Haiku for Signs of Fall

 

Skein squawking discourse

Up wash wingtip vortices

Nature’s synergy

 

Crocus Child 

As you dance through your seasons

 of life, do not go unnoticed.

 Run!

Skip!

Hop!

And, turn cartwheels.

 

 Garner your crocus courage:

Be daring. Be audacious.

Stretch your neck out.

Burst through ice covered earth.

Welcome the sun burning brightly

against winter’s last snow.

 

But most importantly of all, believe in

the blessing of new beginnings.

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

Remembering….Two Lost Boys

He was just a little boy
wearing clothes way too big,
probably donated by some well meaning church in America.
He and his friends played in the schoolyard
happily kicking the ball in a game of soccer.

"Hey! NATO”, he called out
to the soldiers stopped in the road near the school.
He waved; shot them a wide grin,
and hitched his falling pants back up to his waist,
then turned to continue his game.

The soldiers, from all the countries,
had become great friends with the children.
Often I saw two or three uniformed men
surrounded by a group of laughing children,
sharing their gum and chocolates or kicking a soccer ball.

I think it's something soldiers have done throughout time.
Make friends with the children, that is.
I recall a picture of my own father
with children in an Asian country,
in another place, another time, another war.

I believe it helps fight the loneliness
the young soldiers feel themselves,
so far away from home
and everything they love,
so far away from their own families.

He was just a boy himself,
not yet able to buy himself a drink.
He stood straight and tall in his dusty green fatigues,
the required machine gun slung
casually over his shoulder.

He waved to the group of children
playing soccer in the schoolyard.
Some stopped their play and ran to join him
and the other soldiers standing on the roadside,
hugging their peace protecting weapons.

The details were foggy.
Rumors abounded.
No one knew what really happened.
Everyone had an opinion, but
no one could say for certain.

Whatever actually did happen on
that Tuesday afternoon in the village Sllatina,
while the children played happily in the schoolyard,
profoundly affected two lives
and the lives of their families forever.

A shot was heard.
The little boy in the baggy britches fell.
A pool of blood appeared almost instantly
staining his shapeless shirt
A dark and viscid crimson.

The soldiers ran toward the fallen boy
and swept him away immediately
rushed him to the medical base.
But the child was gone already.
Instantly, they said, from the moment he fell.

And two family’s lives forever changed --
the family of the little soccer player,
and the family of the young soldier
who will never be able to forget
that day the shots rang out.

When they told me the story, I recalled that little boy,
his wide smile, his baggy britches.
His bright and cheerful wave.
He called me “NATO” too,
just like all the other Americans.
Such a poignant country, Kosovo.
Touched by tragedy even in peacetime.
And today I wear a scar deep, in my center,
where my own heart cracked open and spilled to the ground
on a Tuesday, in the village Sllatina.

Nancy Leigh Harless
Written on a Tuesday 2000

Joe Taylor Creek in the Night

We came to see the bio-phosphorescence -- that amazing phenomena of light producing plankton in the brackish water where salt and fresh water mix. We dragged our kayaks through the fetid mud of the mangrove. To me it smelled foul, but Anne, my friend and guide, assured me that was just the odor of a working Mangrove doing it’s job of breaking down organic material. But wait a minute, I thought to myself, isn’t that precisely what a septic tank does?

Joe Taylor Creek was small – only 50 feet wide at the start, soon narrowing to only 15 feet -- barely room to do a turn around with our kayaks. As we paddled up-creek, the lush rainforest closed in, around, and above us like a think green cocoon. The ropelike vines hung high above and dropped into the water beside us like something out of a Tarzan movie. On the creek bank, tiny pencil thin roots pushed up out of the ground packed together tightly as warp on a carpet. This was the “White” mangrove. Roots from the trees along both banks come out of the water forming cage-like structures with little crabs scurrying up and down the roots. This was the “Red” mangrove. I found myself hoping that one of those little crabs wouldn’t fall into my kayak.

Night was falling and the mosquitoes and other attacking bugs had come out in full force, buzzing and dive-bombing looking for fresh white meat. Night sounds began – the crickets, the frogs, the birds and those indistinguishable sounds of night of something there in the brush, just outside my field of vision.

