Writing Our Rivers 

Welcome! Here are years of writing and rambling, river drifting and all things that might sweep through us. Our rivers; what they bring and what they leave. How they clean us, cool us, nourish our souls, yet for the unsteady feet they are dangerous.  I would be happy to get your feedback, or the story your river tells. What say you?

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Wild Woman
For Dena, by Molly Casey

Wild Woman
Is letting her hair grow out long again.

Kind Woman
  Calls out to us and invites us in.

Laughing woman
  Tells us stories, setting her handiwork aside.

Stubborn Woman
  Pounds her fist, but stays wrapped up inside.

Scolding Woman
  Warns us of danger, cheaters and bums.

Scary Woman
  Shakes her unruly mane and scares my son.

Taunting Woman
  Says we're foolish if we can't see her side.

Water Woman
  Puts us to float in her ever shifting tide.

Tree Woman
  Spreads her arms and laughs with the sun.

Earth Woman
  Gives cookies and a landscape in which to run.

Paint Woman
  Hands us brushes and a subtle mix of colors.

Sky Woman
  Sends us about looking out for each other.

Wolf Woman
  Stares at us with small serious eyes.

Berry Woman
  Hides us in the bushes, all the time.

Wind Woman
  Dances and howls, then pushes closed her door.

Corn Woman
  Picks up seeds, that have fallen to the floor.

Healing Woman
  Stirs and mixes fresh herbal potions.

Deaf Woman
  Hears you, when she takes the notion.

Fire Woman
  On a cold night is a comforting friend.

Wild Woman
  Is letting her hair grow out long again.


Indra
by Sara

I remember… being where I loved to be.

I remember… running from the boys, barefoot through the woods.

I remember… swimming in shorts just like the boys and laughing when mom said I now had to wear a shirt.

I remember… being on the train, leaving.

I remember… when the screaming started.

I remember… wishing I didn't have to wake to the screaming or wake at all.

I remember… thinking that was my biggest problem.

I remember… being wrong.

I remember… that it started with chest pains.

I remember… the hospitals, the tests and the coughing up blood. I remember... when they told her she had six months to live.

I remember... the morning she didn't have to wake screaming, or at all.

I remember... the tears and losing 5, 10, and then 20 pounds.

I remember... always wearing my hair over my face, hiding.

I remember... being told  my hair was the only body weight I had left.

I remember... losing my sanity, thinking I heard her screaming my name all night long.

I remember... thinking suicide would be easy.

I remember... wishing it would have been me, that I couldn't live without her.

I remember... deciding that killing myself meant I let everyone who ever told me I wouldn't amount to much win. I would let him win.

I remember... deciding it was time to stop hiding.

I remember... cutting my hair.

I remember... being able to look at pictures of us and smile instead of crying.

I remember... going back for the summer and somehow when mom said I had to wear a shirt it didn't seem silly.

I remember... learning to trust people again.

I remember... realizing that not every one I loved would go away and leave me alone, at least not in six months, like my sister did.






Irish Beginnings
Molly Casey

I come down from the grassy knolls
jutting rocks shoved to the surface by English Royalty.
Where we’d a like’ta buried ‘em.
I come from the salty sea that brushes the shores,
like the wind in the heather.
I come from the fog
that lays in the laps of old men in tams.
Smoking their pipes,
lost eyed against their future.
I come from the thatch
that covers the warm brick ovens,
tended by heavy skirts,
guarded by watchful hungry children.
I come from the blue lakes
that sit in peace without the company of hate,
and one tree.
I come from the feet that throw shadows in the firelight,
naked and callused.
Seasoned by the mud of winter rains.
Caught in the rocks of
English tyranny.

  

 

Coyote Brother Answers

Molly Casey

 

Angry Mother calls.. . Coyote Brother answers.
Hushed laughter...
In dying apple trees.
Holding Secrets.
Sending voices.
Listen.
                                    Coyote Brother Answers.

 Dropping night...
Feeds hurt children.
Hidden...
In dying apple trees.
The moon...
Speaks...
                                    Coyote Brother answers.

 You can not see him.
Small...
In dying apple trees.
He watches you...
Search. .
Call him… .
                                                                                                                                                Coyote Brother answers.

