My View on Love

The definition of being “in love” is liking someone so much that you want to know everything about them and you want them to know you like no one ever has. So strong is this desire that you bare your most vulnerable parts to them and trust you’ll be safe. “True love” is when both parties do this and neither abuses the power they’ve been given. "Soul mates" have all of the above, plus their union is so strong that it lasts forever. That's the way I see it anyway. And I don't see it as a failure if you never find the last two as long as you've experienced the first one at some point in your life. That's not to say that true love can be merely stumbled upon or magically appear. Some of what love requires is nature, but much of it is nurture.

Can't live with 'em...

...pass the potatoes.

I have a love/hate relationship with people. There are times when I see divine beauty inside others and their company enhances my life; other times I see ugliness and can't tolerate their presence. Psychologists might say that's a reflection of the way I see myself... or my parents. Perhaps, but I gave up the psychoanalysis crap a long time ago. In the end I found it utterly futile and pointless, raising more questions than answers. All I know is that I am happiest and most myself when I'm alone, and especially so when I'm with animals of the non-human variety or out in the wilderness. Nature is a never-ending source of beauty, comfort, and steadfast friendship for me. In that world I know what to expect because the rules are simple, well-defined, and unchanging. There's no confusion or emotional hurt, only peace and renewal of the spirit. Yet, I can't give up people entirely. I need them in my life too, more than I care to.

"There are moments when all anxiety and stated toil are becalmed in the infinite leisure and repose of nature." - Henry David Thoreau

"On the whole I find the recordings of people more enjoyable than the actual company of people. My best friends are books, DVDs, and mp3s." - Me

The Poetry Phenomenon

Have you ever spent some time writing a little poem and when you're finally finished you go to bed convinced you've created a masterpiece? When you awake the next morning you can't wait to read it again, so you rush to the computer like a child on Christmas morning, only to discover the poem is total crap. Has this ever happened to you? Hmmm, me too.

Have you ever struggled to write and re-write a poem over a period of days or weeks until finally you feel the poem has become what it should be? Then when you go back and read it the next day the poem feels so familiar that it makes you doubt its originality. You can't figure out if that familiar feeling is due to the amount of time you spent with those words or if you unknowingly copied another writer. You suppose it's possible that your subconscious conjured up words you'd heard before, someone else's words. Or it may just be familiar because the seeds of that poem lay dormant in you for years until finally you brought them to fruition. I choose to believe the latter, how about you? Has this ever happened to you?

Seasons

it began one sunny afternoon
with a wish and a promise
a simple joy
like running barefoot o’er grassy hills
you grabbed my wrists
and we spun and spun
until everything was out of focus
but you
gradually, like ebb and flow
came the push and pull
promises broke under the strain
the sun began to fade
and the parts of me caught up in you
like roots tangled deep in the earth
began to wither
then one day I grabbed your wrists
and began to spin
but you felt cold and pulled away
with a tear running down your cheek
if that's what you want
then go to the one
who's waiting o’er those grassy hills
and let me be
you may have moved on
as naturally as the seasons change
but it isn't that simple for me ~

Copyright ©2010 Angela Friberg

The Schizo Poem

This simple poem had several incarnations within a single day. So many that I didn't even save all the drafts. In the end I like the original version best, with a few minor revisions. It may be silly to explain the gist of the poem in the last line. It may seem as if I'm insulting the intelligence of the reader, but I'm not trying to, that's just my style of writing. It's a natural pattern and flow that has existed in my poems for many years. (For another nifty example see Prescribed Burn). Well, no sense in changing the formula this late in the game. Silly or not, here goes...

You, sharp and jagged
like rocky cliffs perilously perched above the sea.
A lone rugged lighthouse,
seen but out of reach.
You winked at me.
And I know you feel my energy
like waves crashing over rocks,

unmoved but smoothed with time.
My love is wearing you down,
admit it. ~

Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

When I decided to change it completely, this is one of the little gems I came up with:

sharp and jagged rocky cliffs
perilously perched above the sea
a lone rugged lighthouse
seen but out of reach
delicately carved seashells
swirling in the foamy tide
waves crashing over rock
unmoved but smoothed with time ~

What?? and Blah. zzzzzzzz. It managed to suck even worse than the first poem. The moral of the story kids: it's okay to reach for improvement and greatness, but don't lose yourself in the process or try to be something you're not. Lesson learned.

