prosehttp://www.dreamingpool.com/prose/en-CA2009-07-05T05:40:05ZSquarespace Site Server v5.5.4 (http://www.squarespace.com/)Sitting with a Sacred Firehttp://www.dreamingpool.com/prose/2009/5/25/sitting-with-a-sacred-fire.htmlTrish Noble2009-05-25T02:08:56Z

Sometimes the moon rises blue over the mountains
and the frogs sing in harmony with the trees.
The lodge calls us home and brings us to the sacred.

These are ocean moments -
when the waves crash in rhythm to the heart
and thunder like a new spring love.

These are earth moments -
when the rocks tell stories steeped
in ancient mysteries, and tell us secrets
only animals can hear.

These are wind moments -
when the trees tell us of hurricanes
and fortunes that will be lost to sea.

These are fire moments -
when volcanos spew forth the anger
of furious godheads and the revenge
of divine retribution.

These are moments of clarity and truth,
brought on by sweat and fire, and the struggle
to see what has always been.

I have been covered by layers of ash,
and will find freedom in the wind and rain.

I will tell no lies,
and these moments will be held sacred
in the opened heart of the dreamer.

]]>Calling Myselfhttp://www.dreamingpool.com/prose/2009/5/15/calling-myself.htmlTrish Noble2009-05-15T08:05:57ZI had it for a second, in this wakeful moment before the sun imparts
it's light, but like a fleeting dream it went from me, and as always I mourned the loss.

When the deer woke I gave them my attention.
I tried to go back to the place
from whence I came but the forest would not have me.
I had given my seat to another, and the stone complained against their weight.

It is from another source it must spring, so it is to the river I must go.
There are long roads on the journey,
and there are gaurds I don't wish to meet.

I will see myself in reflections again, with shimmer and with light.
This time I will not get lost among daydreams. This time I will not be ousted by over
eager critics.

I will stand with the trees and bend only to the wind.
I will speak the forgotton languages, and when I call your name,
you will hear me once again.

]]>Night Drivehttp://www.dreamingpool.com/prose/2009/5/14/night-drive.htmlTrish Noble2009-05-14T20:29:09ZYou are my night drive, tendrils of light and a bright storefront -
a summer breeze on a hot neck; like the cool, unexpected kiss of
a much anticipated lover.

The cement holds stories; I heard one about you the other day
as I passed along. It floated up to my ears and whispered it's tale.
With you I am all attention, I am ever waiting. I listened and crumpled
the papers that held your name; I threw them down storm drains
and prayed for rain.

These veneers hold no interest – show them to the tourists.
I want the antiques and the furniture with integrity. Show
me the hand made and woven tapestries I know you hold.
It's not a fair trade – you are for sale and I hide from the marketplace.
But as always I admire you from afar.

I listen to the roads,
and I watch your name in lights every time I drive -
illuminating the night with the promise of something beautiful.
It is not a truth that shines forever, but it is what is true for now.

]]>the lurking ghosthttp://www.dreamingpool.com/prose/2009/4/11/the-lurking-ghost.htmlTrish Noble2009-04-11T03:01:53Zyour existence cannot be ignored.
sultry movement begs for viewing; for touch.
you are the sweet smoke and music of youth.

this is descent.  a rough, momentary vision.
you are a potent reminder of desire;
a page book of nightmares best forgotten.

I know you now, just as I knew you then.
the mirror reflects a different image,
but the soul remains the same.

be the candy to your masses;
this dish no longer serves.
your arms are relics to the
memory of a ghost.

I remain called to your haunting,
but watch you in the movies.

your shadows are now only
trees caught in the moonlight.

 

]]>giving overhttp://www.dreamingpool.com/prose/2009/3/17/giving-over.htmlTrish Noble2009-03-17T21:09:29Zand in the tumbling of the waves, in the surf and in the sand,
I rolled violently with shells and seaweed.  There was no swimming,
only the tumble and drowning, a desparate search for air,
and a final expulsion of sea to land.

It was rude in a way. the sky did not look real and I could
hear nothing.  Connections came in flashes, and I bore out the
death with strangled sighs, with grace and with horror.

I laughed at everything and cried at nothing.  When the ocean
came for me again I was ready and willing, I offered no resistance
to the waves.  In the darkness I was free to dive with whales,

so I fell deeply and sang softly; and finally, closed my eyes.

