A Blessing for Paradise, CA
Fire — Summer 2008
This is for the fire victims
This is for the insects
This is for the nestlings
This is for the cubs and the fawn
the kits and the pups
This is for the lame and the slow
and the old and the broken
This is for the blind and the dumb
This is for every unnamed creature
This is for the forgotten of forest and the field
This is for the ash of bone of bird
of feathered and furred
This is for all who ran,
who fled,
who flew,
and this is for those who couldn’t.
Walking Across The Hills Looking for The Horses
Cherokee, CA
On our walk to see this spring’s foals,
they suddenly appear, these mares
of mahogany and gleaming mane,
round the bend in the path before us.
As fast as dark clouds across a Sierra summer sky,
these big boned dark women
look down on us with knowing eyes.
And the sassy little ones run to keep up.
The sweet sound of hooves on earth,
like ancient drum beats, the oldest rhythm of these hills.
The filly runs behind her mother and gently forth on tiny untouched hooves.
Her black brush of eyelash against her buckskin coat,
her perfect neck, the ridge where her short little mane grows.
Her shy glance of innocence knows nothing of bridle or bit.
The colt wants a present like any child
and my hands are empty.
I would give him anything he wants.
We have come to see the horses.
And they have come to see us.
We have brought them nothing.
And they have given trust.
The Pattern of Things
Right in the middle of the roadway
in the senior complex
where no children live,
the nest falls.
Sleek and bold beside it,
a female bird stands befuddled,
one eye on the nest,
the other looking someplace else,
or blind perhaps,
or maybe tearing over.
I can’t tell.
She doesn’t move, just stares at the nest,
remembering another time maybe.
It could be this isn’t hers at all,
but I think she is like the rest of us here
mothers, with memories.
There are no eggs in the nest, there is nothing left,
except clean cotton pulled and placed warm and soft like the palm of a hand,
which will hold nothing for the rest of its days
I want to walk up to her, say it’s okay
you’ll get over it,
suggest a hobby for instance
take up maj jong or shuffleboard
write your memoirs,
pretend it doesn’t matter,
pretend there is something better in your life
than motherhood.
Tell her that eventually she will look back on all this
and realize it was for the best
that this is the pattern of things,
that you give birth, give love, and let go,
that it repeats itself over and over.
Tell her that we are not so different
but then I hear little chirps,
tiny peeps,
and the bird hears also
and as quick as wind she is airborne,
off to her babes on another branch
in another tree
leaving me here alone,
earthbound on this road
where no children play.
About the writer Claire Braz-Valentine lived in Santa Cruz for 25 years and raised her sons there. She now lives in Paradise, CA. She is a widely anthologized poet. Her plays have been produced in New York, Los Angeles, across the United States, in Finland, Greece, Italy, and Canada, published by Samuel French and Smith & Kraus. She has been a freelance writer for both children's and adult fiction and non-fiction, and a newspaper columnist. She worked as a playwright in residence through the CA Spectra Program in California middle schools, taught through the Poets in The Schools Program and also through UC Santa Cruz Extension, and Butte College. She can be reached at Cbrazvalen@AOL.com.
The Outdoor Poet is edited by Robert Sward, author of numerous books of poetry including, most recently, New and Selected Poems: 1957-2011 (Red Hen Press). He lives on the Westside with his wife, the artist Gloria Alford, and a poodle mix named Cosette. Participation in The Outdoor Poet is by invitation.
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