"Bad" Poetry

After reading several "bad" poetry sites that attempt to humorously lambaste the writing efforts of poor, unsuspecting amateur poets from around the world wide web, I'm more convinced than ever that my writing would be torn to shreds by most critics. But as I was reading (keeping an eye out for my own name!) and even chuckling along at times, I couldn't help but feel these "critics" were missing the bigger picture. Have these snobby academic scholars been standing up on their platforms and behind their podiums, laughing at their own jokes for too long? They seem to have completely missed the fact that very few of these writers sat down in front of a keyboard with aspirations of becoming the next Browning or Frost. If these were published authors looking to be taken seriously, I could forgive some of their harshness. But for the most part these are regular people, like you or me, who simply put their thoughts and feelings into words and hit "send" putting them out into the world. A brave thing to do, in my opinion. For most of them, and myself, writing is an outlet and an enjoyable hobby, nothing more. And sometimes, even if an author didn't spend years and hundreds of thousands of dollars learning what a poem should and shouldn't be, their writing can still evoke feeling and affect others in a positive way. Yes, it's true! One of the biggest rewards I get from writing is to hear that my writing has inspired, moved, or helped someone else in some way. I'll take that over a positive review from an "expert" critic any day!

Furthermore, these long-winded "professors", clearly in love with the sound of their own voices, went beyond dissecting and flambeing the poems to ridiculing the authors themselves, while chortling loudly with great satisfaction. Isn't this a simple case of tearing someone down in order to build oneself up? Isn't this something bullies do on the playground in 2nd grade out of their own insecurities? Well, if making fun of others makes these "adults" feel better about themselves, then I truly feel sorry for them. As an aside, I realize I'm using a lot of quotation marks in this post, but that's nothing compared to the mental air quotes this topic conjures for me. So this is me holding back on the quotation marks, k?

Hey, I'm no saint! Oh, no. I've been known to pee my pants laughing at American Idol audition footage. But in my defense, I didn't ridicule them publicly and I always applauded their courage. So here's my response to the "experts" who feel the need to flame, for what it's worth. It's not an original idea, but one that bears repeating because it's oh-so-true:

Dance, even if you're no Astaire!
Sing, even if you're no Pavarotti!
Act, even if you're no Streep!
Write, even if you're no Shakespeare!
Paint, even if you're no Monet!
Use the voice God gave you, and do so as if no one is listening.

"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling" - Oscar Wilde

Oh, Oscar was there ever silence in your house? You just have to chime in on everything!

Do You?

Do you know me?

Do you feel me?

Do you need me?

Like flowers need the sun,

bending and curving to reach its light?

Do you love me?

Do you love me?

Do you love me?

Will you love me forever?

Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

Poetry Diary

I came across these tonight. I wrote them between 2000-2003. I was not in a very good place when I wrote the first one. Reading the next two you can see the progression to a little healthier place. That's one thing I love about writing poetry, it documents where I am mentally and emotionally at any given time, sometimes even better than a diary ever could.

And Now...

Now, the look upon his face is like sunshine,
it warms my sheltered heart.
Now, his soft kisses are like whispers,
they reach the very core of my emotion.
Now, his loving words are like gifts,
they stay locked in my soul to be treasured.
Now he finally sees me, Now he finally appreciates me,
Now he finally wants me, the way I've always wanted him.
And now I am torn
between his cruelty and his tender smile ~


Just a Moment

for a brief but beautiful moment
I closed my eyes
distantly I felt the swirl of chaos around me
the melee of my own tumbling thoughts and emotions
but I was magically untouched by any of it
deliciously detached and free in that moment
overcome by an inner calm
all residue of worry evaporated
and I remembered,
life is really good ~


Solitude

outside alone, silent snow
drifts through the still night air
landing softly all around,
I hear only the sound of my breathing
and I feel alive

there's a full moon tonight,
snow flakes sparkle
like a galaxy of twinkling stars,
the white earth glows with
a fresh blanket of heaven's kisses

Sometimes it's when I'm most alone,
that I'm certain I am not ~

Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

He Lived Loudly

He lived loudly,
and with great pride!
He injected energy into everyone around him
with fervent smiles and handshakes, funny stories,
and a unique exuberance for life.
People for miles in every direction knew his name.

He lived softly,
when it came to children,
wiping tears and holding hands.
And not just his own children --
from miles around they flocked
to his warm and generous spirit,
full of humor, tinged with mischief.

