Silent Ferrywoman

Always the ferrywoman,

is silent, experienced,

masterful and adept,

in steering uncharted lands,

mooring, woman and man,

and at ease with it.

She is complete. 

For this reason she does

not need speech, because

she has knowing. 

Saying much with her waterlike

movements and calm.

I know the rhythms of nature,

the beat of the earth.

“What would you say if you

could speak to me?” I ask.

The answer is given in a thought,

transferred by the movement

of the water.

“Not a word. I would ask you to

think instead.  Do you wish to

be told everything?  The

mysteries are for you to

resolve.  That is the call of the

ancestors.”

Then I understood,

the silence was not of not

speaking, but of knowing.

(copyright Imogen Crest 2006.)

Ferry Woman Series

 

The dead have power at Duwamish Bay.
For Gwen
by Heather Blakey

Ancestors…by Gail

We see our eyes in your eyes.
We are becoming the ancestors,
Seeing the genes we pass on,
Coming out in the eyes’ sparkle,
A turn of phrase, the curve of a smile.

We play the ancestors’ game with you;
“Got that from me, got that from him,
Haven’t seen that for many a year,
Remember how she used to tilt her head,
How he used to say `I told you so!’
In just that way – memories carry in the blood.
With DNA, nothing is ever forgotten.

Perhaps this is how we are reborn,
Little pieces of us passing through time;
Maybe they will all come together again,
And I will remember how to be.

Perhaps. But I see all of us in your eyes,
All our quirky ways, our hopes, our dreams.
We are becoming the ancestors,
And you carry pieces of us into the future.

Inuit Ferry Woman

Her swift kayak
carries her passenger
to a far island
to white silence
where the elders meet
and know
their children
and their children’s children
will eat
and at the Great Gathering
all those who went before will be
remembered

Fran

papa goes to the Isle

Stark stones and cold shadows

mixed in sinister array,

tell nothing of a thousand footsteps,

and cobwebbed minds and dusty hopes –

or that I do not belong,

nor will be long here

except that you have asked

my friends.

Circle left and round again

flickering candles never shorter –

hungry hearth with woodless flame

that kindles fears and silent embers

of forgotten loves –

except that by faith alone

I am of remembering

and perch comfortable astride the bench

before the music stops –

and no one hovers near,

nor swirls threadbare cloak

of cowled mystery or dread –

save

a voice singing

in soul tuned delight –

asking nothing

but being and beginning

as giver and gifted

in Covenant…

and I leave in clamored silence

to be met by a Ferry Woman

whose cheek I touch in payment –

acknowledging dried tears

and dimples hid,

just because I can …

and that is all

to be learned on the Isle

by such as I –

a whisper …

“because you can – you must”

and I will sleep long tonight.

Ferry Woman– Lori Gloyd

This is the Ferry Woman who took me across Duwamish Bay to the Isle of the Ancestors. She would not tell me her story try as I might to get her to speak. But her eyes say it all.

Photomontage: Lori Gloyd (c) July 20, 2006

Awakening the Ferry Woman

by

GwenGuin 

 

Quietly, gently go,

Let her rise slowly.

I can see

The weariness.

The love

And the wisdom.

I would fain let her sleep,

But my Journey calls

And I must answer.

 

Lower your eyes

Avoid the knowing glance.

Yet her face haunts

Memory and vision.

Seems that she is aware

Of the dichotomy,

So she smiles slowly

And reaches out her hand.

I accept the Ferrywoman’s clasp.

 

Her touch is warm,

Strong,

Loving, and

So completely tender.

At last to raise your eyes

And meet hers with a shock.

There is such beauty in her heart!

She is every mother,

Every woman’s best self.

 

Her gaze will mesmerise you

Forever and a day.

The corners of your smile

Will overflow with tears.

You will want to bathe

In the Light of Her Heart.

Her Touch will ignite you,

Blazing like a maple

With your own Best.

 

Humbled and exalted,

Honoured,

And so ashamed at once.

She can see all of you

Everything you have kept secret.

Yet still, She loves

Everything about you.

What kind of woman

Loves like that?

 

The woman who has

Travelled 

The Way of The Crucible,

She will know Truth.

She will live her life in Truth

Honour all with Her Honesty.

Such quiet courage on

Her smiling Face.

Lighting The Way for those seek.

 

Yes, You are a Seeker,

The Hermit

Of the Book of Thoth.

To Seek your Spirit

Is not a rejection of Life.

It is a choice of the Heart

Knowing that it is time

To follow the hidden Path

And return Home.

 

Home to The Island

The belly of your Self.

Here we contemplate,

Study,

And learn much.

With never a book

Nor class or Professor.

Self is all you need.

All you want.

 

When I look deep

Into the Face

Of the Ferrywoman.

I see myself

And all other women

Who have sought Her Gaze.

We are Glorious

In our wisdom

And in our courage.

The Winter of Dad’s Discontent — Believer

Dismember or murder that part of me that would kill my creativity. What a horrible prompt. I’m far too soft hearted to even consider it. But yet.

My Dad was the sweetest man I knew, even tempered, always willing to offer help and encouragement. When I was young we had a houseful of cats that my mom had taken in. Dad was a dog-man, but bore it with his usual good nature and wound up with the nasty jobs of doctoring them and taking them to the vets with me as sidekick/helper.

One January our whole crew came down in varying degrees with something called rhino-traechitis, a feline upper respiratory disease with the added benefit of blisters in the mouth. Think sneezy, bleary eyed, breathing through your mouth kitty flu —-

With two carriers and every cat needing to go to the vet’s office for a shot and then be medicated at home three times a day, Dad and I were shuttling back and forth for two straight days. The first day was bitterly cold, the second colder yet, with just enough snow and sleet to make the road slick and the windshield iced. Nearly tapped out we tucked the last two cats into the carriers and headed out to the car. We could barely see as we drove along the deserted main street.

We were silent most of the way, cold, disgusted, and truly sorry for our suffering friends.” I hate winter,” Dad said. I grunted in reply. He had told me about trying to sleep in fox holes in France during WWII. The enemy shot at him, bombs fell around him, the noise was deafening, then everything would stop for a while and, numb from the cold, he would begin to doze. Suddenly the night sky would blaze up as planes screamed overhead and rained shrapnel down on him as he cringed in his muddy hole.

“I hate winter,” he repeated. “If it was a thing, I’d kick it till it begged for mercy.”

I chuckled. “Beat the stuffing’ out of it, huh?”

“Stomp on it until it’s eyes popped. Pour gasoline on it and set it on fire.”

“Slide bamboo shoots under its nails.” Me again.

We went on this way for the whole ride, each time adding on further punishment and gore.

So I’m thinking–maybe scissors. Sharp ones. You know, take those evil little thoughts that keep me from writing and claim I have no talent, no perseverance, no chance in hell of saying anything worthwhile, put them down on paper and slice those babies up.

Hehehe–everybody knows I have my dad’s disposition.