A Night in the Forest

One night quite mysterious and dreary.

While I was lost and followed light,

The moon was rising wearily,

It was within my sight.

The owls were moaning slowly,

Like they do before the rain,

It was something like small groaning,

Some may have been in pain.

My friends took one path,

And I took another.

Somehow, I escaped their wrath

While searching for my brother.

I stood very still and listened,

The light seemed very near.

The tree limbs softly glistened,

There was not a sound to hear.

The pot of gold was waiting

My friends said it was theirs.

I was tired of their hating,

So I walked among the bears.

The owls and bears and other creatures

Looked at me and were amazed.

I could dimply see their features

Though their eyes were ablaze.

I walked among the rocks and leaves

While glancing left and right.

Hoping deeply as one believes

I would be rescued from my plight.

The atmosphere was ghostly,

A lantern moved real slow.

I saw one eye more closely,

It was someone I might know.

A friendly eye, two of them, in fact,

They looked just like my own,

Reminding me of our private pact,

To rescue the other when grown.

I followed, he led the way,

He turned and smiled at me.

His smile and strength welcomed a new day.

Suddenly I could see.

The Meadowlarks

An agile gentleman plowed forward in heavy snow in early March as the spring dashed over the crystal brook during the season reckoned astronomically in the southern hemisphere as extending from the September equinox to the December solstice, one of the two points on the celestial sphere where the equator intercepts the ecliptic.

Monday morning, the inquisitive baby meadowlarks descended upon the exquisite park where pine trees marked the early pathway.

The wind was writing a fine tune above a nearby goldmine and the king meadowlark zoomed over to inquire as to why the wandering baby meadowlarks arrived so soon.

The king meadowlark was urgently awakened by an electric thunderstorm as he shot to the deserted farmhouse on this misty morning.

In his concern for the anticipated loss of the wandering baby meadowlarks, he arrived at the park where the branches yielded to an abundance of yellow birds.

The birds dove through a tent fence unnoticed by the king meadowlark in the dense twilight and hid their slings, arrows and stones discovered by the king meadowlark, who placed the stones side by side creating a magnificent palace where the wandering baby meadowlarks were joined by the agile gentlemen who scooped up the birds in his fishing net and moved them to the palace accompanied by the majestic king with a banquet of marinated oysters, vanilla blossoms, crisp cabbage, baby sweet corn, turnip seeds, green string beans, radishes, celery stuffed with baked pigeon eggs, wheat sprouts, and spiced pasta trimmed with sprinkled parsley.

If I Were a Book, Which Book Would I Be?

If I were a book,

The book I would be

Would be a collection of songs from the farm

Combined with the manuscript I wrote a few years ago

And this time I would not loan it to a priest.

I would keep it to myself, to say the least.
On the cover would be photographs of butterflies,

Pink butterflies,

And a carnation,

A rose,

Blue blossoms

Lillies of the valley,

Outlined with lace.
There would be copies of hymns,

Photographs of my mother and father,

And the secretary of space.
There would be photographs of airplanes,

Bavarian castles,

Shakespeare's sonnets,

Of musical instruments,

The pages would be permanently perfumed

And would be textured to the touch.
I would want a picture of a house in the desert.
Of the Scotch countryside,

And a photograph of the Cibeles Fountain in Madrid.
It would be of about 77 pages, with removable binding

So I could add pages,

Like a diary.
Each page would be hand lettered.
There would be several photographs of gardens,

All in color,

Of country farms,

And some trees.
There would be pastel colors,

The kind that please.
I will carry the book around with me so I will not lose it.
Because it will be so beautiful,

Someone else may choose it.

When the Party Ended at Twilight

When the party ended at twilight

And cigarettes smashed in butter,

The place was alive with forgotten promises.

I was astounded by the clutter.

I said "good morning", our goodbye.

And headed for the pool.The presents

I received that night

Were sparkling like a jewel.

The wedding gifts were fancy.

I had planned a gown of lace.

Now lace was tossed and tattered,

Paper ribbons filled the place.

Because I had soon decided

To change plans and fire the band

And to remain a spinster

To me that sounded grand.

Across the room I saw him,

My love Paul from years ago,

He had since married another

Someone I used to know.

The memories were so vivid

Of our classring exchange at the prom.

But then he married my best friend

And I'm engaged to Tom.

"So here we are", I thought last night

The sparks began to fly.

