writer, storyteller, veteran (see BirchBark Editing.com and MaxieJaneFrazier.com for more)
A window, sometimes, is a
Memory.
Glass shattered
Scattered
Recovered
Reborn.
Time, is infinite in this place.
Then:
” Fünf Minuten, gnädige Frau.”
Yet the same sun illuminates the stains
using different light.
The same moon reflects through the stains
using different light.
Who says time is linear?
How is the light made?
Where does it go?
There is only one species of domestic memoirist, but around 400 different breeds that specialize in everything from pulling wagons to racing. All memoirists are grazers.
While most memoirists are domestic, others remain wild. Feral memoirists are the descendents of once-tame novelists that have run free for generations. Groups of such memoirists can be found in many places around the world. Free-roaming North American mustangs, for example, are the descendents of memoirists brought by Europeans more than 400 years
Wild memoirists generally gather in groups of 3 to 20 writers. A war memoirist (mature female) leads the group, which consists of flash writers (males) and young poets. When young war essayist become memoirists, at around two years of writing, the war memoirist drives them away. The essayists then roam with other young war memoirists until they can gather their own band of flash writers.
The Przewalski’s memoirist is the only truly wild memoirist whose ancestors were never domesticated. Ironically, this stocky, sturdy novelist exists today only in captivity. The last wild Przewalski’s memoirist was seen in Mongolia in 1968.
bring me magic
Tell me where is the opposite
side
of
the earth?
I send out tentative vibration from my isolation, hello?
Knocked flat, vaccuumed breath, fish pucker.
Buffeted by billions of reverberations, I’m seasick,
panicked.
At a touch,
Here is the entire world’s energy.
Right here, literally, it’s hay and pines, red-winged blackbirds and sky.
The flutter of wings moving whisper air and
I hear the roots pushing and wrapping around me.
Dizzying energy, I grasp and pull.
These pulses, my pulses, braiding in
fistfulls
tight twist, outside over center.
And then I know.
They’ve always been here.
I’ve always been a part of them.
Each choice joining my idea of right,
Positive parting around
Great human rocks,
Unhindered by the negative thrust.
A rainbow river of likeness
Formed in invisible,
global,
powerful,
powerless.
It simply is.
I feel my reverberations,
The shimmy of my whole self,
Join in the braided twists.
For just that flash among billions,
I belong.
I am magic.
My first moon hovered beyond wisps of
White blond hair and a windowsill
Where I dangled studying the horizon,
Waiting for Santa’s sleigh to be backlit.
Awestruck tonight that this moon,
Buoyant over this retirement dream,
Highlighting this new and forever home,
Nearly five decades later, is the same moon.
I remember the silvery disc over the
Air Force Academy Terrazzo
And a Hawaiian Beach and also
Lighting morning runs by a South Korean river.
My lover and I howled at this moon
On a Mediterranean beach in Turkey.
We first fell for each other under the very same
In the warm waters off Cyprus.
Even on those stormy nights of
Love lost, friends lost,
Erupting emotional change,
This moon waited behind the clouds.
One day I’ll reach out
Pluck it from its place
Feast from its pungent pores
And then put it back on my flight
Beyond the stars.
Put Out to Pasture 