He lived hard,
stretching his body to the very limits,
until finally it began to fail him.
But everything kept whirring by
as he was in the decrescendo of his life.
And when he rarely left the house,
the world began to forget.

And then, when there was nothing more to say...
He quietly left.

And life roared on
and the world forgot,
but we did not.

We did not. ~

In loving memory...

Raymond "Shorty" Simons
5/3/24 - 10/8/05

Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

My Love for Josh Groban... and Cake

I've loved Josh Groban for years now. And believe it or not, (and no disrespect to the "Grobanites" out there) it has little to do with his dreamy brown eyes, curly locks, and charming, charismatic personality.

Those things are great, sure, but just sugary icing on an already perfectly sweet cake. (And of little consequence since I'm never going to meet the guy.)

The Sweet Cake...

What I am able to fully appreciate about Mr. Groban is:
- his musical genius (yes, I said genius)
- what he stands for
- who he is as an artist
- his global vision and compassion
- the risks he takes
- the songs he writes
- the music he makes
- the causes he supports
and so on and so on...

But most important of all, I'm profoundly in love with his singing voice. If his big heart is the pinnacle of his beauty as a human being, then his big voice is its instrument. There are very few people who can bring me the kind of chills one gets when they know they are hearing the voice of God. The music of Mozart has this effect on me. Andrea Bocelli’s voice sometimes brings me tears as well as goose bumps. There are a few others too, but at the top of this list is Josh Groban, who's so humble that he'd be sure to disagree.

A la mode...

Whether he realizes it or not, his gorgeous music is such an important contribution to this world. It’s inspiring. It’s a reminder of things that are lovely in life, and that reminder alone can give hope and comfort during depressing times. Not to mention how he uses it to directly help others with his foundation, getting involved with just about every charity and relief effort out there. All the while, enriching lives by sharing his amazing gift. I hope he continues to do so for years and years to come.

...Oh, and did I mention he appeared on the dear-to-my-heart TV show Glee twice? That's a double-scoop bonus!

Okay, I'll stop gushing now. Why am I suddenly hungry for cake and ice cream? Strange. Anyway, here are a few of Groban's many delicious recordings. Enjoy!

The Gateway to Angelou

I was introduced to the writing of the great American author and poet, Maya Angelou, the same way I suspect most people are - high school English class. The autobiographical "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" wasn't an instant favorite of mine, but it intrigued me a little. While the rest of the seemingly bored and aloof class moved on to Shakespeare's Macbeth, Angelou's words were still tumbling around in my head. I think I needed time to digest them and read them again before the full gravity of their meaning struck me. Then my interest and curiosity overfloweth.

So, I went to the library after school and checked out everything they had in her name. One book did become an instant favorite, it was a complete collection of her poems in hardcover. I read it that night, returned it the next day, and bought my own copy. Sadly, my Macbeth essay only received a C+ or so (low for this enthusiastic fan of English). And I loved Macbeth, I really did. I even memorized my lines when we had to recite a scene in small groups in front of the class, something no one else bothered to do. But I put in sloppy effort on the essay because I was up that night reading Angelou's poems. I should have at least received extra credit or something, right? ha!

The book of poems had an image of a colorful patchwork quilt on the dust jacket. It also had its very own space on my crowded nightstand. Over time it took a beating from my clumsiness though; if it were possible for liquid to have a magnetic mate, it would be that book. But like my favorite pair of jeans it was just lovingly worn-in, a familiar comfort I was attached to.

Some time later, when I was perhaps 19 years old, I read in the Star Tribune that Ms. Angelou was going to do a book signing at a book store in Minneapolis. Oh, Joy! I practically leaped out of my seat. She was like a hero and role model to me, getting me through my difficult teenage years. And having been born the same year as my grandma, another important female role model in my life, she was like a second grandmother to me. So, the opportunity to actually meet her and get her autograph on that book sent me over the moon! Almost as much as NKOTB did in junior high. Almost. (I'm not afraid to admit, I pierced eardrums over Jordan.) I daydreamed possible scenarios of the intelligent conversation Ms. Angelou and I would surely have. I gazed at the blank inside cover of "the book", as it shall be hereforth known as, and envisioned some nice words of encouragement along with her signature in her pretty handwriting. How cool would that be?!! The adult me is still a little giddy at the thought.

