Feel free to comment on the poetry, guys...
In another thread was discussed how land formations can trigger PLMS...
I've posted this poem before so apologies to the regulars,
but here it is again, a PLM triggered by land formation.
This poem is of a vision I had while driving 70 m.p.h.
through the Columbia River Gorge.
My young children were in the back of the van.
This vision, according to landmarks, lasted for five miles.
I’m not sure who drove during this time period,
because there was no vehicle in this vision.
When the vision ended, my cheeks were wet with tears,
and my oldest was asking, “Mama, why are you crying?”
The full impact of this experience unfolded over a passage of years,
and its wisdom helped to guide others through a horrific car accident,
meningitis, and ultimate brain surgery.
When the final piece of the vision’s mystery fell into place,
it provided need of the epilogue…
The following poem exists
because sometimes visions translate lousy into prose
The Dream of Shonone
I see his face, my soul mate’s face,
thin and sallow,
dark eyes ringed with death grey haloes.
The sickness is winning.
The holy man is coming.
I cannot watch this happen.
I have medicine to stop this sickness.
It is in the writings: anyone has the power.
I think I am the only one who knows that.
I think I am as afraid as anyone.
And what of Little One?
He is too young to be motherless again.
An anger erupts without warning.
He is also too young to die,
as surely he will,
from this wretched disease!
My fighting soul mate groans,
weakly sparring hallucinated demons.
Cool water warms quickly against his burning brow.
He does not notice.
His distressed moans draw breath,
Inside my brain,
intention ripples then explodes
the wellspring of my being:
There is still time to save him!
There is still time to save them both!
Precise and swift as a warrior’s arrow,
one thought pierces consciousness
and blasts through involuntary vocal chords:
”I cannot watch them both die!”
Emotion mutinies reason.
I am running,
(I know just where),
gliding through bushes,
over fallen trees,
carried by moccasined feet,
racing reason’s recovery,
Little One’s voice echoes through the silence of the forest.
The heightened pitch of desperation’s sound
in my own name
tells me that,
how I’m thinking,
what I’m doing,
where I’m going.
I am so sorry, Little One.
I know no other way.
The edge abruptly clean
is now behind,
then high above me,
a ribbon river snaking far below.
Falling feels like stillness,
broken only by one last soul-emptying wail:
Sorrow binds both our hearts together for all time.
(Far below me now)
he’s watched the deed from atop the cliff
and, dropping to his knees,
collapses in a wash of grief.
His medicine will be clear and strong enough for many.
For centuries on end,
tradition pointed to a native maiden’s silhouette
revealed by a veil of mist swirling
‘round a waterfall spectacular
cascading from a purely rock-faced ledge.
The story is this maiden leapt to save her people,
and that a rush of water gushed forth right behind her:
evidence to a fall of selfless heroism.
The legend does not tell
of her brother,
of his sacrifice,
or of his gift.
Then in the nearing of the new millennium,
one late summer holiday weekend,
from the waterfall’s sheer rock backdrop,
a bus-sized boulder tumbled loose,
disfiguring forever the mystical visage,
in testament to the legend’s final statement:
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