WHEN A SCARY THING CAME TO TEDDY BEAR LAND

Once upon a time, a scary thing arrived in Teddy Bear Land. It was sneaky, it was invisible and it made teddy bears very sick. It sneaked around all day and all night without needing to rest. It seemed to grow stronger and more dangerous as time passed, but no one knew why.

Teddy bears gathered around their honey pots, at picnics, at houses and at their jobs to share their concerns. They were nervous and edgy, cranky and testy and mostly just tired and afraid.

Then a wise, older bear proposed they call the smartest bear in the land. He said, “She’s an expert on scary things and knows how they devise their devious plans.” They asked her to come the very next day.

She patiently listened to all their concerns then went off to ponder the facts. She studied some graphs and studied some charts; she collected some data and soon it was clear: more bears got sick when they gathered in groups. It seemed that the scary thing’s trickiest tricks worked better when bears got together.

So, the very next day the bears all stayed home, they sat on their couches, they picked up their phones, they talked to their friends, they read some good books like Goldilocks and Winnie the Pooh. They had honey on toast, honey in tea, they played checkers and watched a lot of TV.

And slowly, the bears stopped getting sick and the scary thing quit playing dastardly tricks. It simply grew tired of working so hard. It whined and complained, growled and exclaimed and slowly, with time, grew decidedly tame.

One day, the scary thing wasn’t around. There wasn’t a trace; it couldn’t be found. The bears all rejoiced, they danced in the streets, they hugged and they smiled, they sang and did flips.

The bears are prepared now; they have a good plan, in case the scary thing comes back again. They’re ready in every conceivable way to stay safe and healthy, to care for their kin, to love one another through thick and through thin.

THE END

THE MOST BELOVED OF ALL

The majestic tree
stood strong
by the river’s edge,
her roots moored
firmly to the earth,

her branches,
a canopy of shade
for the bench ’neath her feet,
a seat where folks laid
weighty burdens down,

it was there she opened her heart
to their secrets and sorrows,
their dreams for the morrow,

bending low,
she hushed the wind,
then listened with care
to the joys they shared,
the heartaches they bared,
while her branches encircled
and calmed,

all who came to the restful place
were blessed by her
friendship and grace,

she stood through it all,
bending with the wind
but never breaking,
not worried
how her own life might end,

always present within
the cycles of time,
the orbit of sun and moon,
the change from light to dark,

no other tree
would ever
stand so strong,
nor live so long,
nor share such love,

the forest cried
the day she died,
and so did all the souls
she left behind,

when morning came
the following day,
the sun burst forth,
spreading hope
to the shadows,
while a song filled the sky
with the sound of heaven’s joy,

this is the way the tree lived on,
and why she’ll remain
the most beloved of all,

forevermore.

Written in memory of Eleanor Walker – 2019

Owl Dreams

A barred owl flew
over your head,

I remembered the story,

I remembered
the awe in your voice
as you shared
the thrill,

the feel
of its wings
skimming close,

I shared my wish
to see one as well,

so you dreamed one
for me,

he perched on a branch
outside your window,

his penetrating gaze,
unflinching,
insistent
you acknowledge him,

you wanted to find me,
to tell me,
come quickly,
come witness this wonder,

yet it was only a dream
and my owl’s still unseen,

but the real gift
was being
in your dream,

where the space between
you and me
is as thin as the gap
between earth and sky,
between night and day,

maybe that’s the way
we survive this world,

I will dream for you,
you will dream for me,
and our dreaming
will illuminate
what we hope to see,

the places that will
finally set us free.

May blessings settle in your home
like peace at silent dawn,
resting in the shadows
and the rays of noonday sun,

floating on the whispered wind,
alive on fragrant breeze,
present in the robin’s song,
carried on his wings,

nestled in the teapot,
and there on buttered bread,
there upon the table,
there in folded hands,

there in every troubled heart
and all the gentle souls
who find their way inside this space,
your warm and welcome home.

WE CARRY ONE ANOTHER

If we carry one another,
the load is divided
in two,

it’s true,

I never knew
as a child,
or as I grew,
that I would need
to be carried,

how lucky I was
to have you

when the time came,

I knew
it was hard
for you
to do the
heavy lifting,

but I’m here now,
I’m whole,
I’m strong,

if you need to be carried,
let me be the one
to share your load,

if we divide it in two,
we will survive.