The next week dragged by and when Saturday finally came I sprang out of bed at the crack of dawn. While my friends were sleeping in or hungover (or both) I drove myself and "the book" downtown in my '76 Chevy Malibu, incidentally manufactured the same year I was born. Now, I'm a country girl and I generally refuse to drive downtown because I hate doing it and I'm bad at it, so this was true devotion here, folks. I got lost of course, and this set me back a good 45 minutes. But eventually I found the store and a parking spot. By the time I was done with a sad attempt at parallel parking, fiddling with the parking meter that was a foreign object to me, and hoofing it 5 blocks, the line of autograph-seekers had wound around the corner and down the street. Great.

But I didn't come this far to give up now, hell no. Even my line neighbor's rancid morning breath couldn't dissuade me. I stood there for what seemed like hours and hours as the line inched forward at an agonizing pace. During this time we were briefed on the rules, what we could and couldn't do and say to Ms. Angelou, etc. - but all I recall hearing was "A new purchase is required to receive an autograph." My heart sunk as I looked down at the stained and tattered book in my hands that would never pass for new. I dug through my purse for every little coin I could find, but McDonald's didn't pay much and after feeding my gas-guzzler and the parking meter from Hades, I had a whopping $5 left. Here my memory gets a little fuzzy... my next clear memory was the announcement that she was nearing the end of the signing, but if she didn't get to us we could still go inside and make purchases, of course. Of course! Because I always wait in line 2 1/2 hours to buy a wall calendar! What a racket. I began to doubt if she was even in there. It was another blow, but I decided I wasn't giving up; I clung to the narrowest of hopes.

Then, all of a sudden I was there. I was the very first person in the outdoor line! The building entrance was a mere 3 feet away and things were looking up. Then came what seemed the final blow, they announced they were ending the autograph line. No one standing outside the store would get an autograph today because she was tired and had somewhere to be. I was the cut-off person! Of course. The pimple-faced guardian of the "Gateway to Angelou" must have noticed the disappointment on my face because he said that I could still give it a try. So I went in and bought a small copy of her inaugural poem and got in the autograph line anyway. I got a few glimpses of her but she left before I could get the autograph. *weep*

Wasted:
$3 for gas money (this was the 90's)
$2 to feed a parking meter I didn't know was free on the weekends
$5 for a copy of a poem I already owned
4 hours of my life (on a Saturday, no less)

Crushed:
My dream of meeting the living legend and poetic heroine whose writing I leaned on and courage I admired.

Even though it wasn't personal at all and she wasn't even aware of my existence, it felt personal to the emotionally fragile teenager I was. My feelings were hurt and I was angry. "The book" was chucked into the nightstand drawer. And even though I knew it wasn't really anyone's fault, my feelings about the incident and her were a little on the bitter side for years.

I've since forgiven Maya Angelou. But never have I stood in another line for a book signing. In fact, I hate all long lines and avoid them at all costs. The pay-off is rarely worth the wait anyway. I'll still drive downtown if the occasion is special enough, for instance Twins games. I'm still really bad at it and get lost while looking for parking ramps because I'm afraid to parallel park. Today "The book" and printing of the inaugural poem are somewhere in Seattle, hopefully comforting and inspiring someone else. I left them behind when I moved back to Minnesota last year. I didn't have enough room in my little Ford Focus so my books were sacrificed. Even my complete Anne Rice collection in hard cover *sob*. Thank goodness for libraries. I don't need to own books anymore, it seems I never have the space to store them anyway. But there's one book I do wish I would have hung onto, can you guess which one?

Ms. Angelou, if you're reading this, you are the very essence and embodiment of feminine strength, wisdom, and grace. You are phenomenal and I treasure the gifts you've given me. I still carry with me the messages and lessons, if not the books themselves. In my imagination "Letter to My Daughter" was written just for me. I am your daughter, but one of millions. And your life has touched and affected ours in ways you will never comprehend. So, thank you and God Bless. (And I still want that autograph!)

No doubt she's a regular reader of this blog, lol. Okay, long story over. Here's my hands-down favorite of her poems. Besides the obvious awesomeness of the message, I love the rhythm. I swear that woman has a natural symbiosis with words and rhythm.

Phenomenal Woman
by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

A Poet is Born!

