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 Welcome to the Green Phoenix Productions reading room.
This is a very informal place, like the one in our New Mexico home that Rick put together, the first room in the house as you enter . . . rough wood walls, green wooden floors, a big window looking out into the trees, lots of books along the walls, two easy chairs, funky lamps and Green Man artwork. A Mayan chess set gathering dust, an old desk that holds Rick’s leather journals, where he would sit and write, when the mood caught. A crystal he hung in the window, cobwebs, moths that make their way in, attracted by the light. Our dog Shaka’s monkey toys tend to make their way into this room, so watch your step.
Along the path of my life after losing Rick, I continue to meet beautiful writers, poets, lyricists and otherwise. I believe his Spirit continues to place most of them in my path, certainly I would not have met them if he had not died, if the CD were not in the world, if I did not have to seek others of my kind who are trying to make sense of their grieving.
Those people and I, we talk, send emails, write letters, share our stories. Their lives touch mine and mine theirs. So it occurred to me to share their bits of writing with Green Phoenix friends, because it is healing work they are doing, whether they realize it or not, by writing it down, by witnessing to what they are moving through.
From time to time I will be posting work that has moved me in this reading room. Later I’ll put those away and post new ones. I thank everyone whose work appears here for giving me permission to "publish" them this way.
So . . . pick up a poem or story. If you play, maybe you can strum a bit to the lyrics you’ll find here. Take one of the easy chairs and sit back and listen to these voices of my good friends. (If you ask nice, I’ll even bring you a cup of coffee or tea.)
There is no table of contents. It’s more like a folder of things left on the desk, feel free to open and sift through . . .
But please follow the only rule of this reading room: DO NOT print, pass along, or in any way use the material you find here unless you send me an email first and ask permission at spiritbear1@btinternet.com. I will pass your request to the writer and see how they feel about it. This is very important to me, because they are opening themselves up to let me put their works out there this way. And these works are copyrighted.
Read on . . .
Tara
I sought long on windy crag
For a hint, a hope, a sign
And upon the glittering strand
That you were there, that you were mine
I wandered through the forests deep
And sought within the blackest night
I lost myself upon the wave
To find your love, to hold your light
Crossing deserts wide and barren
Climbing mountains steep and cold
I looked for you in every stranger
To them, your beauty I have told
For you I learned to dance and sing
And strove against the men of hate
I mastered both the sword and pen
Left to you my hope and fate
I laughed beneath the twinkling stars
For you desiring to be part
And dreamed beneath the gentle moon
With yearning and with yet full heart
So I continue ever on
Seeking what I cannot touch
Yet knowing you are always there
That which I have loved so much
Until one day I reach the end
Of all my journeying and quest
My fate unfolded at the last
Sinking down into the west
Perhaps a song or two of mine
Will be recalled by one like me
Who holds your beauty in his eye
There for all the world to see
And so continue on the search
For that perfection which you are
A dream, a vision and a hope
The soul’s remembered guiding star.
—Rick Allen & GPP (c) 2002 (his last poem)
The Other Side of Midnight
Nothing here, I'll look again
Another place, in darker light
Take a walk to journey's end
The other side of midnight.
Keep the watch, to count the hours
And hold the hands before they move,
Forever stare, from the dark black Tower
The other side of midnight.
Something sad, beyond my mind
I cannot hear, as silence roars
The madmen scream, "Who cannot find
The other side of midnight?"
Crossing o'er, the madness comes
The chaos loud, in frantic fear;
Forever means no time at all . . . .
The other side of midnight.
[Song Lyrics: The song starts quietly, but more instruments are added with each verse, but but the last line is only with acoustic guitar and violin, as was used at the beginning.]
—Robert William McCallum (c) 1986, Dunipace, Stirlingshire, Scotland
All That is Bear
The bear had been asleep for a very long time. Her dreams were so vivid, causing her to shift and groan, roll and stretch, that she did not know she was asleep. Her bearness moved her in and out of trees and rocks and the crispness of air on her fur. The air searing through her nostrils and the good feeling of standing up tall — then pouncing down on the earth. The good feeling of earth between the pads of her feet. The good feeling of gripping a slipping fish between her forepaws. The good pungent smell of it, the good oily taste of it.