I was in Punta Gorda as a volunteer. With more than a half of a century of life experience, I was realizing a lifelong dream of opening a clinic in a third world country. However, the sweltering weather and primitive living conditions coupled with the disparities of Belize time versus North American time as a daily source of frustration had stolen my sense of wonder of the beauty of the country, not to mention my sense of humor. It had almost stolen my dream.

But, this night Anne promised spectacular phenomena we could not see when we return to our Midwestern home, so we put work aside and came to partake in the phosphorescent light show. She guaranteed a display I wouldn’t easily forget. She was absolutely right.

As darkness settled around us, we paddled by the light of the stars and the crescent moon that could hold water. At first I could see only a few sparkles as I moved my kayak through the water. Stirring the water by hand brought a few more flickers. I was disappointed. I came expecting fireworks. “It’s not yet dark enough, Anne explained, be patient.”

Just as promised, later, when night grew pitch-black night around us, the spectacle began. Brilliant fluorescent balls of fire rolled off my paddle as I stroked. When I dipped my hand into the water, sparkling droplets fell like diamonds from my fingers. Leaning over the side of my kayak and looking deep into the water below I saw twinkling beads of light glittering as if a miniature Milky Way were beneath me.

As I stroked my paddle though the water a magical ripple of light followed the stroke like a wave in slow motion. My perception was altered. I was another dimension. Time stood still. There was a miracle happening in the water right under my kayak. I was mesmerized by the sensual quality to the movement of the lights. As I drew circles in the water with my finger, a ring of fire appeared. B

But all too soon, sadly, it was time to go. I reluctantly paddled back down the creek to the place where it meets the sea. We crossed the Bay of Honduras. The sea rocked me gently as I paddled in silence, breathing to the rhythm of the rise and the fall of the gentle ancient Caribbean.

The magic was over, but I was awestruck. I had witnessed a miracle. From that night forward I have known with great certainty, that whenever I feel annoyed with life’s little discomforts or frustrations, whether I am in a village in Belize, or in my own Midwestern home, I can simply close my eyes, let my spirit soar and remember that night when time stood still, as I played with the glittering, glistening, Saint Elmo’s fire of Joe Taylor Creek in the night.

It puts everything into perspective.

by Nancy Leigh Harless

Sun Worshippers

A row of sleepy-eyed sun worshippers,
like vain old women, draped
across Adirondack lounges,
necks craned to avoid wrinkling,
or getting a tan line.


Noses slightly upturned,
all superior and snotty,
leather-skinned turtles
stretch across a craggy log,
and work on their tans.

by Nancy Leigh Harless

By Dawn's Early Light

Awaken to the sound of silence
enveloping dull brown fields, natal
with the green down of next Fall’s harvest.


A lemon orb breaks over the black
skeletons of leafless hardwood trees.
The sky waters silk a thousand shades
                                                           orcherous
                                                                   amesthyine
                                                                             sanguine.
And in that single moment,
more significant than the day itself,
you are gifted with Knowing…
                      and your cup overflows.

By Nancy Leigh Harless

Little Andu

On Meeting Andu at the Dichee Orphanage


Little Andu with smile so wide,
ruddy cheeks hint of a happy child,
but your dark almond eyes own a sorrow
no child should understand.

Count to ten on fingers
bitten to the quick.
Recite your ABC’s.
Lead me by your tiny hand
to a musky sweet kitchen.
Rice boils on the black wood stove.

Take me to the room filled
with rows of metal beds,
your own shared with yet another
lice-infected, head-shorn little girl.

You stand so tall against the yardstick, taped
to the rough wooden door.
Your shaved scalp tickles my hand
as I measure, announce, ‘thirty-five inches,”
and silently add of pure humanity.

Your tiny hands pull on my arm
and at my heart
toward a rusty case holding
a mangy black dog big enough to ride.

Pulled by the fear of failure,
Pushed by a need to please,
You whisper a single English word – “dog,”
peek up from the corner of your slant eyes;
and hope for words of praise from this
pale skinned grandmother of another world.

Little Andu, your arms squeezed around
my neck when time to say good-bye.
Your rough head prickled my chest; burned
a little girl-sized hole that lingers today
and I remember…..

