The Counting Year

 The Counting Year

I've got the Big Eye again,
as my Mamaw would have said,
worries jerking back the covers
I count the minutes until
the alarm

I count a lot these days
Measuring my days in yards of fabric and thread
For awhile I couldn't buy thread
Or toilet paper or dish soap
or eggs
I measured my days in eggs.

We counted shoppers in stores
Guarding our safety in six foot circles
Reeking of sanitizer
As we stared down the bleak half-empty aisles
together/apart

This was the year we counted our lost wages
Hoping the furloughs were a passing phase
and not the way of things
from now on
making do, stretching out, well
at least we saved on gas for the car

Walks taken, dance halls dark
tomatoes planted,
(so many tomatoes!)
home-baked bread, recipes from lush times,
pans of comfort we'll probably regret later
as we count our steps

This was the year we inventoried babies in cages
borders closed, promises broken, pacts ignored,
countdown to elections
count up the votes
and   so   many   lies
so many lies, we finally stopped counting 

Nearly half a million
loved ones lost
We helplessly share our grief and rage
through flickering screens and a few lines
of insufficient sympathies

As we fight for salvation and healing
and rest (oh just a few moments more)
we count our blessings and
give thanks for the gifts of
resilience and laughter
friendship and courage
music and love.

                Sarah Gowan - November 19, 2020

I Stop

I Stop I speak up because not all abuse leaves bruises, but it always leaves scars. I speak out because not all violence ends a life, but it always stops one. My life stops every time another priest or politician is accused, Until I remember I can breathe. My life stops leaving me sleepless and circling my aching heart When the man who put his hands on me is deified, His good works eclipsing my pain I stop. I stop my life for a few seconds, for a day, for months, totaling years to tend the scars and grieve. I stop, unable to feel focused and joyful Until churning thoughts are sorted and, exhausted, my world is set to rights again. Stop with me from time to time to witness my pain and grief and anger. Stop with loved ones and strangers alike and be still diverting the world around us while we gather ourselves and whisper for the 10000th time, "This was not my fault."

Sarah Gowan 2019

Between the Notes

Our love stands as tall as the far away mountains,

Haloed in clouds, toes dug in the earth.
Our love still sparkles like dewdrops and fountains,

Blessings of laughter, a wellspring of mirth.

Arms flung so wide they could wrap round the planet,

Gather me in with a breath and a sigh.

I can’t help but wonder how I could stand it,

If you travelled on and left me behind.

Don’t waste your tears on what hasn’t happened,

There’s sorrow enough to go all around.

No use in borrowing troubles imagined,

Or weeping for heartache you haven’t yet found.

So shake off the shivers and let’s go out dancing,
Music will chase away dark thoughts and gloom.

Between the notes, the balm of silence,
And we’ll turn away fear as we spin round the room.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Sarah Gowan  September 2017

I wrote a tune called "Tilting Summer In" that fits this poem pretty well.

She's Really Let Her Self Go

“She’s really let herself go”, they laughed-whispered, 

Delight fighting revulsion,

Fingers crossed against misfortune.

“Why yes I have,” I think,

Admiring my rounded belly

Cross-hatched with scars

My double chins wobbling beneath a crooked grin.

I let myself go the moment I became a mother,

Making room in this body for squirming new life full of need and hunger.

Breasts swelling with milk,

Arms thick with a fierce love that could work all day

and hug, and reluctantly open wide to let those babies go

To a life no longer my own.

I let myself go

To swallow your secrets,

Tucking them next to my heart

To keep them safe,

To keep you safe,

Making room for the pain

And joy

Of loving you

Giggling at the wobbly bits

I let my Self go

To become bigger, wilder, fiercer,

And more loving

Than I ever imagined this fragile bit of flesh, this wisp of spirit, could be.

--Sarah Gowan 9/2/17

Tears. Breath. Rage. Stone.

Tears. Breath. Rage. Stone.

The perfect image clutched in my hand
I coax it to paper,
and sob as it burrows deeper into my fist.
I resort to a squall of words.