*chuckle* Ummm, yeah. Anyway, these are a few of my earliest poems, written between grades 8-12. I was studying the classic poets in English class and reading Stephen King and Anne Rice in my free time. Their influences show. I'm actually shocked at how half-way decent and seemingly mature some of these are. Some were even a little too mature to share on here, if you know what I mean. Ahhh, high school. Unfortunately, my writing really hasn't advanced much since then because I've been focused on other things.

Beauty

beauty’s glimmer in the eye
beauty in the cloudless sky
beauty in a fragile rose
in wild earth gently beauty grows

now everywhere I go, I look to catch a glance
of fleeting beauty’s timeless grace and mesmerizing dance
I thought I heard it in a song once
but that was long ago,
and now and then it calls my name
in hollow winds that blow

finally I go to seek
beauty on the mountain’s peak
and there I see through dark below,
in tiny houses, beauty’s glow ~


Spring's Joy!

I traveled the woods and field on the loveliest of days;
white blossoms and bird songs lead me on my way.
Brother blue jay, sister skylark, you have nothing over me;
for at the end of this long journey, my love’s sweet face I’ll see! ~


Winter

bare trees, thick snow
power lines against the pale gray sky
buds on bushes await the sun
to blossom once again ~


Wings of Hope

I saw a star fall and it gave me hope.
I heard a baby cry and it gave me hope.
rocks, clouds, and trees have not these things...
earth, sky, and forest have not these wings! ~


Passing

I leave a trail of my footsteps through time
places I have been, people I have known
all linked together by a mysterious force
a destiny I never understood
but now it all merges in a miraculous realization
as I take my last breath in this life ~


The Dance

rhythm like a heartbeat pulsates through the room
and they dance
happy souls absorb the music, theirs to keep forever
to remember the good times and set them free
as they look around the room, this is what they see

voices dance and feet sing, hands touch and hearts ring
with ecstasy at every glance across the dance floor
eyes flirt and hips sway, hearts mingle and minds play
with the possibility there could be more in store ~


Hold Me

hold me tonight, please don’t let go
your eyes reflect the candles glow
gentle music fills the air
but with your touch cannot compare

how I love to be with you
you surely know why this is true;
you’ll always be a friend of mine
even if love we lose in time

hold me again before you go
my love, my friend, only now I know
how it feels to be loved by one
with all the warmth of the summer sun ~


The Nightmare

it began when I was ten, still has yet to end
it waits until I safely sleep, then every night it thinly creeps
underneath my bedroom door, crawls beneath my sheets
clawing and inching it’s way to my head
to weave it’s dark, evil plot of dread
it invades my innocent dreams
leaving a trail of slime in my bed ~


The Other Side of Night

sweet flavors of the night reach out to me
colors, textures of the day, a distant memory
the path I’ve chosen is of the dark, the dark where I belong
free of mortal coil, free to sing my timeless song
take my hand and come along, a good time you’ll receive
once you feel the pulse of night, you’ll never want to leave ~


Night Song

branches of a willow struggle in the wind
there is no moon tonight
outside my window something stirs
the earth is still with fright
a strange silence fills my ears
the cricket chirps have ceased
a ferocious wind is all I hear
ready for it’s feast ~


Falling

daytime mocks me, the night is my enemy
with disturbing dreams I wrestle in bed
haunted by images of the past and
fearful of what lies ahead
a victim of gravity, I plummet in darkness
with nothing soft to break my fall
in fact, it is beginning to seem as though
I will never land at all ~


I'll Know

church bells are ringing
you've begun to cry
I hear your private thoughts and feel your sorrows
don't think you're alone in this world
I would take offense
you know you'll always have me in a sense
close your eyes and feel my presence
just as I feel yours
I'll guard you on your journey to my world
don't waste your thoughts on self-pity or the past, for I'll know if you do
find hope for the future and take care of yourself,
I'll be watching you ~


Pandora

crystal soul
light penetrates
the raw beauty of her form
beckons the deepest desires in him
she stands in the open
looking up at the jealous moon
even the stars glare with envy
at her unnatural glow

she has already sensed
his vital presence
his longing
subdued for the moment,
he turns to leave
but feels he cannot
strange sensation
he closes his eyes

perfect stillness
darkness penetrates
the tender flesh of the neck
suddenly wounded
from behind, her strong body
presses against his
he surrenders to the comfort
and serenity of her embrace

sweet bliss
tender kiss
he is forever safe in her arms ~

Author's Notes:
At the time I wrote "I'll Know" I thought it was incredibly touching and emotional. Now it looks a little creepy - "I hear your private thoughts" - "I'll be watching you". How is being stalked by their dead loved one going to give someone in mourning comfort? lol

et cetera

As this useless stuff comes to me I just write it down.