I throw them all
at the page,

some words
blow away like
dandelions in the wind,

others stick to the edges
unsure of their place,

others drop in
the middle
without explanation,

while others sneak in
as sly interlopers,

disrupting
a perfectly designed,
carefully aligned,
emotionally balanced
poem,

you can’t trust errant words,

they will find a way
to be heard,

yearning to
describe, excite,
provoke, enthuse, amuse,

many hold promise,

some blow away
like dandelions in the wind,

while others stick to the edges
of my mind,

waiting for their time.

I came upon the Edsel while hiking in Henry Horton State Park near Nashville, Tennessee. It was picturesque in its utter decay. Everything was absent – seats, doors, wheels, upholstery, steering wheel, mirrors, windows, and witnesses to the day it became a permanent fixture in the park.

I couldn’t help but imagine the scene: two lovers driving through the park late one night fighting over a flirtation at the bar, booze doing most of the talking, then a deer in the road, a quick turn, a rush through trees and brush, a squealing of brakes, screams as they both flew through the windshield. It would be days before the police found their bodies, determined the cause of death, and notified their families.

John Comstock, who worked in logistical issues for the police department, was responsible for organizing the car’s removal, but it wasn’t needed as evidence so, it was low priority.

 John had an emergency appendectomy the next week that resulted in complications and early retirement. The car’s removal fell to the new guy who had more pressing matters on his desk – the robbery at First Federal Bank, the suspected arson at the Johnson farm, the stolen parrots from the Adopt-a-Pet Store in Kirkland, and so forth. Over the next many months and years, the car was forgotten about completely. Anything valuable was stripped by vandals and teenagers out on a lark.

 It’s not a great story, but sometimes the ugly truth has to be told. The car is now just a monument to every bad decision ever made.

She Walks the Halls

How will I go to sleep tonight,
when tiny feet
from days gone by
echo down the hall,

eight children
lived inside these walls,
observers of the
bloody Civil War,

their parents couldn’t shield them
from the horrors in plain sight,
they saw the loaded guns,
they watched the flames at night,

brother against brother,
father against son,
sides were drawn,
families torn,
hearts were split in two,

not much was whole
at war’s exhausted end,

it’s rumored that a woman
is the ghost of Peacock Hill,
she roams the halls,
she looks in rooms
her spirit never still,

I may assist her search tonight
to seek the things we’ve lost,
I wonder if we’ll ever know
what endless wars
have cost.

This poem was written during my stay at Rockvale Writers’ Colony, near Franklin, Tennessee (originally called Peacock Hill). The house was built in 1853 and survived the Civil War, spared because a Northern sympathizer was the builder. Late one night, during my stay, I thought about the young parents, with eight children, who built the house a few years before the beginning of the Civil War.

Rockvale Writers’ Colony is the antithesis of all things related to war. It is a haven for writers to delve into the complexities of the human spirit.

BE FOREWARNED

When it’s five below,
we’re warned
it might be too cold
for our faces,
our skin
might freeze,

so many degrees
of danger set in,

yet no warning is raised
when it’s sixty degrees,

to beware
of the kiss of sunlight
brushing our faces,

the touch of a gentle wind
caressing our skin,

the symphony of bird songs
thrilling our ears,

restless hearts,
uncertain of such joy,
could use a warning
to take it slow
when it’s sixty degrees.

Photo by Rita Bourland – Children’s Garden – Franklin Park Conservatory – 2018

UNEARTHED

I don’t believe in ghosts,

I say it again
then glance at the moon
through twisted trees,

crooked branches
cast eerie shadows,
flitting, floating,
fooling my senses,

an owl’s shriek cuts the night,
bats zoom by in darkened flight,

shapes rise up
unearthed, set free,

I’m frozen, alone,
afraid to scream,

figures draw near,
then an icy whisper in my ear:

‘come follow us to a secret place
where humans keep our spirits fed,
you shouldn’t fear what lies ahead.’

I fight for my life
then slip away,
I shiver and shake
’til dawn the next day,

I now sleep nights
with sheets pulled tight,
a light beside my bed,
lest figures find their way inside
to whisk my soul away.

Photo by Lisa Berg