I worked for the Visiting Nurse Association as a Home Health Aide in Santa Cruz California back in 1991. I enjoyed helping the elderly, sick and crippled. I comforted them and attended to their simple needs of washing, food and medicine. I loved their stories they shared. Most of my patients were in their 90s and their lifetimes were filled with a richness that I yearned for. They shared their stores with me.
I will share a story of Mary. She was alone in her parents’ home. A beautiful Victorian home near the shores of Santa Cruz. Only one room was used for Mary. All the other rooms, which were many, were closed off. The stairs that went to her room were something out of the novel Gone with The Wind. And to the right of these majestic stairs was a giant Ballroom with a crystal chandelier. Mary told me her stories. In the room where she lived was a single bed and a small bath room with bath. On the wall was a painting of a lovely sailing ship. The painting was of her father’s and it was a family ship. She told me that she came from a sea family. It was a merchant family business.
As the times changed her family and Mary took to living on the land. She was born and raised on a ship. She knew the ocean well. Standing on ground was difficult for her as a young lady. Eventually she married. Santa Cruz was a cowboy town at the time. She told me one night when her husband made his usual advantages towards her. She declined and fell asleep. He went off to the bars and sleep with a prostitute. He gave Mary gonorrhea and after that she could have no children. It took some time but she forgave him.
This is a poem about Mary and our walk to her special place. She told me that the wild animals that lived there sometimes would pop up in her toilet. Small rats, squirrels and lizards would sometimes appear. It did not look all that bad to me. Yet, I can only imagine how it once was.
Mary, We Call You Near
We walked our way To the stream
Down a short Wood’d green.
Marking our way
Me with my little red hat
Mary with her special cane
To a faerie glen
Perchance we glance To see one of ‘em-
Of course, Mary Would be reciting A lit’bit of Kipling’s.
Arriving then I sat upon The concrete tunnel there-
Mary stood proudly Above my stare
A lassie quite young
That only time Be’a steal’n years from.
A stream did run here Once very free
Now the community has grown
A lot of concrete Be surrounding The stream’s old home
Controlling the flow
Which was once surely More freely flow’n-
Now the stream runs Past wood’d green
And homes to the ocean shore.
Mary and I listen’d To the green trickling
Of the eternal water go
I looked up to see Mary’s face a shine’n
Like the sun
Full of wisdom and love
Lots of hopeful youth too.
After the Woolsey Fire Dec. 17, 2018
A restoring appeal bound for
the Santa Monica Mountains
The highway moves by way of serpentine.
Black mountains and summative clarity of once
Overgrown trees and sage,
Wild Promethean fennel and yucca plants.
The black burned earth hills
Holy sprinkles of rain upon the concealed seeds.
Poems by Hudley Flipside: An Underground Bard
16 poems written from 2018 – 2017
In celebration of Autumn 2018
Would you could you
travel miles and miles
for delicious deep-fried
I wanna go to Castervile CA
and eat some deep-fried
with spicy mayonnaise.
Near the lovely coastal region
close to Moss Landing,
a fucking pint at The Whole Enchilada
with a shot of hot vodka
with my anniversary man.
Take a walk on the beach
Smell the garlic in the air
mixed with the salty smell of tide pools
under the earthy breaths of
golden-green eucalyptus trees.
Lovely multicolored Monarch butterfly
sweet bites of yellow-white
lemon margarine pie
Pacific Grove embraces
breathless roller coaster rides.
Not reaching out
But reaching within.
Agathos daimon holds my heart
Humidity holds me back.
“Coninuctio” “in mercurio”
Which do not ripen.
Outside my oasis
Seeds dry in the heat.
Inside the cave
I listen to Mercurius speak.
“The desires of the mind
Will take you nowhere.”
Receptive, illumination and synchronicity, I’m a wise old blooming flower, waiting to be pollinated, I’m receptive to what I shall become, Let life approach me, I do not have to go seeking, I have all I need to succeed, I’m a beautiful rose,
wise, good and ready.
I can be trusted, I follow things through, I speak my mind, Let the spirit of god / goddess, move over my deep dark waters.
Receptive as an open flower. Now, waiting for life to impregnate me.
“The Rose makes honey,” the rose gives honey in return.
Posted in Holly Duval Cornell's Poems & Prose
Tagged Art, beauty, Depth Psychology, Esoteric, Goddess and Home, poems, poetry, postaday, spirituality, Synchronicity, Women, Writing
The wild fennel is growing in my garden,
From the Santa Monica Mountains,
Only a few seeds thrown around my land,
From the staff-sheath that I have,
Near my hearth.
My wild Promethean fennel,
Smells of licorice and earth,
Feels like numinous beats,
Waves from the coastal region,
Myths revealing through my soul.
Prometheus freed by Chiron,
Fire consumes my heart,
Compassionate green healing,
Of my mind and dreams,
Love will grow tall and strong
My wild Promethean fennel.
Thalia (; Ancient Greek: Θάλεια, Θαλία;
"the joyous, the flourishing"
Breaking through the membrane
Of turning 60
Letting go of
Youth, maidenhood and giving birth
Entering the world
Of crones and seniors with purple-grey hair.
Wise witches who stand
By old dark shedding trees
they sweep the cobwebs away
My repellent membrane.
Holding me back
Calls of youth, music, and romance
Death must be a friend
Calm and gentle friends
It’s my heart I worry about!
Will my tenacity be strong enough
To make It through the membrane
Will I be whisked up
By my elder ancestors?
My hands that look like grandmother’s
My need for love, friendship and companionship
Will I take my magic with me
The golden thread that brings meaning to old age?
Mystery, adventure, humor and longing
Will these qualities still inspire me
As my muses tease
Will my muses be waiting for me
On the other side as I wrestle
With this dark and flourishing membrane?