The Legend of Chasca

  

   There is an ancient Incan legend
    Some contend it must be true;
    I will try to tell the story
    And leave opinion up to you.

Across the ocean, the deep wide ocean,
On the nose of the big black dog,
Gentle mother and bravehearted father
Had slipped into the fog...

And left him alone, their only child,
Huallpa, Sun of Joy,
Alone on the banks of an ancient creek
Save just one companion to care for the lonely boy.

Chasca, the patient llama,
He'd known her all his days,
And so they wondered on together
On smooth and rocky ways.

By day they searched for berries,
And long green grasses sweet.
They found a drink in divers pools
Once they had their fill to eat.

At night they'd curl together
Beneath the starry sky,
And Huallpa would sometimes bury his face
And silently, silently, cry.

For he was very young, you see,
And missed his parents so,
And Chasca would turn and nuzzle him
With a hum so soft and low.

And then, alas! One morning he woke
And found to his dismay,
That Chasca had entered the black dog's ear
And quietly slipped away.

For three whole days Huallpa sat
Beside the valley stream,
Too sad to even search for food,
Too sad to hope or dream.

And so at last the third night came,
The stars were twinkling clear,
Huallpa spread his arms and cried
His grief for all to hear:

"My mother, my father, my llama friend!
Have you left me here to die?
Surely all is lost and gone,
For a miserable one as I!

Shall I perish slowly
Without one friend to aid?
Is there no love in this cold world
Though to the gods I've prayed?"

And then! A miracle!
The first star of the evening dim
Came closer, closer still
Until it settled quietly, just hov'ring over him.

And then he saw with wonder
No longer a star there!
Instead t'was Chasca smiling,
Watching o'er him from the air.

"Chasca!" he cried; she answered not,
But shook her coat instead,
And suddenly it cascaded down
On Huallpa's unsuspecting head.

"Chasca!" he cried again,
But she was already gone,
Leaving him what gift she could
And hope he could go on.

And so he gathered up the mass,
And selling it for a price,
Was able to provide a hut
And buy a bit of rice.

Many since have pondered
Is this story told aright?
Take heed, for Chasca's name 
Means "Goddess of dawn and night."
    
    There is an ancient Incan legend,
    Some contend it to be true;
    I have tried to tell the story.
    Now opinion's up to you.

P.S. The Incan people believed strongly in a heaven and hell. They thought people entered the afterlife by riding on the nose or in the ear of a black dog.

The Traveler

I heard the calling crowd
That said to leave my earthly goods,
Sell my plot of land,
And travel ‘round the world.
So I did.
 
I scaled majestic mountains,
Viewed waterfalls and villas,
Gazed upon the ocean’s dazzling foam,
Dipped feet in dusty Delhi streets,
Set taste buds tingling in Tacotalpa,
Heard the Okavango
Cry for rain.
 
And I was full.
Full and overflowing
With the sights and sounds and smells
Of a thousand different places
Flung across this azure globe.
 
But it was as I sought for sleep
On some blue Bahama beach
That I heard my soul
Keep whispering to me—
Vainly whispering to my heart
That, though traveling is a lark,
There is something to be said

 For having

A place one can return to

That's called home.

Zimbabwe

 

When dark clouds loom on the horizon
And my skin drinks in the first few drops
Of what I am sure will become a deluge,
It is then that I remember:
Zimbabwe.
 
The way the sun beats down upon one’s back,
The little rivulets of sweat between the shoulder blades.
The lazy drone of bees from the house next door,
How even the dogs sought shade,
Tongues lolling,
Waiting for relief.
The many people passing by the grass-covered fence
Nearly ceased their chatter
As the heat bore down,
Oppressive,
Making even the hardy bougainvillea
Falter and turn brown beneath its wrath…
That’s when it would come,
The rain.
 
With the sight of that white sheet
Sweeping down across the hills
There came a choice:
Find shelter or become one with the rain.
The first drops always brought the smell
Of life.
 
The children just outside the gate hurried on—
No time to stop and call today.
Their high-pitched voices trailed off into the distance.
And then it came.
 
Suddenly, with a quickness to take one’s breath away—
Neither harsh nor gentle,
But stern; no mistaking it had come.
For a few moments the carefully laid path
Would become a surging streamlet,
With only a few brave stones to serve as steps
Across the yard.

The falling rain was background music
Stilling dust that rose from ribboned roads.
 
So that is why, when I see dark clouds gather
And hear the rush of coming rain,
There is a smile on my lips, and I whisper in my heart,
“Zimbabwe.”

Remote Teaching

 
“Try it,” they said.
And so I did.
I plugged in my laptop,
Charged my phone,
Downloaded apps,
And taught my classes to an empty room.
 
