Merida

Before Disney, there was no Merida, no fairy tale,

no myth, no folklore, just Scotland and its own legends,

monsters and unicorns, shapeshifters, the wee-folk, witches,

and the willow-o’-the wisps luring us off our course;

but there was a mother and a strong-willed daughter,

argumentative, vying for power, clashing

with tradition, desiring her independence.  And so,

Merida was born, dropped into Scotland, DunBroch,

refusing to marry the prince who would win her hand,

arrows shot, the best marksman winning, she besting

them all in this Disney tale of breaking with convention,

no prince to rescue her, for she must rescue herself, setting free

her mother, too – trapped inside herself – from the bear she had become:

 

a new princess, a modern princess, breaking the mold

set by Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty, rescued,

a modern woman, bravely, now, setting herself free.

River Town

In a river town, we, too, are carried by the currents,

strong currents coursing to the sea, wending their way

from the mountains through inland towns, great fields,

and large tracts of forests perhaps uninhabited,

perhaps unexplored, an expanse of fir and pine

and oak and elm, birch and poplar, green to gold,

to rejoin the oceans, vast and powerful, a great unknown,

a destination fated somehow, inescapable, a joining,

a resting place we seek to return to,

and we, in a river town, are called, pulled

by the currents of that river running through us,

currents carrying us to the sea,

currents carrying us home.

We are all Gardens

We are all gardens:

Bright flowers blossoming ‘midst

a sea of green leaves;

 

fertile soils feed us,

hold us firm, deeply rooted,

fenced against the wind;

 

the summer rains come,

soft droplets gently falling,

a cleansing, made pure;

 

Beauty, hidden in

earth, budding outward, to bloom,

to blossom, restored.

 

We are all gardens:

Bright flowers, deeply rooted,

cleansed, restored, renewed.

Windmills

Some days, most days,

the windmills are just windmills,

their giant sails turning to grind wheat

to flour to make our daily bread,

nourishing the bodies of mankind and industry;

 

but then, there are those days

when the windmills, enchanted, raise

their giant arms for combat, to face down

the hard-fought battle of an old man’s dreams

set free by age and rage and Rosinante

carries us forward, enchanted ourselves,

against a madness of men accepting life’s as it is,

bleak and unbearable, men’s murderous ways to man,

and dreaming now our impossible dreams, tilting

at those windmills, shattering the mirror of reality

that would blind us to what should be, to who we are,

but knights-errant seeking truth, righting wrongs,

a gauntlet tossed and the challenge

bravely taken, a banner unfurled.