It seems like only yesterday I was anticipating my departure to the North Country and the hues of a New England autumn. I now sit in my Florida home as warm breezes waffle through my open window; I’m struggling to mentally prepare for the approaching holiday season. It’s a difficult time for me as a widow, still. Again, my mind ponders on the passing of time and the layering of experiences that create a lifetime, a mindset, or a philosophy to live by. A Soul Song.

        November triggers thoughts of Thanksgiving in our nation. I don’t quite understand that as it seems a nation lauded to be founded on Christianity would give thanks every day. Why do we need a day set aside? Then, my heart softens as I think of the first Thanksgiving when two races of people did come together in peace and gratitude for the cooperation and assistance offered by the other. How blessed they were to know the new land back then before the onset of the slaughter. In that vein, I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving and I truly hope that someday we can return to the peace and cooperation that the Native Americans and the first pilgrims shared so briefly.

        In my initial weeks of solitude after my husband’s passing, I used to linger on the old Yahoo Spiritual Forums. I became ‘friends’ with some poets there whom I shall never forget. One young man, who was known as “Wordwrangler” wrote some of the most magnificent simple verse I’ve been privileged to lay my eyes upon. Only Jim Kelly compares. I’ve saved many of his works that were dear to me and I found one that I would like to use to open this November’s Nook. I’d like to dedicate it in Wordwrangler’s name to two friends who I truly wish to be comforted by it, Patti Stevenson and Lauren Jedlan. Patti has just lost her husband unexpectedly and Lauren is a poet who’s been featured here prior. Lauren is facing some health challenges with her husband. Also, to a friend of the IW’s editor, Dahris Clair, Barbara Vasiljevich. Barbara, too, is coping with an ill husband. It was huge in my own healing and I have it on my cupboard door and read it every morning. He’d be thrilled to have me share it yet again. I’ve done so in many of my own works and personal communications with folks trying to survive a malady. It’s called, “Learning to Live”.

“Learning to Live”

By: Wordwrangler

For all the things

I’ve yet to see,

The forecoming pains

And misery,

Mistakes yet made

Offenses untold,

For the scorching wastelands,

The bone chilling cold.

For broken hearts

And shattered dreams,

The fabric of life

Its tattered seams.

I give thanks to thee

For all these things.

They’ll give me strength

To spread my wings.

All the thanks

Which I can give

To use these things

To learn to live.

W.W.

We finally did learn that Wordwrangler’s real name was Ray, but we still called him Wordwrangler, for that, he truly was. Though that was several years ago now, I think of the young man often.

I was sent the following poem by our editor, Dahris Clair. It was part of an entry in the current IW Memoir Contest. Dahris thought I might be moved enough by the poem to share it on The Nook. I was.

Carolee Ackerson Bertisch, former English Facilitator and Writing Coordinator for the Rye Neck School District in Westchester County, New York, is the author of “Who Waves the Baton?”, a book of poetry and prose, and “Musings about Nature, Marshmallows and Mountain Ranges.” A leader of two local book discussion groups, she also participates in A Gathering of Poets, a group that meets regularly at the library to critique poems. She is the Poetry Chair for The Florida Heritage Book Festival. Also fitting for the First Thanksgiving, “Travelers” celebrates a week of Native American Nature celebrations and mediations which the author attended at the Skidmore College campus in Saratoga Springs, NY.

“Travelers”

By: Carolee Ackerson Bertisch

Last night the women danced

to the beat of tom-toms

waving their arms, gyrating

in dresses of orange and crimson.

Envying the belly dancer

whose hips in sea-blue sarong

moved to the beat of the drums

like a metronome clicking from side to side.

Her smile flashed in happiness

as she threw her head back,

her bare feet skimmed the floor.

We tried to imitate

but could not find the ecstasy.

Today she walked across campus

in black socks and sneakers,

head down, shoulders slumped

rhythm all removed.

Last night the Hopi woman

danced across the stage

robed in ebony and gold symbols,

chin high beneath a beaded headdress,

long dark braid flowing,

heels making sharp staccato sounds.

She was tall and stately

as an eagle flying,

enormous feather in her hands.

Deep atavistic drums

echoed from the past.

This morning she read her mail

in olive shorts and T-shirt

dark hair long and straight

restored to normal size.

Last night the beaming, delicate

Asian dancer in peach and saffron

arms held wide akimbo

gestured a tale from lands

beyond our imagination.