]]>releasinghttp://www.dreamingpool.com/prose/2009/3/6/releasing.htmlTrish Noble2009-03-06T00:02:14Zthese concrete bricks make for lousy shoes.  I could take them off, but
why shatter your expectations? I walk with awkward stride to please all
that you continue to despise.
for all the newsworthy items and reports of stained sheets, you seem
more than common to me.  I could crumple your image and discard it,
and no one would notice you missing.

I need to change the light bulb.  I need energy efficiency. I need something
that burns longer.  Give me all your green wisdom and preach to me
on public television.

You caught me being obtuse and told me to make myself straight. 
I want to be the wind on a curve, and a flashpoint that teases.
You are lead in my pockets, and a blindfold of shame.

I release all your ties, you are free of all due burdens.  Fly
to another cloud, and bear it rain.

I am mist burned up by sun;
I am the bee bringing home honey to the hive.

]]>empty frameshttp://www.dreamingpool.com/prose/2009/2/26/empty-frames.htmlTrish Noble2009-02-26T02:17:25Zrain leaked through the bus shelter.  the umbrella
failed to open.  bus after bus came and went, and the travellers
wondered what she was waiting for. 
her watch read well past time.  the church bells had long since retired.
she never moved off the bench.  not for the old lady with a cane,
not when the group of teenagers huddled around her
and talked loudly about nothing. 
i think maybe she checked her wrist once, but mostly she
just looked ahead.  perhaps her feet grew into the pavement,
maybe someone came and finally escorted her elsewhere.

her eyes were always empty, and something inside her was missing.

I don't know the ending. the camera asked me to find
new frames.  the journey had new tales to tell.

 

]]>car accidents and green beerhttp://www.dreamingpool.com/prose/2009/2/20/car-accidents-and-green-beer.htmlTrish Noble2009-02-20T23:15:39ZI'm too full of car accidents to speak of birds and butterflies.
What you seek is impossible to find here - and the colors you say
I hold are figments of your imagination.

Blood soaked walls are crime scenes waiting to be investigated.
I am your television drama waiting to unfold.
Take me in and dismiss me just as quickly.  I am the actor who stars in the mundane.

These roles are the chances in lifetimes.  I think I'm just passing time.
You say I'm ancient and knowing. I say I'm just a signpost marking
two paths.  I am a pill that says grow but makes you small just the same.

It's all just a passing fancy sweetheart.  Don't worry about me. 
When this is all over I'll tell you happy stories over green beer.

You'll smile and you'll feel the cheer.  I'll walk away down overgrown paths,
and as it must be, you will forget my name.

]]>the milk thistlehttp://www.dreamingpool.com/prose/2009/2/14/the-milk-thistle.htmlTrish Noble2009-02-14T02:17:20ZI remember holding the milk thistle and watching the wind
take it's soft seeds to far off places. I watched them fly, I
dreamed I was part of the journey.

One day I think I left with them and bounced upon a breeze.
I got lost and frayed, I failed to find rich ground and bloom.
Forever lost to air I look back at my tiny hand and innocent awe,
and wonder why I left in the first place. 

This is only a memory, brought on by a song played on machines
best left to history.  I was stirred, and as wistful as the breeze
I find myself caught up in.

I only go up; the sky knows my ending. It is pointless to
look back to the seed from whence I came. 

The clouds know my name,
and the birds keep me company.

]]>watching the stormhttp://www.dreamingpool.com/prose/2009/2/5/watching-the-storm.htmlTrish Noble2009-02-05T23:09:43ZThese normal things, all these normal days; days of coworkers
talking and movies and evenings laughing among friends. days
of lazy cats and naps on a sunday.  these chores to keep things clean and tidy.
these things are nothing more than a dew drop on a morning leaf -
tenuous in it's grip and forever fleeting.

the spaces between know all the truths and illusions.  these mockeries
of a smile and moments of panic.

easier to walk among these happy illusions, than stand with the shadows.
all to fragile though the pictures we draw - and easily lost among the wind.

I fear the hurricane and am powerless against landfall, finding cold comfort
in the embrace of an ocean.  May the whales give grace, and the sharks have pity.

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