Lady Mathers
Greetings from the Poetlady,
I just thought I’d insert a little info. about myself for those who don’t know me. I’ve been writing poetry since the early 70′s. I have written hundreds of poems. To my credit I have received over 20 various awards for my poetry throughout the years. There are many poems I am proud of, one of which was published in the Sedona Journal Of Emergence in 1993, entitled “Talking Drums.” In 1986, I earned an award from the American Poetry Society, which was presented to me in Orlando, Florida at the awards convention that year. Our guest of honor, Vincent Price. The keynote speaker: the amazing Maya Angelou. What a story she has to tell about her life. There are no words to describe the feeling of being in the presence of these two accomplished people. The event changed my life forever because I have only to think of that one incredible weekend and all that was said, especially when I suffer from writer’s block, and all is well. I suppose you could say I “Cowgirl Up!”
A special thanks to all the poet’s who have crossed my path over the years, for all you’ve taught me, your inspiration and your humor. I have learned not to take myself so seriously – to reach deeper within myself than I ever dreamed I could for that which is real and most meaningful. You have taught to share the things I once thought would kill me because of the pain I harbored. Poets have taught me to be a real human being who can share from heart. A special thanks to Baxter Black (one of the most talented cowboy poets of our time), for his wisdom, insight and unique outlook on life. There is humor, life experience, love and joy in the most unlikely places. Blessed be – I am honored.
Lady Mathers
Bio:
C. R. Brunner has been earnestly composing poetry for over a decade, and has been a local resident of Prescott, AZ for the past five years. He is a performance artist, musician, and avid attempted free thinker. His favorite color is teal-green, and yellow, and purple, and red, and blue, and regular green also. He likes mangos, and strawberries, and cherries, asian pears, and bananas; as well as hand stands, and dancing naked in the sunshine and moonlight alike. His life has lead him many places over many years, though he considers one of his greatest adventures to be the noble trek into the hearts of his readers.
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-Recurring Dreams-
Is a life more than a series of recurring dreams;
a mass of sticks and boards piled in a stream,
a child’s old rope swing, swaying in the wind,
a cup of tea, set in sun and leaves?
I’m sure there are over a hundred philosophies
I could attach myself to regarding this, however,
I think I’d rather close my eyes in sun, or just sit.
Is it possible to sleep while dreaming;
to sleep through a dream?
There are so many leaves in autumn,
so many lives and people,
hollow branches and stoniness.
How can clouds in blue sky mean so little to a day?
What other great purpose is there
that I have been missing and missing?
The trees that root around stone,
and grow high toward the sun.
The young animals that find their way
through natural labyrinths.
And the music in the wind, and the water of the stream,
and of human voices.
The dancing memory of debris…
Opening eyes in grass beneath sky with clouds:
the park people walk dogs and children,
the homeless are wrapped in wool and old leather,
brown squirrels pause, and scurry through leaves.
What dreams…
Not far from chill November beaches
where the moist horizon whispers things to sand,
and the mind becomes disheartened and adrift;
a wooden island sunk beneath the ebbing tide,
smooth and cool to the touch.
The old ones tap us with their canes and leathered toes,
their bodies wrapped in woven wools.
The young ones run their fingers through our cracks,
their light filled eyes like stars in undreamt skies.
The fogs roll in near twilight,
and the old and young leave us to our souls.
The tides rush in and work our bodies to perfection;
the grains of sand like stardust in our fleshless hands.
The mirror of the sky shows us
our once a world wrapped in sparkling cities,
kissed by clouds and half lit dreams.
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-The Color Blue-
What is it about the color blue
and particular notes of music,
that intrigue and make us feel sentimental?
What is it that makes a smile a universal expression;
the same in a dozen African, Indian, and Asian languages
as it is in German, French, Spanish, and English?
What makes a family a tribe, and a tribe a family?
What is it that divides our world into so many pieces, really?/
And are there not enough of us to bring it back together,
enough hands to quilt the swatches of our cultures,
to work the shards of our peoples into a proper mosaic,
enough artisans to meld a single stained window of our nations?/
There are so many of us that have watched the blue sky,
and that have watched the blue ocean
and the running waters of rivers and streams
and have found peace and found words and made music.
There are so many of us that dance and sing and make love,/
true love, who raise children with love, which is why i ask.
Where in us does this seed of war and mutual destruction come from?/
Where in us do we place our neighbors beneath ourselves?
And when our skies are no longer blue
and our oceans blue neither and our music’s forgotten,
will we replace our sentimentality with sadness?
Will our teachers and families have something to say
they have not said to date, that they have been keeping to themselves?/
We are so many voices, and our world is so rich still.
We must find new songs before our traditions are gone forever,/
before our blue world sinks past the brink of a cycle toward destruction./
We might teach our children to dance and love without exception or expectations/
while we can and have cultures to share with one another.
Before computers a marble was a wondrous thing;
a round cat’s eye held between two fingers in bright sun,
a solid chipped orb of intention, before innocence became adult conflict./
Green grass in a field of blue petaled chicory,
clouds to the horizon cut by power lines.
What is it about our human hearts and minds,
that make us so wicked, and yet so divine?
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-Prayer Song 4 The People-
Oh mandala of heaven
Oh wind between the worlds
Oh river running through the earth
the stars collide in swirls
the fires burn with dreams
the ethers whisper clear
Oh sacred psalm of kindred souls
when will my other half appear
when will we all be here (at last)
and free of our mirrors
Oh sacred psalm of ash and flame
how to tell when all is so the same
except from songs sung while burning
or from dances danced while dying
Oh my sisters and my brothers
who will judge us then
and what of fear and punishment
when there are no more sticks or flesh to shake at
Oh mandala of heaven
Oh wind between the worlds
Oh river running through the earth
we are such boys and girls
we are such boys and girls
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