Words from the well…

And so I’m back…

Words have not been flowing so easily, yet the old well is full.  Perhaps a draught, a draft, a 17 year old vintage to slake our thirst…

********

We are the music makers,

We are the dreamers of dreams

— Arthur O’Shaughnessy

Colors, costumes and castles– my life as a ceremony, a celebration.  Endless images imbued with the water– a fountain of fantasy, a seductive spring in a real realm- of myth and man, magic & meniality, marvels & mediocrity.  Two worlds as one, but broken by boundaries.  The sane & the sleeping, awake and dreaming, haunted by heaven– a heavy hell indeed.  Dreams draped in orchid organza and olive organdy, as empty as the o’s that they begin with, or the notes that rise from an organ–there, but not; full of feeling, but not tangible.  A story with no end, a journey with no bend– always new beginnings, always reaching that point that was beyond sight, beyond reach– never settling down at a destination– that is our destiny.  Simple Solutions Slip from our sight, from our fingers– difficult to grasp.  Stars soften to swirling snowflakes, descending as dancing dust particles, perhaps persons on another plane.  These pearls of poetry & prose, word building upon word, images form, dimensions unfold, kingdoms land at my feet– each gem raw & radiant, waiting to show their worth– some are cast aside, some forgotten.  Prizes for a princess, memories for a maid.  Colors muted as they struggle to shout their sagas; stones with stories silenced when there is sight, but no vision; beauty lies in details, seen and unseen.  Truth is subject to who, wealth, & whimsy- fact just is.  With all the whimsy of my world, there is winter in a walnut, streets in a seashell, gold in a grape, all true for a moment, for me, no more.  Moment means milenium, month, and microsecond, as time is relative as it relates to me– a manchild to mold, a parent to provide, a crone to chronicle all I cast off– a family given to me, though often not what I need, but there when I do.  Ah, solitude, not silent, but screaming– things to do, though still I sit.  Too much time tempts me, halts me, holds me– no longer the parent, but the paramour– presenting pleasantries a plenty, too many to pick from that I lose my place– where am I?  What to do?  The words don’t come as easily now, not for randomness.  Images return, organized stories wish to be heard.  Shall I listen, shall I look, shall I restrain them by writing them in a book?

Golden verse, flowing from a fountain pen,

Jeweled words, smooth, faceted, each stone letter placed in its own finding,

Finding its place in a piece,

Finding harmony in a whole

The color fades

Here

There

Only a hint of glimmer as stones drop from their settings,

Stars sleeping in the skies, blinking as the light of day dawns,

And the orb outshines her adornments

(c)  2000  Kerrie Colantonio (not yet McNay)

All Souls…

“A soul! a soul! a soul-cake!
Please good Missis, a soul-cake!
An apple, a pear, a plum, or a cherry,
Any good thing to make us all merry.”

Soul Cake

Today is the feast day known as All Souls’ Day.

A while back I shared a poem I had written for my grandfather (for all grandfathers, of course, but especially for him).

Today I’d like to share a letter I wrote to a man I never actually met….and never will.

Encouraged by Angi Sullins– the magnificent Muse of Duirwaigh Studios– in her Once Upon a Time online workshop, I wrote this letter to my Benefactor, Douglass S. Parker.

Why would I write a letter to someone I had never met and never will?

I think the letter explains it all.

Dear Doug,

I never got to meet you.

We only “met” in email correspondence, and one dream, though brief and suddenly gone. I meant to visit, for your retirement celebration. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I should have. Because now you are gone. You died. And I didn’t know. I tried to get in touch with you again, to share news, but never heard from you after some time in 2007. So I’d like to try this- writing to you. Thanking you. Learning from and with you. Exploring together worlds others plop down cash or credit card or library card and cast away or return or pass on. But we- you and I and others, I think- we go there. We understand the local language, customs, rituals, and more. I want to expand and delve and share what I’ve learned. From them. From you. From myself. You seemed interested, intrigued, by my enthusiasm. I think I got you excited, too, new angles to approach, new worlds to find. I hope in all of my energetic, “look at this!” messages another message came through. “Thank you!” Thank you for showing me the first map to a world I had visited but didn’t realize I could explore, or even stay a while. A map. A key, unlocking new doors, in learning, in creating. I made so, so many more connections, however brief. I stepped out the door, key in hand, and headed down an unknown path, Bilbo and Frodo and Dorothy and Lyra and you by my side- your footprints in the dust, the dirt, the path, next to mine. You’d already set out, and left a lampost to guide me, to show me the path, There, and Back Again. You left me Lookfar, for the watery route, for finding, alone, my shaddowy self, my gebbeth. You left me a mirror, a couple of Oracles, to question, to pass through the gates, to seek the answers in my soul. To show my self my soul. To show- not tell- me, all I needed, all I need, is my self. To open that door, to return home, to draw my own maps, write my own adventures, and share them. With them. With you. For you. For me.

Thank you, Doug. Thank you.

Much love and gratitude to you, sir.

Love,

>Kerrie

“You are dancing for us…”

Rustling what remains of their skirts, veils,
Juniper and pinion/sycamore show me how
to finish my dance.
Raising my arms, the wind molds me
as it does the trees,
Just so.
You are dancing for us, not them.
Follow us, this way.
If you travel down this path,
we’ll show you how you appear to others,
what you really are,
inside,
to us.
Come back tomorrow, once you’ve passed
through (the mirror of) Tonight,
shimmering twilight lifting the veil
for you to pass,
a little of its magic coming to rest upon
your shoulders.
You can never return home,
but you will find it,
changed,
on the other side.

(c) March 2002

Between Earth and Aerie: A Night in the Land of Faerie

I wrote this after my trip to Prescott, Arizona in March 2002.  I had been asked by Kelly Miller-Lopez of the musical group Woodland to dance at the first Faerieworlds Festival.  I don’t know if there is any archive footage of the performance, but I will always remember every detail in my heart.  I can see Thumb Butte where I finished my choreography the day of the performance.  I can hear the laughter of the children of all ages.  I can feel the smooth stage under my bare feet.  I can taste the salt as I perspired in the heat of the day & stage lights at night, trying hard to convey Grace.  I smell the damp earth when I returned to Thumb Butte, to give thanks for the Dance.  Another journey, another time, all part of the path.

Continue reading