over there. You have until this Saturday to craft an entry. Oh, and while you are at it, take a peek in her art store. Her stuff is really pretty fabulous!Here is the poem I wrote for Cat's image prompt.The moon’s slow grace runs golden throughthe apple fields as though it knowsthose amber honey words she’d

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-78033130796248003942010-05-09T07:38:00.000-07:002010-05-09T07:38:00.844-07:00

Inspired by ChristopherWhen I invite you out,you shake your head, overwhelmedby the dusty pilesin the corner of every room,the heaps of laundrystrung without maliceover hapless random furniture.The cat stalks throughin his element hereleaving mysterious urine stains,an abstract sensory designamong the cast-off sheets.When I invite you out, I hopeto break the cobweb nestthat binds perniciously,

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-78096376083344988542010-05-07T11:05:00.000-07:002010-05-07T11:07:10.080-07:00

I’ve heard that time seems to speed up as you get older. I didn’t expect it to happen so suddenly, and I’m nowhere near halfway to the finish line. Somehow, as everything races by, I keep missing the opportunity to write down a few lines of poetry.I started a poem about a week ago, a haiku, and I saved it because it felt like it needed more than three lines to reach completion. Upon re-reading,

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-12089916754322738852010-04-19T19:13:00.001-07:002010-04-19T19:14:51.091-07:00

In response to Christopher's poem which can be found in the comments here on this blog, two posts below:This ragged heartThis ragged heart wearsa dirty shirt, threadsground with dust as fine as flourfrom the worrying,worrying fingersravelling over this ancient grief.Spring’s low lifting lightdraws a fleeting thoughtand those fingers flutter brieflyaway just lightly, rememberingthe pause of a dove

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-76049106794541579742010-04-19T19:02:00.000-07:002010-04-19T19:03:40.952-07:00

Oh where is she now? Well I’m gone, gone awayto hide from the demons that haunt meYou see, I’m just like a little brown mousehunkered down in my secret dark hole.

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-71325823415231207652010-04-10T19:07:00.000-07:002010-04-10T19:08:41.684-07:00

A man stood still at the edge of the curb,head curved down, back quivering.He gazed out over his rag-tag bootswith their dusty laces, ends so frayedgiggling ripples, a tremorat the dandelions that pushedwith riotous, orange glorythrough the crusted pavementall along the side of the road.Cars sped by, and trucks, ten wheelsspitting gravel with the viciousnessof angry serpents, rubber

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-3994733292786418402010-04-01T18:59:00.000-07:002010-04-01T19:01:00.698-07:00

The wind runs through this old rag,seams worn thin by years of scrubbingand the rough, coarse wash.Kissed by sunlight, laundry pinsholding snug to squeaky line,yet nothing heals the tangled edgeof towelling torn by sorrow.Rachel WestfallApril 1, 2010

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-58675063731996269512010-03-27T20:52:00.000-07:002010-03-27T20:54:15.487-07:00

Where the river curves lowand slick as a black snake’s back,holding tight treasured mineralsin its cold, greedy grasp, just thereI imagine I can see the sunglint for a fraction of a momentoff your amphibious sleek body,a spy’s body, slipped in herebetween the beginning and an old,forgotten end, my friendWhere the river rumbles lowwith the guttural throatof an angry storm, there,just there I

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-58456821641880217792010-03-14T19:11:00.000-07:002010-03-14T19:11:00.288-07:00

And another Christopher poem; the whole conversation is here.As you hunted meThere would be snakes, but for the goatswho have eaten the grass, trudgingall dreaded-wool and ankle-boneover the smooth, soft hill untileach blade is gnawed to the ground.There would be snakes, if they hadanywhere left to hide, snakes to shelter mefrom your pursuit, slivered arrowspointed sharp at your heels, but

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-42134165388595428492010-03-13T19:06:00.000-08:002010-03-13T19:06:00.339-08:00

And another, from the poetry dual (duo?) with Christopher:This place of goatsOnly a madman would slaughter the goats,see the wild look in their eyesand yet still draw knife across hide.We all know, in this village,that the feral goats and slick-tongued snakesare each but fractured visionsof Goddess, each black and red and whitebleating-scaled-slithering-nibbling beasta fragment of divinity, that

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-18519709068905981282010-03-12T14:08:00.000-08:002010-03-12T14:12:46.474-08:00

Spring’s gold shadows stretchyet winter still claims its prizefarewell, soft bunny Miss Petals was the last of our bunnies. I found her yesterday morning, lying behind the guinea pig's cage. She had died in the night, peacefully. I think she was around 6 years old; she had lived with us for 4 years. We will have to wait until the ground thaws before we can make a grave for her.

