The Fishes Tears

I quietly sat and read to the Fish,
and much they marveled at the Dish
of Keats,
They Leapt and gulped the air,
(Where is the sea bound catapult that slings you from the depths, I thought)
And from my rock seat saw them gather or
and round my throne,
they waggled their tails and mouths agape,
waited as I turned the page.
Keats they Loved and yearned for more,
Schools of silver, arrows launched from faraway, gathered to listen,
to tickle one an other's sides with fins of slimy transparent hides.
But as I explained his tragical death, their
leaping ceased, and how they wept!
Their tears,
 they flowed,
the ocean rose, and planted there upon my rocky throne
 I watched the tide of their despair.
And soon the shoreline disappeared, high tide it was and more I feared
these crazy fish would drown us all,
They wept and Wept!
And  then a minuscule crab,
 clothed in brown
sideways comes to quiet them down.
quietly stifles their tears and sobs,
sends them off into the depths,
 those Keats adoring, literate pets.
And the tide recedes, it backs away,
I am left understanding this day:
The Table of Tides and the Fishes tears,
Finally explained after all these years.

robin ridener2013

Last year's curious crop
(the people of my mind)
have all been born.
carried into the world on a wave of thread and paint,
cloth and crochet,
lace and love.
The urgency of the maker leaves me now.
resting in the chilling hours,
sleeping long among the untidy bundles at the pedal of the Thread Pusher,
donning her nightgown and yawning loudly,
resting in the chilling hours.
 She sleeps.
and like a child who stands beside a parent's bed,
who hestitates to wake a Mother from a slumber,
my restless fingers poke the sleeping maker,
my imaginary friend.
"Lie STill," she says, "Rest!"
"REST!"
I fear its "Rust," say I. Knowing that fear will not wake the spring.
not wake the sleeping maker,
I must honor the waiting.
I wait to sew the curious crop.
(The people of my mind.)
They will be carried into the world
on a wave of thread and paint,
cloth and crochet,
lace and love.


Robin Ridener 2013

Chilling Hours

Not unlike the fruit trees that lie dormant far North of the Baggaraggs,
I too am dormant at this time of year.
After the initial serge of witches and bats and Halloween hats, to the final push of Christmas whimsy,
I now rest in chilling hours.  Like an apple tree. They require any number of Chill hours from 200 to 1000 hours. (Chilling unit in agriculture is a metric of a plant's exposure to chilling temperatures.) They require this time to set fruit and be productive again......

I am coming to trust this concept...that it is a natural part of my creative cycle. I am not saying that I like it. I am learning to honor it though and not fear it. It does not mean that I will not create, or that my gift has gone away.
It means I am resting.
I push and this is what I have made...
but it is not easily done

 

They sleep, waiting for faces.

 

 

 

Their feet will soon dance!!!

 

Hoping you are happy in your resting as Well...

Robin of Baggaraggs