Little Andu with smile so wide,
ruddy cheeks hint of a happy child,
but dark almond eyes hold a sorrow
no child should understand.


By Nancy Leigh Harless

Sleeping Around

My Grandaughter

She twists and turns in the darkness,

sheets coil and contort in her wake

until I am splayed and drawn, quartered

by the magnetic wires that bind generations,

until the wire threatens to snap and slash

the progeny who is my nemesis.

I reach through night’s dark shroud,

place my palm on her small sweet chest…and breathe.

My Gray-Haired Lover

We rest a matched set of spoons fused

by love and living: shared memories, shared

dreams, shared name. His quiet breath,

a butterfly kiss, tickles my ear until I stretch,

back arching, roll onto my stomach breaking spoon’s seal.

He stirs, turns onto his back in slow motion moan,

He reaches through night’s dark veil,

a work-worn hand cups my buttock….and he sighs.

My Favorite Pooch

His small self presses against the hollow of my back,

fused by with a weld that assures I am not alone.

When midnight blasts of fiesta fireworks rouse,

he circles ’round three times, curls his lean body

into a tight “C” and flops into a heap at my side.

I reach through night’s dark curtain,

touch the tiny rump against my side,

pat three times …and sigh.

My Grandson

He sleeps, perchance to dream of damsels and noble knights.

I lay side-by-side my Celtic youngling, a boy of courage and honor,

suffer the wrath of this small chivalrous knight, resolved to slay

the mythic dragon that snores near his ear. The slap of a gauntlet glove,

a mace to the kidney, a flail to my head! I stir. Pelted half-awake

I hear his battle cry: “Take that you filthy beast!”

I roll to the bed’s edge, reach across night's battle scene,

place my hand on his small, gallant head ….and nod.

My Mother

She sleeps, in tomblike silence in somnolent, silken repose.

We lay together, covered by a cotton quilt, hand-stitched

by her own mother many years ago when she was just a girl.

I awaken to unnatural stillness – night silent as a sepulcher,

no sound from my mute mother: not a whisper, not a sigh ,

nor the small, soft wheeze of breath’s inspiration.

I reach through night’s indigo blanket, gently shake

a boney shoulder until she gulps a small gasped growl…..and I smile.

Alone in My Tree House

I lay, a laggard in a hammock, atop a maple tree,

listen to soft summer sounds hum in harmony.
Leaves, a river floating, swirl into child-deep-sleep,
lulling introspection - thoughts superficial; thoughts profound,
 I dream through green leaf filters, and smile as I recall,

all the many different ones of you with whom …. I’ve slept around.

Be the Sparrow

         One Note Wonder
     The sun had been up for an hour stealing morning’s chill. I had shared a solitude sunrise with a cup of coffee high in a tree, in the tree house built by my husband - complete with a “NO BOYS ALLOWED” sign.
     A lone sparrow lit on an overhead branch, settled himself, and began to sing. Treeeeat! Treeeeat! Treeeat! He chirped - a single monotone song. What he lacked in musical ability, He made up for with enthusiasm -- his song a one-note solo. He didn’t know, or care, if he blended into the other bird’s halleluiah chorus. I found myself carried back some 40-plus years, and chuckled to myself as the slideshow of my mind played out a childhood scene.
     I attended a very small school. Auditions weren’t required for any the choral groups. Every grade had one and no talent or singing ability was necessary. My friends and I signed up the first day – mostly drawn to the idea of a field trip in the spring to compete with other schools in the county in the yearly choral contest. Mrs. A, our music teacher, took these competitions seriously, and puffed up like a proud mother goose when her goslings came home with the trophy.
     Because I have a fairly low voice, I could never reach the high notes. My friend, Patsy and I were designated as the alto section. Patsy easily harmonized with the melody singing sopranos, and she could belt it out like a musical foghorn. I, on the other hand, carried my tuneless pail as quietly as possible, but hid my lack of talent by standing hip to hip with Patsy, and softly following her lead. As long as Patsy stood by me, I was an alto.
     But, when Patsy missed the practice session, I shivered solo; knowing Mrs. A would call attention to my unblending little voice. This morning as I watched my treetop sparrow sing his one-note wonder to the sky, I recalled a reoccurring childhood embarrassment. It happened every time Patsy missed practice, and I was alone “in the alto section.”
     Mrs. A, a gray-haired matron, would pound out the tunes on her piano again and again, molding her songbirds into a flock that could bring home the gold. Wisps of hair disengaged from her topknot bun, as she feverishly strained to hear each of us sing while she played. Her rotund hips spread wide nearly filling the piano bench and she had a large flap of loose skin, where her chin should have been, that warbled when she talked like a big Tom turkey.
     She was stern, but also kind. I’m certain she didn’t intend to embarrass me but, never the less, every time she stopped playing, tapped her baton on the top of the piano and announced to the ceiling, “Girls, girls, there’s someone off in the alto section,” I wished for some magical invisible power that would let me slither between the cracks of the black floor tiles. All my friends would twitter. My cheeks would braise pink and I’d strain to keep the floodgates behind my eyes in closed position. I was the alto section. It was obvious that someone was me!
     It happened over and over again that year - every time Patsy couldn’t make practice. The next year I didn’t sign up for the choral group.
     I haven’t sung for years, although I do hum softly to myself much of the time. But, this morning, as I watched that little sparrow, quite literally out on a limb singing his one-note wonder, I was reminded that song is a celebration of love. Who cares if you sing off key?
     What I do know is that the sun rose this morning and warmed my face, a hush of a breeze kissed my cheeks. The trees were full with the melody, and the harmony, of heartland songbirds. A sparrow perched on an overhead branch and sang as though his tiny heart might burst. What he lacked in talent; he made up for with enthusiasm.
    