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-54718500288729600602010-03-11T19:08:00.000-08:002010-03-11T19:08:00.201-08:00

Another Christopher poem. As promised. The full poetic conversation is here.Siren's songI’m so stuck here now.Dreaming of kissingyour beloved face ina fishbowl roomwhile all your raucous friendslook in from the summer yardand jeer,Who’ve you got there now, man?Anyway, where did my shirt go?I feel so exposed. If onlyI hadn’t listenedto your confusing siren’s song.Rachel WestfallMarch 10, 2010

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-31526256581921414512010-03-10T19:03:00.000-08:002010-03-10T19:08:24.611-08:00

Okay, there are a few more poems coming from conversation with Christopher. If you like, you can read the whole conversation at his place, since there is nothing worse than hearing only one side of the discussion. Meanwhile, I'll post my parts of the conversation here, one by one.SnapshotAdventurous touristI headed into the tall grass-bare ankles shroudedin the full rayon skirtlocal decorum

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-1872522597760304692010-03-08T06:38:00.000-08:002010-03-08T06:38:00.105-08:00

There was a place, once,where you whispered close, dark things,mysteries and embroidered words;and there was a place, once,where I dreamed I knewthe answers. Now it’s as ifyou speak a half-forgotten tongue,encrypted by ill-useits poetic rhythm dancingMediterranean songs across my ear,their meaning irrevocably lost.Rachel WestfallMarch 7, 2010in response to Christopher

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-71850808197569967582010-03-06T15:13:00.001-08:002010-03-06T15:16:23.552-08:00

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-42496284795309553072010-02-26T08:34:00.000-08:002010-02-26T08:36:54.997-08:00

Born, she was, like a chickadee,in a bed of moss spun throughwith strings of tinsel,salvaged thread by threadfrom a discarded treein the last long twistedthroes of winter. A blessing,a charm, her mother wovearound her, spell by spell,to ward away the pernicious grimeand lecherous looksof this ill-fated world. The childgrew long and lean and brown,running faster than the boys,their feet clumsy,

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-2999400539234334782010-02-13T13:39:00.000-08:002010-02-13T13:41:05.285-08:00

If you could say just five words to me,what would they be? Would you remind me fondly ofthe chickadee’s lazy morning song?In seven words, just seven, would you tell me howin deep forgotten gladeswind traces its secrets in skeletal leaves?With five words left to you, a slow exhalewould you spell the mountain’s sacred path in stone,to help me find the way?Rachel WestfallFebruary 13, 2010

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-71437605313440694892010-02-06T19:05:00.000-08:002010-02-06T19:06:15.232-08:00

Secretdark placesafe in the backbehindthe old woolensbetween dusty boxesunder coats hanging ill-usedsmelling faintlyof long-time-ago walksdried leavesmothballshereyou won’t find me, nobodywill findmeat allRachel WestfallFebruary 6, 2010

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-21272535979865002432010-02-01T09:40:00.001-08:002010-02-01T09:42:59.999-08:00

There is an image prompt at Cat's place. If you coment, she'll put your name in a draw, and you could win one of her glorious prints. Go on. I know you want to.secret breath of nightheld in winter's icy graspexhale, distant spring

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-3186104353387561702010-01-29T16:41:00.000-08:002010-01-29T16:41:00.426-08:00

Cards unfold, their messagelostin the returnNellie in her farmhousekneading bread, flourto her elbows, white foldssmooth with yeastthe lettertucked safe in the elastic waistof her skirt-envelope red, words yet unreaduntil tonightwhen she’d havea moment of sanctuaryaway from thein-and-outdoor-slammingchatter-boxingof the young ones,a flame-litkerosene-lit momentTheir message lost,return to

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-58613212415307951722010-01-26T16:44:00.000-08:002010-01-26T16:44:00.369-08:00

Slick hold of fearFear’s cold breathBreathe a hand-spanHands span an arrowAn arrow drawn swiftSwiftly into the waterWater’s quick graspGrasped in fearFear’s cold breathBreath’s dying slideSlide into the waterRachel WestfallJanuary 25, 2010

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-5631435120118920632010-01-20T19:40:00.000-08:002010-01-20T19:41:10.014-08:00

Soaring summer skyFlames have swallowed starlit nightSpeckled bird’s delight

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-69494072033885848802010-01-13T19:21:00.000-08:002010-01-14T09:21:00.509-08:00

The pirate is bitter and sharp.She has learnedto keep her worries close,another layer of skin,a tough pomelo’s rind.Without tearsshe holds her sister’s hand and the girl bleedsand cries out, then silentlyfights the high fear of infection.This is how it iswith pirates.The boat sways and rocks, her pathpredictable as a wide-sea storm, sails swollenwith air and rainand the flagthe jolly flagis

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-77051083852979571302010-01-06T12:05:00.000-08:002010-01-06T12:05:00.301-08:00