I thought if Paul would look at me,

I would probably say "Hi!"

But then his wife was at his side

She said she liked Tom best

I threw my ring into the pool

And built my private nest.

Alone

Like winds in flight,

A strange delight,

My world is real and so is yours,

We hear a different tune.

I notice flutes, you notice voices

I see the moon, you count the stars,

The world is full of choices.

I stand alone, you stand alone

We enjoy our aloneness

Two people enjoying their aloneness together.

And yet we are bold to say,

We are alone.

Raining in my Heart

Rain can wash away the tears.

How do you know it is raining if you are crying?

Soft rain, dancing on the flowers,

Growing faithfully.

Sun this morning, rain at noon.

Fun this morning, until afternoon.

Raining, raining, when we are apart.

It's only raining in my heart.

Forward Through the Past on a Beautiful Afternoon

Golden threads weave through time.

We stand still.

Time stands still.

We move on.
Many

Few Choices.

One is where one has wished to be and suddenly wants to be where he was dreaming of somewhere else because the dreams were better than the place.

Fresh air feels like an angel's kiss.

When there is no place else to be pushed or pulled, we walk through the hills.

Suddenly, we are in the light again.

We walk alone in the dark.
Quiet shadows watch the feathered sky.

We awake from the dream and hear the veil of ocean on the sides of our yacht and feel the soft promise of afternoon.

Saints Before Us

Saints before us,

Calm and great

Arrive quietly,

Like Spring.

Without motive.

Career Changes

I once taught school and really liked helping students develop an ability to make their own decisions. Sometimes there was a difference of opinion in the way their parents might want them to learn, partly because sometimes parents who did not speak English insisted upon the students speaking their own native language. I left that occupation to study drama, paint, write poetry and plays and I enjoyed acting in some plays in Beverly Hills and San Francisco.

The corporate world was fascinating for awhile and I managed to survive the claustrophobic feeling of drafting specs instead of creating and so those years were void of significant creative activity.

When I hear of instances like the current case in Colorado where the geography teacher proceeded to compare our president with Hitler and the School Board allowed the teacher to return to work because of his tenure, I realize the educational process is becoming rather corrupt, and really don't know what the possible answer is to improve the situation.

Real estate is well-paying but I believe I would not like negotiating on prices.

I once thought it would be a good idea to dress up a home by placing my paintings there because artwork sometimes enhances the appearance and helps to increase the possibility of sales, but often the prospective buyer wants the artist to paint a picture in another color to match the color he intends to paint the walls or paint a specific portrait, and I prefer to paint what I like to paint.

I Like to Sing in the Morning

I like to sing in the morning,

Drives my neighbors insane.

If they are not already quarrelling,

Sometimes it is quite plain.

Walls vibrate with drums and screams,

And sounds I can't comprehend.

Not even in my wildest dreams

Could I compete with the noise they send.

To them it is fun,

Their drumrolls and gyrations,

To me, it is just not done,

A difference in our generations.

Their radios blare with vulgar sounds

By those with pants to their knees.

Who can't walk straight and waddle around

And say just what they please.

Perhaps they seek to escape some sorrow

,And sometimes appear rather civilized.

The youth of today are the hope of tomorrow,

Though some appear to be otherwise.

One morning, they inquired about my song

When I met them in he hall

Their looks were mean and very strong,

I couldn't understand them at all.

Perhaps if I learned to play their stuff,

They would begin to like mine.

But for now I think this is enough

So there is not one more line.

Quotations

True courage is like a kite; a contrary wind raises it higher. - John Petit-Senn

When we dive into the ocean, we become the sea. - Charlotte Kasl, If the Buddha Dated

Was it my conspicuousness that distressed me? Not at all. It was merely that I was not beautifully conspicuous or ugily conspicuous. It makes all the difference in the world. - Mark Twain , Eruption

When people are talking about you, they are leaving someone else alone. - Clyde Knapp, Farm (1951)

Truth has no special time of its own. Its hour is now, when most truly it seems most unsuitable to actual circumstances. - Albert Schweitzer, On the Edge of the Primeval Forest (1922)

Beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is the heart of man. - Fedor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (1879)

That special time caught up in its wild vortex and, in the absence of leisure to reflect on the matter, compelled me to what had to be done. - Vaclav Havel, Summer Meditations (1992)