The bear did not know she only dreamed. Only rehearsed her knowing, rehearsed the gathering of food, the making of cave, the cuddling close to her mate.
There was a time when she could have been any other animal. All animals slept, hunted, fed, prepared a nest. She could have been a cougar or a coon or an elk, a snake, an eagle.
Any creature.
Her specific bearness had not yet been called upon to answer.
It was in the season of fighting and losing and in the illness of her mate that her bearness came forward.
The illness came in late summer. She hovered around him, gathered food for him, warded off the predators who sensed his weakened condition. She led him to water, led him back to rest, kept the cave clean. She gave him her warmth, was focused on his very breath as if her focus would will a renewed vigor into his limbs.
Through the winter, spring and summer she fought and focused.
She became her bearness. She no longer was mutable, could no longer be any other animal but bear.
And when he did go down to the river to die at summer’s end, despite her focus, her tending, her fighting everything to keep him with her — she was left in her bearness. Still foraging, nesting, unable to rest, carrying his spirit with her down to the water and back. Feeding feeding feeding his spirit.
And when his spirit was fed and yet he did not waken, the bear then curled into a sleeping ball and slept-slipped back into her dream.
In the dream he was still with her and no other dared approach the cave.
She slept deeper into sleep, into the new winter.
She hoped to sleep herself to sleep and never have to waken. Just slip into the other place as had her mate.
But this did not occur.
Spring came and the melting of the snow, the moisture in the cave, the new soft light, the sharp smell of mold and new green budding. The sounds of life renewing all crept into and lingered like soft voices at the dark cave entrance.
She found herself waking despite herself.
She stumbled out into the golden-green light and, her eyes not quite opened, felt her forepaws begin to forage. Began to feel the crisp air on her coat, the earth between her toes. Lifted her nose to the uncountable smells on the air.
She had become her bearness and would never again be mutable. Neither cougar nor coon nor bird nor snake.
Bear.
All that is bear.
—From A BEAR NAMED HOPE: On Grief and Healing Through Creative Synchronicity
—(a book in progress) Michelle Miller Allen © 2005
 The Other
For every thing that is, there is the Other
We form it with the thoughts and moods we share.
The more we move, move into one another
Then greater is the Soul for which we care.
As outward from ourselves we go exploring
And weigh it with the knowledge of within.
Through the all, forever we are soaring
perfect love and trust are free from sin.
—Rick Allen (c) 1993 [Discovered in his papers on Valentine’s Day 2003]
Change of Season
Dark-eyed Susans on the roadside'
Pumpkins in the fields;
Wood smoke in the air;
Leaves turning color on the trees;
Shorter days;
Longer nights;
Changes on the lifting breeze.
Our time;
Hunkering down;
Drawing inward;
Remembering.
Melancholy settles around my shoulders
Like a well worn sweater;
Ragged;
Torn;
Comfortable;
Familiar.
I know this place;
Visited here before;
The stay will not be long.
Gone as the dry leaves
Skittering across a broken sidewalk
Pushed by bony fingers
Of a chilled Halloween wind.
I'm OK;
Grounded in the present;
Living in the now;
Just old skeletons
Rattling
In the dusty closets of the past.
Yet . . .
Hot tears flow at sweet memories;
His dear face;
The touch of his lips on mine;
The scent of his skin while in warm embrace;
Burnished indelibly in my heart.
The gentle touch of a hand
Brings me back;
Light in twinkling blue eyes
Quickens the slowed beating
Of my heart.
I smile
At the gift
Of love . . .
Old
And
New.
—Josie Ingle (c) 2005
Sunday Breakfast
Griddle sermons
Would you like
Some philosophy
With those fried eggs?