But I knew the truth.
Sarah would need help on part C.
Elaina’s long division would snake down the page in an un-manageable blur
            Because she would not use graph paper.
Jeffery doesn’t understand complements, and neither does his mother.
Patrick will miss most of every subject, listening instead
             To the call of woods in his backyard.
“Try it,” they said.
And so we did—
The moms and I.
But both of us knew the truth.
They weren’t sure what a compound verb was.
A misplaced comma—was that one wrong, or two?
Was casting out nines really a thing?
How important is it to use a formula?
What do you count off for fractions un-reduced?
 
“Try it,” they said.
And so we did.
But no one guessed the hardest part—
The secret ever teacher carried in her heart.
It wasn’t teaching over WhatsApp that made her sigh—
Although that may account for early baldness.
It wasn’t trying to calm a dozen panicked mothers,
Hyper-conscientious with their checking.
No, it was something more.
 
“Try it,” they said.
And so I did.
But I forgot to count the cost:
Going days without seeing the faces of those I love.
Hearing their voices only through a phone.
Not glimpsing those shy good-morning smiles.
Never seeing their eyes light up when they catch on.
Missing the slightly parted lips as they listen, absorbed, to story hour.
No shouts of jubilation at recess,
No fingers twirling hair in concentration.
 
“Try it,” they said.
And so I did,
But no one guessed
The part that hurt the worst
Was simply
Missing them.

Boredom Versus Enthusiasm

 

There are dishes in the sink
And the floors are dirty, too.
There’s a thousand little things
That I should do.
 
There’s a garden to be weeded
And a mound of bills to pay,
There’s laundry to be folded,
To be ironed, put away!
 
There’s a cluttered storage closet,
There is mending to be done,
There are windows that need washing,
And I have a mile to run.
 
And yet I find myself relaxing here
In a state of strange dismay—
For I am bored, just simply bored,
With the chores I’ve planned today.
 
Yet in honest I have never
Had my brain cells sparked a bit
By dusting off a windowsill
Or scrubbing things on it.
 
My mind’s a-ache for color,
For a spark of happy fun,
Where imaginations tumble
And enthusiasms run.
 
Where a dainty, drooping flower
Speaks poetry to my heart,
And a stash of colored fabric scraps
Invites a quilt to start.
 
Yet I still procrastinate
And watch the world go  by—
Enthused with creativity,
And bored with dusting’s cry!

The In-Law

 

I’m not sure how it happened,
                But you slipped in one day,
Became part of our family
                And stole our hearts away.
 
You were fully grown,
                With a mind of all your own—
You had your way of doing things,
                Your memories of home.
 
But soon we found that through a lense
                Quite different did you view
The world about us and the things
                We all thought we knew.
 
You had your family’s recipes
                For meatballs and for pie,
You had different jokes you knew,
                And things that made you cry.
 
The games you played were new to us,
                Your songs we’d never sung.
Your traditions, too, were different,
                And the things you did for fun.
 
Through you we’ve learned to open wide
                Both the heart and mind,
And every day we share with you
                More blessing true we find.
 
So this is just to tell you
                How much richer we have found
Our family has grown
                Ever since you’ve been around.

Home in the South

 

Oh, give me a home
Where the white-tails roam,
With an ocean breeze balmy and light,
Where a pine-tree topped hill
Gives my heart a thrill
And the fireflies twinkle so bright.
 
Oh, give me a place
Where by the Lord’s grace
The shelves all with canning are lined,
Where a dog always lies
And the mockingbird flies,
And the gardens are liberally vined.
 
Oh, give me a door
Always open to more—
Where friends and family abound,
Where chickens are found
Always scratching the ground,
And love means we never are poor.
 
Oh, give me a bed
Where to lay my head,
And the pillow always fits right,
After day’s work is done,
And low sinks the sun,
Wrapping all in a blanked of night.
 
Home, Home in the South—
Open hearts, homecooked food, bounteous fall!
Where walk hand in hand
Respect for others and land,
And hospitality’s offered to all!
 

Thumper

 

He comes,
A flash of red on whirring wing
One winter morning gray,
And thumps upon the window pane
His greeting for the day.
 
Then off!
Again he soars on vibrant wing
Into the winter air,
Darting here and fluttering there,
It seems with little care.
 
He stops.
Is it to rest a while?
Or feast on mealy seeds?
He scatters shells upon the ground
In pleasure as he feeds.
 
He’s back—
His black cap jaunty,
A bright spot in the sky.
He thumps against the window pane,
His version of a hi!

Spring Skies

 
It’s only just a feeling—
A lightness in the air—
As sun comes up a-stealing
From his nighttime lair.
 
Then softly o’er the meadows,
Softly o’er the trees,
Rays of springtime sunshine
Spread over white-capped seas. 

And then! In splendor bursting forth,
Freed from winter cloak,
Sun kisses every dewy bush,
Each newly leafing oak.
 
It mingles in the rippling brook,
It dances through the town
And changes from its morning blush
To winsome sky-blue gown.
 
Finally, trimmed in lacy clouds,
It dashes, laughing, by.
The weary world is gladdened
By breeze from springtime sky.
 
On then, in haste it scurries,
‘round edges turning gray,
While sky dons a lovely velvet frock,
Sun softly slips away.