Every morning, I get to watch the progression of winter from birth through to death. I can't show you. Let me just tell you about it, ok?Out my windowNothing holds your lightlike the sun on winter’s breathdyeing ruddy hillsimpossible shadesdrawn from imaginary palettesstreaked over moon-white canvasrefreshed by the ice witch’snightly coughbitter moistureclingingtenaciouslyto each sparkling

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-51873441240941993692010-01-01T18:43:00.000-08:002010-01-01T18:49:29.150-08:00

I would hold you, quite silentlyuntil the moon whispers,enoughand calls me through the forest’slonely night,black leaves hanging stillas windless laundry strung acrossa desolate creaky line.I would hold you, so fiercely,crack your bonesas the shout of birds risesaround us, deafeningwhirling slipperyas a dust-devil slinking boldlyover summer’s hot-baked clay.I would hold you, just as lightlyas a

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-43246077379756188592009-12-30T19:35:00.000-08:002009-12-30T20:52:41.594-08:00

We interrupt this blog's regular programming to share some very sad news. As Santa's crew crossed Alaska early on Christmas morning, Sarah Palin harvested Rudolph and collected her trophy, which now hangs in a place of honour in her Wasilla, Alaska home. Unable to contain his grief, Santa has unfortunately since passed away.Stop by Arsenisms to read the full news story here.

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-23092696300154316472009-12-29T19:28:00.000-08:002009-12-29T19:30:36.661-08:00

Lose ten pounds of belly fatfollow this simple rulecadaverous is the way to gothey should teach this in schoolShe scurries to the bathroomfor the thirteenth time todayto void that tub of ice creamheavenly hash, no wayIt’s a long way from heavento long for food, to dream of food,to sleep for food, to die for foodyou can’t touch, can’t have,can’t keep downmust hold onone day, two days, three days,

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-70296424073647254252009-12-27T16:10:00.000-08:002009-12-27T16:32:07.946-08:00

I knew you then, caught in hot amber light,pierced in a fixed positionyour look of alarm like thatof a butterfly captive. I knewthat shifty look, remembered myself in it -the slink-away feeling where you hopeto move just slowly enough to evade attention,and just fast enough to get away. You’d neverlie to me, you said, fingers crossedand crossed again to hidethe stink of that lie, shaking thick,

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-52935942429970864732009-12-21T18:59:00.000-08:002009-12-21T19:00:34.501-08:00

The angry flight of birds blackenthe late-morning dawn, feathers crisp with frosty breathan arrow painted by the streakand shriek of the hollow-boned ones, straight upand across town to the placewhere the orange berries sit in iced clumps, bitter and dryfor their midwinter flesh to be tornin clumps and scattered, ravens’ delightJust one man, coat puffed-up bluejeans frozen stiff, a streak of

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-72357952023267874822009-12-15T16:31:00.000-08:002009-12-16T10:40:31.023-08:00

She slips into the intersection, small daughter’s hand cradled in her own, packages slung over the other armlights flash, some commotion mid-street as two large hoodie-garbed men press a third, smaller man into an unmarked car, several friends pressing close, small commotion, muffled voices, small soundthe man smashes the window, raining blue crystal over the icy street and the big cop’s face

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-81904016496915735582009-12-12T10:59:00.000-08:002009-12-12T11:02:54.914-08:00

What better way is there to celebrate a wintery Saturday morning, than writing silly poems with the kids? These were inspired by Dennis Lee, and the kids and I came up with them together. We'd love to see your silly rhythmic rhyming creations, so please share them in the comments!I went to play in the snowI saw someone I didn’t knowHe climbed up a treeThen he said, Tee heeThen he started to

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-66921539031117008862009-12-08T07:25:00.000-08:002009-12-08T07:28:06.970-08:00

This was the sky at around 9:30AM a few days ago. Again, what words can I possibly find to describe it?

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-87795821762156377712009-12-05T09:43:00.001-08:002009-12-05T09:45:38.685-08:00

How can I possibly find words for this? It's like a scene from some primordial age.

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-75314446873602650432009-12-03T16:39:00.000-08:002009-12-03T16:39:00.257-08:00

For you, long-ago friend, and all the missing women.We thought of you thereout alone in the frigid airwith your heartpinned to that tree.Those sleeves, your handstucked in, didn’t make upfor the powder pinkdollar-store shrinky glovesthat the weather only laughed atso you lit up a smoketo feel warmer. You were snugin your jeans, not the best thingfor this time of yearand those boots, they were

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2875269677316088995.post-9674035519450420622009-11-26T09:21:00.000-08:002009-11-26T09:24:00.332-08:00

When we buried you, the ground was still just soft enough to break with the shovel, the tip cutting through an inch-hard layer of frost on the surface, winter’s first kiss. The child’s tears flowed as we put your small body, stilled now, wrapped in flannel, on a bed of hay at the bottom of the narrow hole I had chiseled carefully alongside a newly-planted fir tree. Goodbye, sweet guinea, I said,

RachelWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18225401230724459199noreply@blogger.com20