While in Gila Wilderness II

day one

an easy hike 
with a friend
under cottonwoods whose leaves
are yellow and crisp
like the sun and autumn air,
we find the dragonfly 
petroglyph, and the 
tiny ponds that want me
to drink and bathe
as if no one has come 
here in two hundred years,
as if I can hear the songs of 
women washing clothes,
the babbling of babies still echoing
from the cliffs.
i yearn to 
feel
   what 
      they 
         felt,

but we head back, drive
into town, to the food co-op
where we find SURPRISE!
round, plastic containers
of fresh-made carrot soup
urging us to forget 
oceans and fish bellies 
filled with bits of petroleum-based 
human convenience. with
salivating anticipation
we buy two.
the trip back
to our cabin

is interrupted by the pinks,
yellows, and purples erupting
before us across the wide,
open new mexico skies. we
pull over and awww at the
heart-shattering play of light
that soon darkens into

the road ahead of us,
and it isn’t long until 
a fire is lit
in our kiva, its flames
imitating the sunset
that lives in memory 
and photos, preserved
in the cloud that has never 
touched the sky. we eat 
our warmed carrot soup,
and awwww once more,
at the heart-shattering play 
of flavors and warm bellies,
life full of perfection
in ever-changing moments.

day two

an easy hike 
with a friend.
our goal: 
a birding hotspot
as indicated on the map.
we walk 
among wiry, 
dr seussian cacti
next to a wide, lazy stream
that draws us close.
i yearn to
   let 
      the
         water
            carry me.
we rarely spot a bird, 
eventually arrive at 
a gate that looks
like civilization

so we head back, drive
into town, to the food co-op 
salivating
at the thought of
fresh-made carrot soup,
but we find SURPRISE!
round plastic containers of
a different soupy substance.
we forget oceans and 
fish bellies filled with 
bits of petroleum-based 
human convenience, and with
reticent anticipation
we buy two. the trip back
to our cabin

is serene, punctuated
by dreams of living simply
under the wide,
open new mexico skies, 
which are now a dark 
backdrop to

the lone headlights
on the road ahead of us,
and it isn’t long until 
a fire is lit
in our kiva, its flames
imitating a sunset
that lives in memory 
and photos, preserved
in the cloud that has never 
touched the sky. we eat 
our unremarkable

creamy soup
and come to the
realization that none
of our day’s goals 
had come to fruition. 
we awwww again at 
the heart-shattering play 
of flavors and full bellies,
life full of perfection
in ever-changing moments.


carol barrow
january, 2020

While in the Bosque del Apache Wildlife Preserve

Blackbirds
   a pantoum*

A cloud of blackbirds darkens the sky,
expanding and contracting
like a huge breath.
How can we not pay attention?

Expanding and contracting —
in a dance spontaneously choreographed —
how can we not pay attention?
The movement and joy are contagious.

It’s all a dance spontaneously choreographed,
and, admit it or not, we are being danced.
The movement and joy are contagious;
for a moment we forget who we think we are.

Admit it or not, we are being danced.
We’re being twirled by a beloved partner,
And for a moment we forget who we think we are
as we watch a cloud of blackbirds darken the sky

Carol Barrow

November, 2019

*Pantoum: A poem of any length composed of four-line stanzas in which the second and fourth lines of each stanza serve as the first and third lines of the next stanza.

While in Gila National Wilderness

The Fly

A fly committed suicide in our cabin yesterday evening. For three nights before that, I, in my most compassionate Buddha-nature way, had allowed him to buzz circles around my bedroom. Actually, I accepted the droning sound, interrupted by his quiet exploration of window sills and lamp shades, because once I was under the weight of warm blankets, not much could drag me out before morning.

Each day, I’d forget about the little guy, until I settled in to sleep and he would make his presence known once again. 

Last night, my room was quiet when I pulled the covers up around my ears. That’s because earlier in the evening, as Lois and I had just finished heating tortillas in a hot skillet, the fly committed suicide by heat. It could have been an accidental death. Most likely, he didn’t mean to take himself out. But right after we moved the skillet to a cool burner, Mr. Fly flew into it. For a split second, I saw him dance like popcorn— or maybe he was just sizzling. I then realized what was happening, and Lois picked up the pan, but… It was too late. Dancing in three hundred degrees when one weighs about four ten-thousandths of an ounce is, of course, deadly. It would be for anyone.

Often, I notice myself letting out an Ohhh! of sadness and compassion when, for instance, a fly happens to burn up in a pan, or when I see a dead skunk or cat or dog on the side of the road. I not only suffer unnecessary grief for the animal I never knew and who is dead and no longer feeling any pain, I will also find myself sad for the deceased’s family, projecting onto them how bad I would feel if my family member burnt to a crisp in a big, hot skillet. 

So, for no logical reason, or maybe for the best reasons in the world, I had a few moments of sadness for that fly. And I wanted to tell the story of its demise. To honor that tiny being. Really, its story was every bit as important as any other I might tell.


Carol Barrow
November, 2019

almost spring

almost spring

something shifts
i always notice
the day i first notice
but i don’t know 
if it’s a sudden change
or one slow and gradual
missing my attention
until it’s blatantly obvious
in a familiar birdsong
not heard for quite some time
maybe since this time last year
but now it’s here beautiful
and cheery and 
honey I’m homey
its voice gives me a smile 
warmth flows through my chest
we’ve made it 
through winter’s depths
I want to die in spring 
when life is saying yes!
and so am I

Carol Barrow
February, 2020

le chevauchement

Well, that last post didn't work so well. I didn't know that videos don't come through in email notifications. Readers have to click on the blue post title which is linked to the blog if they want to view/listen to a YouTube video. Good to know. Crappy to happen.

My first blog post in almost a year, and it was an email flop. Oh, well. The song is MY happy song. Everyone has their own.

***

Some mornings, I read a poem by a contemporary poet, then steal a phrase that I like and write my own poem from that prompt (I only do this some mornings, because I lack discipline, and different days ask for different activities). I noticed that one writer wrote a few lines with words that ended a thought, but also began one. I have no idea if this is a "thing," if there is a name for this style of writing. I'd call it le chevauchement (the overlap). You'll see in the writing below, thoughts overlap. Kind of like how my brain works.


Late Summer Garden

The summer’s been quirky, 
and we found ourselves on the computer too 
much heat and not enough rain to keep the lawn green
beans have been plentiful, though, and kale grows
like weeds must be pulled around the roses weekly 
so the murdering bindweed won’t strangle them. Each 
year, I say next year will be more colorful
flowers would look nice mixed with the daisies. 
We’ll feed the grass in 
the fall I could plant bulbs if I remember 
this miracle growing right before my 
eyes keep focusing on what needs to be done 
and forgetting to enjoy even the perfect globe 
of dandelion seeds blowing the mind with happiness.

Carol Barrow
September, 2019

The Gift

When I was about nineteen, I met a young man, probably at a dance club, and we went on an afternoon date in the mountains. I don't remember the man's name, but I can see him in my mind, and I can also remember riding in his little green Triumph with the top down, going down a highway that, at that time, had very little traffic. The highway was so quiet, that when the man's hat blew off, he had all the time in the world to put his car into reverse, open the door, and pick the hat up off the road.

As we drove down from the mountains, the wind and this song created a wild dance of my hair and heart:




Not long after that date, the man would write me love letters. I was busy looking in a different direction. But I am so grateful for that memory. Especially for the song. When it comes to mind, which only happens every few years, I blast it from the speakers and dance wildly like my hair did that day.

What song will you drop into someone's life today?