Today, I waited

as she punched in numbers

at the ATM machine

although she spoke no English.

Later, wheels of the train

clicked on the tracks

drums echoed

colors swirled

as I traveled away.

 Carolee can be contacted at caroleebe@aol.com

Being fortunate to live by the sea, and being an avid lover of the Divinity in the Cosmos, Nature and the Native American Culture, I attend the Sunset Drum Ceremony held on the beach at sunset whenever I can. It is, for me, a calming and an awakening to the Divine. I can hear this poet’s song.

When reflecting on our blessings, I think the one thing we should all be most thankful for is something we all take for granted. It’s just ‘us’. We fail to think of it as a gift. That would be our minds and our imagination, that power to go wherever we wish to go and be what ever we wish to be if but for a moment. For me, it has been the saving grace. Another of our frequent contributors, Jo Harris Shaw, is singing in that same realm as Carolee Bertisch in “Travelers”, these special journeys we all can take as we wish. Thanks for sharing this inner side of you, Jo.

“REGIONS”

By: Jo Harris Shaw

There is a special place

I like to go,

when day to day life

presses in on me,

a mossy green and quiet

place it is,

with babbling brook

and soft serenity.

It dwells beyond the regions

of my mind,

waiting like a very

special friend,

and I can walk there barefoot

in the grass,

where all the world's rainbows

come to blend.

I sit beside the emerald

water's flow,

 and watch the clouds drift by

a silver moon,

I hear the golden voices

from afar,

sing faintly from a

yet unknown tune.

I know I must return to

earth again,

for where I go, I know

the angels dwell,

and I have been the misty

trespasser,

who steals into heaven

from her hell.

Jo Harris Shaw

So that we, too, never fail to be thankful, not for the war, never the war, but for the young men who fight them, suffered loss of limb, and died in them . . .  I call on the always incredible work of Joe Porter.

“AMERICAN SAILOR IN NAGASAKI - 1946”

Seven miles, devastated burning

Blackened hills, green returning

 Charred Squares where buildings rose,

Sterile ashes nothing grows.

Tortured girders, shadows cast

Chimneys, statements of the past.

 Deserted church, no roof, no door

Hollow, shell-ravaged floor.

Crumbled walls of twisted steel,

Hushed whispers of dead souls, appeal

 No people, no sound, no song.

No voice, no step, forever gone.

Rubbled streets, no passage found

No feet to tread the barren ground.

 Behind a ridge, a village stands.

A beach, unscathed ocean sands.

Mist-gray pallor, overcast sky.

Those remaining, wait to die

Hidden from light in hopeless plight,

Burned, crippled, without sight.

People proceeding,

My presence, unheeding.

 A priest did speak of the raging hell,

When from the sky, one day it fell.

Searing wind, here, swept the earth.

Unborn children robbed of birth.

 How many times, in awe, I asked,

How many times, the bombs cruel blast?

“Only once,” he said. “The first, the last . . .”

Joseph Porter 1991

Only from, the soul of a poet, the heart of a veteran, could such pain, horror, yet such magnificence, emerge. Thank you, Joe, for your service. Thank the Divine Powers that Be you lived to come home.

Yes, only from the heart and soul of a poet can pain and horror emerge in magnificence in the form of verse. To close our November Nook, I’m going to share a poem that may scar your heart, but you will evermore be thankful for the tremendous work done by the many Animal Welfare and Humane Societies. Perhaps, it will touch you to never buy a pet in a store, but offer your home to the rejected. Dahris and I are both avid supporters and promoters of the work done by the shelters. I share this to thank her in the remarkable musings of poet, James O. Kelly . . .

“ABANDONED”

By: James O. Kelly

Cuteness outgrown,

Abandoned without collar.

He feels his way down the sidewalk,

Beyond the reach of an angry kick.

He peers through a window,

Where faces,

Pouched in indifference,

Shove aside half-eaten meals.

Pauses at a tipped-over can,

Contents scattered with remnants

Of someone’s success . . .

Perhaps a chunk of his future.

Tail frozen in fear,

He glances over his shoulder,

Rejection, the loudest voice

Along the curb.

Expectations fade away

Like strangers’ footsteps;

Hunger awakes

And counts his ribs.

Let us all be thankful for our Consciousness, the hearing of the inner voice. For the soul songs and those who sing them.

I wish you all a Thanksgiving rainbow.  ~  Susan  ~