    

 

Chehalis

Molly Casey

It’s a slower river.
Thick with suspended silt,
Hiding old boats and bodies.
Maybe my keys.
I’m not sure, I’m not sure,
I  don’t remember.

 
This river has an island.
A murkier solitude.
It has my grandmother, fishing. 
Maybe me too.
I’m not sure, I’m not sure,
I don’t remember


Mesmerized by the promise
of an easy gift.
Cool wind wipes the alcohol, from his lips.
Maybe mine too
I’m not sure, I’m not sure,
I don’t remember


Sweethearts in a small town
Resisting a weekend separation.
This slow sloppy river
won’t let go,
And a young boy swims forever

in the sturgeon sauce below.
This time I’m sure, I’m sure. 
I remember.


Dark river, my father’s river,
drunk and deep with Harbor rain,
slaps at the broken docks
and licks the feet of hopeful futures 
and roadside pasts.

Lives thrown about
along the muddy Chehalis.
Maybe mine.
I’m not sure, I don’t remember.

 

 

Neebe River, Summer of ‘78

Molly  Casey

I was a runaway.
From the poison
that licks at the lives lost in the city.
It was in my eyes and my brain
I barely heard my father calling me,
home.

 
I sat near the edge.
Budda in my Yurt
That overlooks a cow field
And a river that once transported my soul...
When I was brave enough to ride its current
and risk drowning.


Sometimes Mother Earth
Would let go of me
And my body would start to float towards the city. 
  So, I would dig my fingers into the dirt
and watch pensive
 for seeds to grow.


At night, sometimes
The land and the trees could not hold me.
Still,  I returned thin and prostrate to the river.
I was away too long to understand why
And so it went on
Without me.


I lost a paddle
Way up stream
And drifted back with a beaver stick
Until I found the place I was suppose to be
Naked and listening... 
To the river.


You were there
When I reached the shore,
Wondering about your own river,
Standing cautious like the bull elk.
Half in the shadows... invisible
And quiet.


The sliding sun
Moved your cover
And dried the river from my summer skin.
There was a whistle that only night could carry.
Calling across the river to the crushed moss.
Sh-sh-sh.


Time passed
As the river once did my Yurt.
Our children don’t know the river, like I do
I’m afraid we’ve been gone
Too long.


Tell the river.
I have not forgotten,
How the albino sun and the giant alders
Played checkers on its rippling belly.
 Or how the rubbed rocks and clay held it
At every turn.

 
Little Neebe,
Tell my daughter
What it feels like to lay quiet
And listen to her own river


And the soft steps of a lone bull elk.
Sh-sh-sh.

 

Mist of Ireland

Molly Casey


I am Mist of Ireland, rolling across faces of tired old women.

I am Salt of Ocean tearing soft feet of tiny children.
  

I am Shadow of Lake, bringing icy chill upon a silver fin.

I am Dark of Sky, sister to thunder, creator of din


I am Yeast of Bread, causing rise in softness of wheat.

I am Rhythm of Song working magic on your feet,


I am Blossom of Tree, anxious to bloom and bear again.

I am Shadow of Rock trying to hold everything in.

 

I am Teeth of Bite, chasing her comfort and dreams away.

I am Old of Woman asking honesty and value to stay.

 

I am Sword of Warrior, recalling the names I know.

I am History of Ireland, promising to, not let go.

 




Meeting of the Hearts

By Molly Casey

 

When a child dies...

Every mother’s heart lunges,
Then waits.


At night as mothers sleep
Hearts gather... 
In the deserts, 
The prairies, 
The mountains.
They skirt the lakes
Lit by a colostrum colored moon.
They pace the river’s edge.
They know others have been
there.


Mother’s hearts gather
In darkness and howl.
It starts with one.
Soon in a symbiotic response
They connect…

 
Feel their voices.

 

As the failing light
Begins to dilate coyote eyes,
It is the signal,
All must return
To sleeping mother’s bodies. 

All but one…

 
It remains in this sacred place
And waits.

This loner can not return
Until it is exhausted.
Not until it has emptied itself... 
In the deserts, 
The prairies, 
The mountains.
And not until every mother’s heart
Has come to this secret place
And connected.

 


When you’re caught at night
Far from the noise of a city.


Sit...
Knees to your chest
(or your heart will leave too).

And Listen...

To the ancient meeting of mother’s hearts

 

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