Art and religion are two roads by which we escape from circumstance to ecstasy to reach similar states of mind. - Clive Bell, Art (1914)

Be like a headland of rock on which the waves break incessantly, but it stands fast and around it the seething of the waters sinks to rest. - Marcus Aurelius

I play on the seashore and often find a smoother pebble while the ocean of truth is undiscovered before me. - Isaac Newton, Anecdotes (1966)

There is nothing more dangerous than justice in the hands of judges and a paintbrush in the hands of a painter. Few dare to expel painters and poets from society because of refusal to admit the danger of keeping painters and poets in society. - Pablo Picasso, Theories of Modern Art (1968)

Without Saying Goodbye

WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE

A three act play by Elizabeth Gerringer (Ceshune)
Previously titled Special Appointment - A Clown in Town
Produced by Reader's Theater in San Francisco, 1984

Whenever I see an art exhibit and someone invites the artist to explain the paintings, I am reminded of a great wise man whose name I forgot but who once remarked that the best paintings are those which the artist need not describe. The wise man also mentioned that it was not significant whether authors and artists wrote and painted from their own experience, whether the observer was aware that the work of art was real or imaginary or out of the artist’s own life or dreams and further, that knowledge about the artist or author’s own life is not necessary in understanding the work of art that was created.Without Saying Goodbye is about art, and about the consequences one faces when one paints, acts, thinks, and dreams as an individual and the art is a product thereof and the consequences of choosing life styles and acquaintances which appear to contradict the work of the artist.Therefore, since my story requires no further introduction, I shall not attempt to further introduce it.

WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE (a synopsis)
Elizabeth Gerringer
A three-act play

Act One, Scene I

Discovery

Gretchen and the clown Bozo meet at Pier 39 on the Embarcadero in San Francisco. They discuss the girl for whom Bozo is searching and his reasons for trying to find her. Bonnie warns him the girl is difficult to find because of her various disguises.

Act One, Scene II

Inquiry

Bozo confronts Mitramb who he believes is a former friend of Gretchen, the girl he is seeking. Bozo accuses Mitramb of being jealous and is infuriated at the stubborn, selfish, attitude of the priest whom Bozo accuses of murdering Gretchen’s husband.

Act One, Scene II

Rediscovery

Gretchen appears on the wharf as a clown. She meets Bozo and begins a conversation about clowns. They discuss different kinds of clowns and their purpose in life. Bozo realizes Bonnie is the girl for whom he has been searching.

Act Two, Scene I

Revelation

Mitramb telephones his attorney, Mr. Calera to discuss his side of his story. He is afraid he is going to be discovered because of his plot to kill Gretchen’s husband and destroy Gretchen before Gretchen exposes him or brings charges against him.

Act Two, Scene II

Motivation

Bozo and Gretchen discuss Mitramb’s plot and Gretchen expresses faith in her situation. She claims her belief in astrology is important and has developed strength through reading worthwhile books and through creative arts. Bozo and Gretchen discuss the political motivations and the individual lawsuits on which they are working. Gretchen warns Bozo someone may seek revenge against him.

Act Two, Scene III

Retribution

This scene is a play within a play in which four clowns appear including Gretchen. Bozo talks to the audience and introduces the scene. Mitramb is in the audience watching the scene. Two men appear from each aisle and shoot him, then disappear out the back stage door.

Act Three, Scene I

Transition

Gretchen defends herself in court against the attempted murder of Mitramb. Mr. Calera, the prosecuting attorney, is sarcastic and rude, but later changes his attitude when he realizes Gretchen is innocent and challenges the judge’s right to hear the case based on prejudice. Mr. Calera raises several legal issues and withdraws as the attorney for Mitramb. The trial is to continue as Gretchen acts in her own behalf as her own attorney.

Act Three, Scene II

Farewell

Gretchen and Bozo discuss the trial and Gretchen expresses an interest in Bozo’s work and computers. Gretchen senses she is being betrayed by Bozo and tells him, “I love you, honey, but the season is over.”

Act Three, Scene III

An Appropriate Justice

This scene is a trial in which Gretchen anticipates she will be tried for the attempted murder of Mitramb. Instead, she is quizzed about her intent to draw a parallel between her methods of evaluating the legal field and the medical profession. She declares her right to privacy and argues with the doctor Mitramb hired to destroy her through his efforts at psychological blackmail. The doctor changes his attitude in favor of Gretchen and the judge rules in her favor.