Free advice
Cascades like rivers
Of fresh juice
Greasy story tongs
Lift
Crackling sausages
Upon
Serving plates
Dressed with
Buttered toast
Jam packed
With
Social commentary
A side order
Of cautionary tales
Dished out hot
Regales
Patiently poised
Gleaming forks
That
Await their reason
For being
What’s that
Burning smell?
Someone asks
Breakfast
Sizzles onward
Undeterred
Arrival time
Indefinite
—April Youngman-Johnson (c) 2005
Out of Nowhere
You were there
the other night
as I gently
stroked
your face
trying
to hold on
for just
a bit longer
I still miss you
so damn much
wordlessly
you slipped
away
into the creases
of my favorite pillow
—April Youngman-Johnson (c) 2005
How She Got to France
She clicked her heels,
tossed her crow feathers to the night,
packed a bag with tiny tank tops and thongs,
two pairs of red shoes with no backs,
one dress, one pair of jeans.
She'll learn to live in a minimalist kitchen.
No need for appliances
when she can smell the sea
and the men like older women -
slim, red, sassy older women.
She called in everything anyone ever owed her
and didn't fall asleep on the plane.
—Rachelle Woods (c) 2003
Bitter Pill
Bitterness
Lies on my tongue
Like the last pill
My love was too ill
To swallow
I wish I could have
Sent him on his way
With a kiss
Of fine chocolate
Filling his mouth
Something sweet
To remember
That he was loved
—Eileen P.Auger (c) 1/27/06
Daddy Let Me Drive
It's just an old worn out jeep
With rusty ole floor boards
Hot on my feet
A young girl, two hands on the wheel
I can't replace the way it made me feel
And he'd say, turn it left now, and steer it right
Straighten up girl now, you're doin' just fine.
Just a lil' valley by the river where we'd ride
But I was high on a mountain,
When daddy let me drive
Daddy let me drive
Oh, he let me drive
(Drive by Alan Jackson)
Teaching our daughter to drive was not my forte’. Acknowledging my ineptness, I passed the buck to Jim. Patient to a fault and having just finished a professional driving course through BellSouth he took her out to an abandoned airfield one rainy Saturday and put her through every grueling maneuver. 8 hours later my two adventurers returned home tired, hungry and happy.
Her daddy taught her to drive in a rusty little old Toyota $500 pickup truck that had resided at the bottom of a local farm pond for over a year.
It took her 4 tries to get that darn license and the girl still can’t back up straight. Inheriting her dad’s lead foot she received the first of many speeding tickets over her driving career less than 30 days later half a block from the high school.
“Rustie” was destined to be resurrected.
After draining out all the water and mud that little 30-R engine was run through with kerosene, hooked up to a battery and tank of gas and she fired up first turn of the key. The hood was black primer, one fender was grey and the rest of the body was dotted with rust from head to toe. The floor board became so holey Jim had to weld in a new one. (I remember getting wet feet when it would rain.) But, she ran like a charm.
Tune-ups and oil changes were a waste of time and money as she didn’t like them being done. Rascally truck would run rotten until she readjusted everything just the way she liked it...slightly off center…the dirtier the engine and the cheaper the gas the better she ran.
The manifold was haunted. Jim would repair or tape up the hole with heat resistant tape repeatedly only to find within days that it had reappeared. Towards the end of Rustie’s life you could hear her coming half a mile away.
When she died 10 years later on a highway in southern Louisiana…the rear axle literally rusted off…she had over 500 thousand miles on her. Half a day on the side of the road, Jim pulled that 30-R, hauled it home to SC, gave it to his mechanic brother and it lived another few years in a another little old rusted pickup truck driven by a niece.
After 3 years, my daughter cannot yet hear that song without thinking of Jim, driving lessons and that rusty old truck with tears in her eyes.
She is her father’s daughter . . . she still drives too fast.
—Josie Ingle (c) 2005
Reading Room Archives
For Elizabeth
I Look Back Laughing Now
Can You Feel the Pain?
Silence
Intuition
Air
Papers
His Son
Chasing the Sun
The Reed
This Thing Called INATS
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