     Be the sparrow.

Prosperity

Prosperity

A long-legged woman stands at the bow of her boat,

face warmed by rising sun. Silver streaks glint in her

light brown hair, sunbeams dance in the morning glow.

Nimble as a dancer she slips over the side,

rising and falling in undulating waves,

she sinks into her kayak.

With a mermaid’s grace she paddles toward the

white sand beach, frosted thick with pink and purple

seashells that stretches to the brink of the world.

She listens to the shells, so deep they tinkle like

a thousand wind chimes with each retreating wave.

She hunts.

She gathers.

She explores

the beach all day

filling a hand woven bag

with bountiful gifts from the sea,

until afternoon’s slanted light warns

soon the setting sun will stoke world’s

edge in a brilliant backdrop of fiery color.

The woman catches the first wave,

the smallest in a cycle of seven,

and smoothly paddles the kayak

toward her anchored sailboat home.

She spreads pink and purple shells

across the bow, admires each shape and hue,

then picks just one, that calls her name,

and slips the others gently over the side

returning them to the sea.

The woman has everything she needs;

and she knows what

she needs is

enough.

Written 2006 for my life-long mermaid friend, Janet who has  taught so much about living.   ~ N L Harless



story catching


live wisely
for remnants
of your story woven today
will linger like a spider’s webbed
gye wires stretched between stanchions
holding the meat of a long dead fly
in slow decay -  caught in her
 sticky trap long after
 you have gone

by nancy harless summer 2007

The River Rises

The River Rises Up in the Night.


Wet beads cling to everything metal:
stanchions, guy wires, the bow hook
left leaning against the cockpit door
all glaze in tiny shimmering drops of light.

The river rises up in the night. Towels hung
to dry, now more sodden than the day before.
Her smoky wetness drifts into my bed; I awaken
damp and clammy, taste her earthy scent;slither
from my bunk, glide up the ladder into the shadows.

The river rises up in the night, licks my pajamas
with a cool wet tongue, brushes her fragile fog
through my tangled hair. Vapors permeate my flesh,
diffuse into my soul, swirl beyond the margins of myself.

The river rises up in the night, works her magic
with smoke and mirrors, burns scenes
of mystical madness onto her tree lined banks
until I, and the river, dissolve into one.

Sister Love

 
If I could little sister I’d turn back time,
suck the sand up the hourglass to before
that tsunami cell phone call tumbled you
heels over head; sent you skidding across
a remote, rocky beach; then spit you out,
breathless and whimpering on a cold and distant shore.


If I could little sister I’d turn back time,
flip calendar pages backwards, make time stop
on the day before that all-changing day stole
every bit of breeze from your trembling sails,
left you struggling to inhale, and forever more
divided all your days into before … and after.


