Five Poems by Karen A VandenBos

 

Crow Medicine

 

Once upon a time before birth, she floated in the

womb of her mother and learned the songs of the

river.

She listened and dreamed as her mother told her

the stories of the black birds who sang the magic

of her people. Then, one day she awoke to the

caw of the crow.

At the time of entry she did not cry and the

grandmothers circled and fanned sage around her

with the feather of a crow. She lay silent, eyes

crossed as if she could observe the world from all

angles.

She grew tall and lean, her night black hair flying

behind her as she climbed the trees with ease.

When she heard the call of the crow, she found

her voice.

She learned their language, became their student.

Crow taught her to beware of chasing her own

shadow, how to merge light with dark and how to

read the ancient records of sacred law.

They taught her how to shape shift, to be in two

places at once and how to learn from the

unknowable mysteries. They taught her to

recognize her enemies by looking into mirrors.

As she aged, the crows were her constant

companions, her protectors. They showed her

how to rule with the power of illusion and taught

her all things are born of women.

On the dark night when her wings were broken

and she ceased to fly, the crows gathered around

her to grieve and lay trinkets at her feet. They

watched as her hair became a whirlwind of

feathers and she flew solo beyond the veil.

Legend has it that if you are lucky enough to find

the feather of a crow, you too will be blessed with

their medicine.

 

 

Swamp Sisters

 

I'd heard the gossip about the four old women who stitched

stories of the deep south and gris gris into their medicine

bags and hung them from the trees surrounding the swamp.

I had come to meet them and as soon as we met, I knew I

was home.

 

They told tales of the rougarou that prowls the swamps and

the fishing spider that waits patiently at the base of the cypress

trees for its dinner.

 

They spoke of houses haunted by the ghosts of the civil war

and graveyards that boasted of stories so unbelievable they

had to be real.

 

I listened closely as they whispered about the backroom of

the barely standing store nestled in the woods by the family

mausoleum where voodoo was said to still be practiced.

 

It was Hattie who invited me to come to their cabin on the

edge of the swamp. She told me when I heard the rattle of

the snake, I was to repeat a few words that sounded like a

dialect of Creole and gibberish.

 

I watched as Hattie bowed to the murky depths and noticed

the sheen of sweat against her black skin as lightning

punctuated the sky. The heat was so thick you could wear it.

 

The sisters gathered around me as we stepped into the water.

It came alive with the buzz of insects and the call and response

of frogs. We submerged ourselves in the tears of alligators,

the surface dimpled by the silver moon.

 

Our feet covered in mud, we settled by the fire and I was

regaled with stories of their people and ancestral home that

were filled with voodoo, ghosts and legends as unfathomable

as the depths of the swamp.

 

Their eyes were full of magic and they pulled the Spanish moss

from the trees and braided crowns for our heads. The stories

carried me far away and I awoke in my bed drenched in sweat.

 

I listened to the silence outside the window and watched as

the sun sent its golden fingers across the swamp, trolling for

its secrets. The secrets that lie just below the surface of dreams

where I can see more stories beginning to bubble.

 

 

Daughter of Spider Woman

 

It was the hour between the call of the owl and

the first rumble of thunder when she entered

the dream.

In the forest,webs hung low from the branches

of every tree getting stuck in her hair and

obstructing her vision.

A soft glow emanated around a grandmotherly

figure who was singing quietly while pulling

threads from her fingers, weaving a storm into

a tapestry of the universe.

She listened to the metronomic thump of the loom

and watched the woman touch the threads of her

song as if plucking the strings on a harp.

One strand of yarn at a time was placed into the

warp until the storm became part of the pattern.

Slowly the woman turned towards her and she

realized she was standing in the presence of

Spider Woman.

The holy woman who bestowed the gift of weaving

to her people and taught them to use the tools of

the sun, lightning, crystals and white shells to

weave their history and memories into the threads

to tell their stories.

She watched the patterns shift, transforming the

earth and saw the messages in the threads.

She was taught the song and told to go back to the

waking world and place her right palm on a morning

spider web that glistens in the sun without destroying it.

If she could do this, there would be a transference of

the weaving gift to her and she would join the

matriarchs at the loom.

A storm was breaking as she awoke and she noticed

she was clutching a single thread in her hand. It was

then she remembered the final words from Spider

Woman who told her to leave one loose thread

hidden in her weaving so her soul would always have

a way to escape becoming trapped.

Throughout her life, Orb Weaver honoured the wisdom

of her teacher and made sure the threads continued

to be passed on to the women and daughters who can

spin with the spiders.

 

(inspired by painting “Navajo Weaver” by Ted DeGrazia)

 

 

Thirteen Birthed Daughters

 

Under the cover of night I run barefoot through

the mucid wet leaves on the forest floor hoping

I will not be too late.

Following the crocitation of the crows I hurry

across the spinkie den and curse myself for not

wearing a cloak to protect me from the chill.

As I near the osiard, I come to a sudden stop

where the circle of women, all naked and round

of belly, gather around a roaring fire.

I watch them toss the ghosts of their maidenhood

into the mutating flames as the weight they carry

shifts towards motherhood. The hour is near.

The moonbrough grows brighter as the women

hold the power of birth in their hands. They squat

upon beds of moss and sing to the stars for the safe

passage of their children.

Slowly the sky becomes soaked in red as does the

earth. Thirteen wombs birth daughters on this

cobweb-morning as the sun struggles to break

through the mists.

As High Priestess I walk among them like a

mastrisate and anoint them with the breath of

fire and the powers born of women. Will it

be enough?

As they sleep, I stir the ashes of the fire and with

my gift of capnomancy I watch the plumes of

smoke reveal the future. I wipe my eyes and

pray for rain.

 

 

An Ordinary Day

 

It was an ordinary day in a small town, the

laundry hung out to dry with the morning dew.

Greta and Bess lean against the white picket

fence kissed by the sun, their conversation

fuelled by their mugs of steaming coffee.

 

Frank helps George mend the fence where

Bluebell the cow tried to escape last night.

Sara goes door to door with her Bible, ready

with a prayer for anyone who is in need and

old Doc Jones is always ready to make house

calls.

 

Drivers in rusted old pick up trucks tip their

hats as they zip down the dusty roads to town

where everyone is on a first name basis.

Maude, the owner of the diner, pours coffee

like gossip and the church doors are always

open.

 

There is a cadence to this way of life where

the bees drone in the fields of clover and the

hens strut freely around the barnyard. The

children giggle and play games, the flowers

are watered and the crows watch over them

all.

 

Somewhere not too far away, children cry

with hungry bellies, a heart is broken, war

rages, guns kill another innocent soul and

the powerful and the greedy fill the news

with lies. Flights are cancelled, floods

destroy homes, fires threaten ancient trees

and the clouds refuse to release their sorrow.

 

Moments like these let us know that even

grief will become ordinary and ask us to

love again.

 

 

 

Karen A VandenBos - Once upon a time, Karen A VandenBos was born on a warm July morn in Kalamazoo, MI. She has a PhD in Holistic Health where a course in shamanism taught her to travel between two worlds. She can be found unleashing her imagination in two online writing groups and her writing has been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Blue Heron Review, The Rye Whiskey Review, One Art: a journal of poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Ekphrastic Review, Southern Arizona Press and others.