Be careful what you pour your love into and how you pour it, there's always back splash.

If ever I became a fully-functioning person who kept it all together, I fear I would cease to be me. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be a writer.

I may be beyond repair, but one person’s trash is another person’s treasure.

Poetry may be better at shining light on problems than fixing them, but it would be a mistake to think poetry is without merit or purpose. In the chaos of life, something must light the way.

to create a deep canyon takes time
for thousands of years waters flow over the stone
wearing it, smoothing it, shaping it
so it is with beautiful writing
the words flow over us time and again
-- or rather we flow over them
molding with care so they become
what they were always meant to be

When you write there is the sound that each word makes as it falls against another word, and there is also the sound of silence in between the words.
- Sharmagne Leland-St. John

Prescribed Burn

dark skies on fire, they sound alarms
but hold your buckets, boys
meteors blazing through the night
in panic how they scatter

Run! I don’t need you
digging deep and meaning well

your tears can't quench the fire in these skies
you only fan it with your fear
you can't stop the pain that's burning me alive
so let me burn

of all the things you couldn't be...
if you can’t be still and bear the heat
then leave

dark skies on fire, they sound alarms
but hold your buckets, boys
I don’t need for you to fix me
I need for you to love me,
in spite of all the things that need repair ~


Copyright ©2010 Angela Schofield

Author's note:
I wrote this last night. At first I loved it, then I hated it, then I loved it again. Now I've just surrendered to it. As my mom would say, it is what it is. It was I who wrote it so here it stays, love it or hate it.

People of the Great Spirit, I Honor You

As soon as I clicked "PUBLISH POST" I couldn't help but feel my last posting had inadvertently slighted the native peoples of this great land and I want to address it. I was looking at it more from a writing standpoint than anything. While I do appreciate the pioneering spirit of my European ancestors - their fortitude to survive, their courage to blaze trails in search of a better life for themselves and their children - I haven't forgotten that it was some of those same "Pioneers" from the Whitman poem who stole from, raped, and ravaged this land, its people, and wildlife for profit. Of all people who've called this land their home, the Native American Indians have understood it best and respected it most. To do them honor and balance the karmic energy of this blog, I'd like to do another mash-up, this time using some famous Native American poems, prayers, and quotes.

(Please note, I did not author and do not own this material, I have simply compiled and arranged it. Try as I might I could not get the footnotes to work properly. The sources are below, in order, but without corresponding line numbers. Sorry, I tried!)

Angela's Native American Mash-up

Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect. We have been given the duty to live in balance and harmony with each other and all living things. We are all thankful to our Mother, the Earth, for she gives us all that we need for life. Earth teach me freedom ~ as the eagle that soars in the sky.

I can dance
below the surface
upon the rocky sand
I shall dangle near
the river bottom
suspended, floating free
like the embryo
I used to be.

Oh Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the winds
And whose breath gives life to everyone,
Hear me.
I come to you as one of your many children;
I am weak... I am small...I need your wisdom
and your strength.
Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever
behold the red and purple sunsets.
Make my hands respect the things you have made,
and make my ears sharp so I may hear your voice.
Make me wise, so that I may understand what you
have taught my people and
The lessons you have hidden in each leaf and each rock.
I ask for wisdom and strength,
Not to be superior to my brothers, but to be able
to fight my greatest enemy, myself.
Make me ever ready to come before you with
clean hands and a straight eye,
So as life fades away as a fading sunset,
My spirit may come to you without shame.

Great Spirit, we send greetings and thanks for the gifts of Creation. Everything we need to live a good life is here on this Mother Earth. For all the love that is still around us, we gather our minds together as one and send our choicest words of greetings and thanks to the Creator. Now our minds are one. Earth teach me renewal ~ as the seed that rises in the spring. There is no death. Only a change of worlds.
One does not sell the land people walk on. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

The time will soon be here when my grandchild will long for the cry of a loon, the flash of a salmon, the whisper of spruce needles, or the screech of an eagle. But he will not make friends with any of these creatures and when his heart aches with longing he will curse me

