He reared his torso, acknowledged her presence.
Massive, solid, yet soft, he blended into the rocks,
But even at this distance she could see his whiskers.
Coarse crags laced with seaweed his resting place,
He lay alone, no friend or family or enemy in sight.
She sent her sound to him across the black sand;
Above the rolling and roaring surf crashing near,
He heard her greeting and lifted his face towards her.
"Hello over there! Yoo-hoo, what's up?" she hollered.
After a long, anxious pause she waved, and he knew
He would share his space, after all, in the setting sun.
Taking his afternoon rest, his well-deserved reverie,
He would have to deal with more than seagulls today.
This tall animal on two legs motioned to him again.
What was he to do - call back? use sign language?
What did she want, this stranger entering his home?
But he remained still, silently following her climb
Across the dark rocks and sand to higher grasses,
Until she disappeared above him into the clear blue.
Did she know how long he waited, wriggling to see
Her form once more, foreign but friendly, before
He urged himself back into the beckoning waves,
Curtains coming down, as he ushered himself out?
Valerie Holm WardaÓ Dec. '97
ODE TO THE OAK
By Valerie Holm WardaÓ 1996
Man and animals are comforted by your presence;
We watch your growth from seed to sapling
With help from sun rays and dew drops.
Your young, hungering threads rooting down
Are fed by brave, fallen warriors,
Nursing mothers and their babes.
Deriving life and energized through rich soil,
Your trunk grows and steadies
Against the screaming wind.
Your strong arms reach up, weaving a parasol
Crawled and roosted upon by
Grimy grub and fair fowl.
Providing sustenance for all nearby,
Morsels of food and needed meal, you've become
A shelter from storm and enemy alike.
How suddenly you're stolen away
Without a gracious exit,
We've no chance to say
Thank you or goodbye.
The greedy screech
Of the saw sounds…
Your death song.
by Valerie Holm Wardaã March 1997
and the story goes on…
once upon a time…
turn a phrase…
capture a thought.
How many - revered or reviled-
have worded it just right,
have woven with care the storyline?
Candlelit cave animations to
will they sequence or segue forever,
these tales inspired by
love, ego, experience?
Or will the flame die out,
the writer hushed
by lack of luster,
a missing muse,
a quick demise?
Will someone, someday
discover the last "THE END?"
Fight to live, fight to die;
Slaughter and maim.
Lay lands to waste
To win, to win…
Fight to win, fight to lose
Sons and daughters.
The cause is all
We have, we have…
Fight to have, fight to own
Earth and seas.
Grant all deeds
To man, to man…
THE WHITE MAN COMES
Charred remnants of pride and honor,
Mourn your barren plains and hills.
Gone the bison and elk,
Ash and maple slain.
Mother Earth, Giver of breath,
Mourn your daughters and sons.
Who will tend the hearth?
Who will warm your sod?
Cool, gray horizon
Dawning of death…
The white man comes.
SAID THE WHITE MAN TO THE RED MAN,
I'm looking for a home;
Let me buy yours.
You don’t need so much;
We can share.
I need to carve a heritage
Out of these hills.
It took many miles and lives
To find land like this.
But, where is your marker, your boundary?
A birthright so undefined can't be!
I won't go back from where I came.
You can't live in the past;
My future is at stake.
Make room - I'm here to stay."