My chest rises and falls, my heart pounds
The tattoo of a life still lived.

Salt. Wind. Flame. Bone.

My friend offered to hold my anger for me
Until I could take it up again.
A lifetime later and I still gasp with the wonder
and relief
of a burden shared.

Infant. Daughter. Mother. Crone.

I offer this pebble from a shaking hand,
Secret handshake, we know who we are.
Veins racing with memory, I offer this tiny thing
For you to drop from your aching hand and stand upon.

Sarah Gowan, 10/15/2015

The Tangle Faeries - Releasing an Idea to the Wild

Back in 1997 I wrote a poem with my 3 year old in mind. I shared it with my family and a couple of friends and then put it away with the thought that I might do something with it some day. Maybe a children's book or a song, I wasn't sure, but I knew I wasn't finished with it. Several years later I discovered that a guy in Atlanta had written a children's book using my idea, though not my words. Recently another person made a blog post claiming her precocious 3 year old came up with the story.

My first reaction was "How dare they steal my idea! What do I do about this!?" I knew that a lawsuit would be a waste of time and just felt too ugly to think about. I know full well how ideas get disseminated and if I really wanted to keep the idea for myself, I should have kept it to myself. (In this case I shared it with a touring musician who talked about it on one of his tours.)  I don't think anyone plagiarized my work, I think they heard the concept and had to make something with it probably forgetting the source completely. But my ego is hollering for credit and, to be perfectly honest, I like my poem best. So my blessings on the creative minds that took the concept their own way, and here is Tangle Faeries as I wrote it on February 6, 1997.

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The Tangle Faeries

"Sleep", says Mama, "Sweet dreams, sleep tight,

It's sleepytime, so say goodnight."

She whispers softly, singing low,

A lullaby most soft and slow,

Singing to the darkening air,

Of faeries dancing in your hair.

Jingle jangle, tingle tangle,

Faeries spin and dance and leap

Jingle jangle, tingle tangle,

With dreams a-billow, to your pillow

Weave night-magic while you sleep.

Flute and bell, drum and chime,

Dancing wildly arms entwined,

With moonlight and a twisty rhyme

They spin a spiral dream sublime

Turning round the slip of time,

A feather touch. Winds. Unwinds.

Some be frightful, some be wise,

Dreams of laughter and surprise,

Some flit away with day's first rise,

Morning stretch and open eyes.

Some stay a lifetime, dreamtime treasure,

Nighttime gifts of light and pleasure

Bell and flute, chime and drum,

Something magic this way comes!

Jingle jangle, tingle tangle,

Faeries spin and whirl and leap,

Jingle jangle, tingle tangle,

With dreams a-billow, to your pillow,

Weave night magic while you sleep.

"Good morning," says Mama, "Rise and shine,

The day's begun, it's wake-up time,"

Calling to the brightening air

A sparkling song, as with care,

She combs and brushes and laughs, "See there!

The Tangle Faeries danced in your hair!"

Sarah Gowan

Feb. 26, 1997

Mowing the Lawn Ahead of the Rain

Mowing the lawn ahead of the rain
The sole of my favorite shoes gave way.

Thwappiting  underfoot,

The tattered rubber taunted me

With the news that these shoes were older than my grown child.

My palms blistered as I raced the storm

Fussing that they were once

Painter’s hands

And that a handshake from the fresh faced girl

I was long ago

Made the boys wide-eyed at the callous and muscle and bone.

These hands worked hard.

When did I buy these shoes?

Sometime after my first was born, facing the wrong way up,

Sauntering into this world after 44 hours

Trying to make up his mind.

Before my second, though, who never did anything before he was ready

Bursting out and into my arms after an hour and a half.

Two days or an hour, a labor of love.

This body worked hard.

Guess I don’t need these raggedy shoes

I’ll garden bare-foot and fearless

My fingers calloused for strings

Playing my own lullaby as the mother-me sleeps

(at last!)

And the crone roars awake.

Sarah Gowan - July 2014