If I could little sister I’d take you away
to a faraway beach, where evening’s calm surrender
would melt the sky a thousand shades of splendor.
You’d search the horizon for a mythical green flash.
I’d pick shards of sea glass from your fragile heart,
gently daub your bleeding wounds,
and wrap big sister arms around you.


But know, little sister, if only I could,
I surely would,
turn back time.

The River Rises Up in the Night

One of my old free-verse poems will be included in Lyrical Iowa 2010.

The River Rises Up in the Night.

Wet beads cling to everything metal:
stanchions, guy wires, the bow hook
left leaning against the cockpit door
all glaze in tiny shimmering drops of light.

The river rises up in the night. Towels hung
to dry, now more sodden than the day before.
Her smoky wetness drifts into my bed; I awaken
damp and clammy, taste her earthy scent;slither
from my bunk, glide up the ladder into the shadows.

The river rises up in the night, licks my pajamas
with a cool wet tongue, brushes her fragile fog
through my tangled hair. Vapors permeate my flesh,
diffuse into my soul, swirl beyond the margins of myself.

The river rises up in the night, works her magic
with smoke and mirrors, burns scenes
of mystical madness onto her tree lined banks
until I, and the river, dissolve into one.

Business Women of Pella, Iowa

We had a wonderful chat with the Business Women of Pella last night. We were small in number, but we had a wonderful dinner provided by by the Culinary Arts program of the local college and great conversation. Nancy read "Joy in the Morning," from her book, "Womankind," and all the women were charmed by little Cassandra and the saga of her stolen jump rope.

Good News from Imagine a Woman International: June 1, 2010

This year the Imagine a Woman poem is celebrating its 15th year anniversary with a new website and new programs and opportunities for personal growth and professional enhancement. You're invited to the Launch of the IAW Coach Certification Program, today June 1. Make your professional dreams come true by joining the “Imagine a Woman” Team as a certified Facilitator-Coach. Circle the Globe with IAW and launch, grow, and enhance your woman-empowering coaching business, ministry, therapy practice, agency, or ministry. IAW provides a READY-MADE, READY-TO-GO “Imagine a Woman” NICHE for you at http://www.imagineawoman.com/.

Imagine a Woman

Imagine a woman who believes it is right and good she is a woman.
A woman who honors her experience and tells her stories.
Who refuses to carry the sins of others within her body and life.

Imagine a woman who trusts and respects herself.
A woman who listens to her needs and desires.
Who meets them with tenderness and grace.

Imagine a woman who acknowledges the past's influence on the present.
A woman who has walked through her past.
Who has healed into the present.

Imagine a woman who authors her own life.
A woman who exerts, initiates, and moves on her own behalf.
Who refuses to surrender except to her truest self and wisest voice.

Imagine a woman who names her own gods.
A woman who imagines the divine in her image and likeness.
Who designs a personal spirituality to inform her daily life.

Imagine a woman in love with her own body.
A woman who believes her body is enough, just as it is.
Who celebrates its rhythms and cycles as an exquisite resource.

Imagine a woman who honors the body of the Goddess in her changing body.
A woman who celebrates the accumulation of her years and her wisdom.
Who refuses to use her life-energy disguising the changes in her body and life.

Imagine a woman who values the women in her life.
A woman who sits in circles of women.
Who is reminded of the truth about herself when she forgets.

Imagine yourself as this woman.
~ Patricia Lynn Reilly

Book Club

Top row left to right Ellen, Michele, Judy, Anne, Janet and Suzanne.

Bottom row left to right Cathy, Darlene, Rita, and Joanie

I "met" with the most lovely group of women this afternoon. The Book Club of Ormond Beach, Florida had read Womankind and one member, a nurse practitioner who coincidentally went to the same nursing school I did, invited me to join them for the discussion. Oh the wonders of the Internet! Thanks ladies! It was most enjoyable!

Make it a great evening!

~Nancy

Baby Monk

Baby Monk
Baby monk with almond eyes,
Do you miss your mother?
Sent so young, so far away,
called to live with others.

Baby Monk with cherry cheeks
Worn rough by air-thin mountain
Family chosen at age three,
blessed yak butter flowing fountain.

