洞月亮 Cave Moon Press October 2017

FEATURED POET: BETTY SCOTT In the 1980s, she wrote a bimonthly column for the Wenatchee World titled “Musings by Betty Scott.” In 1992 she earned an MA in English with a writing emphasis from Western Washington University. In the past ten years, she has returned to her love for writing, the interplay of sounds and sense, experimenting with poetic and essay structures. Currently, she is exploring “performance poetry” collaborating with musician JP Falcon Grady who has put several of her Mother Earth poems to music. She is delighted to share a few of these in a setting of poetry and music.

BETTY GOES TO YOGA

He stood sentry on an island

between asphalt traffic lanes.

He had a chiseled nose and chin

his hair shoulder length.

In each hand, barbell bags

of groceries hung.  

To be quite clear as I drove by

            I imagined us and ecstasized.

But now on my yoga mat

I stretch

breathe out and realize

breathe in

I am old enough

breathe out

to be his mother.

Some say:

gasp in, his

grandmother

A Northwest Winter’s Dream

I do not know how I arrived

on this mountain or where we are destined

but my car is filled with passengers.

On a red-soiled road, we climb

wheels spinning crushing rock. When we

reach the summit, the cliff edge beckons.

My car could sprout wings but I swerve

from ledge and air and wake up scared. 

How mute, this day-break, how silent

this call to change my way on my distant

brother’s birthday. While trees pine

in greens and browns, the sky in empty gray

moon light shimmers through my bedroom’s shade

and I breathe in the awe of dawn. 

WRITE YOUR POEM!

"I do not know how I arrived"

Do you notice the moment?  Sometimes when we are crafting poems we become woodworkers gently revising and letting shavings fall to the floor over months and even years.

There is another element of poetry that honors the fragile moment of our lives.  We write it down, just to have a flash of memory years later.  In our ocean of images with cell phones we forget how fast things go by.  We lose the precious sights and sounds that have been distilled into poems for years.

Distill your words.  Cherish your life.  Cherish your poems.