Great Spirit,
give us hearts to understand;
Never to take from creation's beauty more than we give;
Never to destroy wantonly for the furtherance of greed;
Never to deny to give our hands for the building of earth's beauty;
Never to take from her what we cannot use.
Give us hearts to understand
That to destroy earth's music is to create confusion;
That to wreck her appearance is to blind us to beauty;
That to callously pollute her fragrance is to make a house of stench;
That as we care for her she will care for us.
We have forgotten who we are.
We have sought only our own security.
We have exploited simply for our own ends.
We have distorted our knowledge.
We have abused our power.
Great Spirit, whose dry lands thirst,
help us to find the way to refresh your lands.
Great Spirit, whose waters are choked with debris and pollution,
help us to find the way to cleanse your waters.
Great Spirit, whose beautiful earth grows ugly with mis-use,
help us to find the way to restore beauty to your handiwork.
Great Spirit, whose creatures are being destroyed,
help us to find a way to replenish them.
Great Spirit, whose gifts to us are being lost
in selfishness and corruption,
help us to find the way to restore our humanity.~
Sources:
Chief Seattle
From a Haudenosaunee “Thanksgiving” Prayer
From an Ute Prayer
A poem by Sharmagne Leland-St. John
Ojibwa Prayer
From a Haudenosaunee "Thanksgiving" Prayer
From an Ute Prayer
Chief Seattle
Crazy Horse, Sept. 23, 1875
From “The Invitation” by Oriah Mountain Dreamer (A Native American Elder)
Chief Dan George
A Native American Prayer, origins unknown. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I understand the need to grow and advance civilization, but why at such reckless speeds? I understand the desire to prosper, but at what cost? There must be balance. Harmony and balance are as essential to life as air and water. Even the squirrels in my backyard understand this. They know if they do too much damage, Mother Nature will step in and keep them in line. So, who is keeping us in line? We, the arrogant, rebellious teenagers, must be grating Her very last nerve.

- Angela Friberg 7/2/10

Patriotic Inspirations

In the spirit of the upcoming Independence Day celebrations, or what the spirit is supposed to be anyway, I discuss a few of my writing inspirations.

O Pioneers!

First, I saw the glorious 1992 Hallmark Hall of Fame movie starring Jessica Lange - and loved, loved, loved it. This lead me to read the 1913 Willa Cather novel it was adapted from. Ms. Cather's writing had a beautifully familiar feeling to it, like coming home. She has a gift for the descriptive, vivid and poetic, and touches on truths we didn't know we knew. Finally, I re-discovered the Walt Whitman poem from 1865 which had inspired her. That which I had studied and dismissed in high school. But reading it again through different eyes, I saw Whitman's ideals, his passion and fervor, expertly brought to life on the page. (If anyone should be a presidential speech writer, it's this guy.) In fact, I'd have to say of all the poems I've read, this one feels the most exciting and alive. Maybe it's just all the quotation marks. Kidding. There's a reason Levi chose it for their ad campaign. I'm glad they did because it's now been exposed, with a cool image, to the younger generation. Something that just doesn't happen in English class, I'm afraid. Unless your English teacher happens to be Robin Williams.

For those who haven't yet experienced all the O Pioneers! goodness, I will pass along the inspiration by doing a little medley just for you, combining some favorite bits and pieces from the novel and poem*. Think of it as a mash-up like they do on Glee.

Angela's O Pioneers! Mash-up

The Genius of the Divide, the great, free spirit which breathes across it, must have bent lower than it ever bent to a human will before. The history of every country begins in the heart of a man or a woman. Pioneers! O pioneers!

Fresh and strong the world we seize. Conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go, the unknown ways. We to-day’s procession heading, we the route for travel clearing, the grain so heavy that it bends toward the blade and cuts like velvet. Pioneers! O pioneers!

Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill’d. We come and go, but the land is always here. And the people who love it and understand it are the people who own it — for a little while. Pioneers! O pioneers!

There are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they have never happened before; like the larks in this country, that have been singing the same notes for thousands of years. All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying, Pioneers! O pioneers!

Now for a couple more treats I present the movie trailer and the Levi's TV commercial:


Now go forth and party -- barbecue meats, drink alcoholic beverages, have picnics at the lake, bonfires at the cabin, and enjoy aerial fireworks displays -- you youthful pioneers of this great land!

* Excerpts from the novel O Pioneers! by Willa Cather, 1913 and the poem Pioneers, O Pioneers! by Walt Whitman, 1865. I do not own this material, I simply compiled it.