Baby monk in crimson drape,
street begging is your earning.
Sandaled feet trudge ancient streets,
prayer wheel clockwise turning.

Baby monk your quiet smile
touches me like no other.
Baby boy with almond eyes,
do you miss your mother?

Nancy Leigh Harless

2007 Llasha, Tibet

Book Club From My Treehouse

I'm looking forward to chatting with a group of women in Florida tomorrow.Isn't this an amazing world that we live in - one where you can sit in your tree house in SE Iowa and be part of a Book Club in Florida, or anywhere for that matter! I look forward to it.

I haven't been writing for a long time now, but am starting to think it's time to get back to it. I've been the ear for so many women, so many stories. It's time to stop being lazy. It's time to be their voice.

Make it great day!

~ Nancy

Friends of The Macomb Library

I'll be speaking tonight at the annual dinner for The Friends of the Macomb Library and reading from Womankind.

I've also recently received a few invitations to attend Book Clubs. Some I'll be able to go in person.; Others, too far away to travel, I'll attend via Skype on the Internet, or on speaker phone.

I absolutely love joining the discussion about the stories of Womankind, so if your club would like to invite me just send an email - womankindconnection@gmail.com

I look forward to hearing from you!
~ Nancy

The Circle of Women

In every corner of the globe I've sensed “the sisterhood” of women. I've seen women struggle, sometimes against daunting odds. I've seen them nearly break under the weight of their lives. And I've felt an abundance of spirit, of wisdom, and of connection with these very women. Ordinary women who live with extraordinary grace. We've laughed together. We've cried. Through the sharing of her everyday story, each woman’s life has been validated and my own profoundly enriched. For the honor of being an ear for so many women, so many stories, I am deeply grateful.

This year as we celebrate the 15th anniversary of the “Imagine a Woman’ poem. It too has circled the globe, since 1995, inspiring women wherever it goes. This year Imagine a Woman International is celebrating the poem's 15th year anniversary with a new website and new programs and opportunities. You're invited to the "Imagine a Woman" poem's 15th Birthday Party TODAY APRIL 2, and throughout the month of April, at http://r20.rs6.net/tn.jsp?t=wjoygpdab.0.0.npzhx8bab.0&p=http://www.imagineAwoman.com&id=preview. I am a proud Launch Partner, and my book is featured at the Imagine a Woman website.
Imagine circles of women all over the world. Imagine Crouching over an open fire near the Guatemalan border while Cecelia teaches the significance of making the small tortilla. Sitting under a cashew tree in Belize on a quiet rainforest afternoon, answering the young Mayan mother's question: "How can we make no more babies come?" Holding Ermine in your arms in a courtyard amid the children and chickens, weeping with her as she shares her poignant story of war. These are a few of the women of my book……Womankind Connection & Wisdom around the World. The women of “Womankind” congratulate Imagine a Women International today. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Namiste,

~ Nancy

IMAGINE a WOMAN

Since 1995, the "Imagine a Woman" poem has circled the globe, inspiring books, screenplays, videos, life transitions, professional portfolios, ministries, coaching practices, relationships, virtual communities, social networks, and organizational missions. This year Imagine a Woman International is celebrating the poem's 15th year anniversary with a new website and new programs and opportunities for personal growth and professional enhancement. You're invited to the "Imagine a Woman" poem's 15th Birthday Party TODAY APRIL 2 at http://www.imagineawoman.com/. We'll be partying all day so get your party clothes on, invite your friends, and come on over.

ONE NURSE at a TIME

Remember when I told you that while I was "story gathering" for Kaplan Publishing's upcoming anthology, Caring Beyond Borders I met a spunky nurse, Sue Averill, who works half the time internationally; the other half as an ER nurse in Seattle, Washington? Sue and her friend, Stacy Kelly formed the organization One Nurse at a Time. What a concept! It is a non profit created by these two nurses who are passionate about giving back to their local and global community through volunteer and humanitarian medical pursuits. They are dedicated to assisting other nurses enhance their profession as they too, look for opportunities to serve locally, nationally and internationally. And now I've been invited (well the truth is I sort of 'invited myself in' to be on the board of One Nurse at a Time! I look forward to helping raise awareness of what we nurses can do to change the world.

Last Book Event This Year