Dreamlights

We’re floating on a sea of dreams
     as one by one they come to be,
but nothing is quite what it seems
     beneath the waves of this moonlit sea.

Satan's light gleams, lit by hate
     of pale faces feeding far and wide
who rise from shallow depths to bait
     our fears for reasons unidentified.

Afraid, we huddle close for hope,
     for understanding to calm our fears.
Yet knowing fails to help us cope,
    and terrors rule with flooding tears.

Side by side, we drift ashore
     onto a land of greed only to swim
away from want and drift once more.
     As morning dawns, we sing a hymn.

Others join us, more and more,
    to share the sun’s revealing sight
while we sing as one, before
     the day reveals the stars of night.

We’re floating on a sea of dreams
as one by one they come to be
and nothing is quite what it seems
beneath the waves of a moonlit sea.

Path to a Land of Greed
By Jeter Sleet

Playing Train

I’m asleep
     sitting up on a
          park bench

dreaming of my
     grandchildren
          making a train—

from behind, each reaches                        

Playing Train at a park
by Jeter Skeet

     for the shoulders of
           the one ahead.

The choo-choo
      takes off down
           a grassy trail

that meanders first left
     then right, left again
          following a dream.

I awake
     with a start
          and see

that the children
     are no longer
          here.

They are too old now
     to play train
           in the park.

I doze off again
     longing for the bygone
          train to stop.

Once aboard,
     I’ll make a great
          caboose.

Leaving

From the Introduction to my New Zealand-2000 Journal

I’m leaving tomorrow morning for Houston, then Los Angeles, then North Island (Auckland), and then the South Island (Cristchurch).  We will cross eight time zones, the international dateline, and the Pacific Ocean. I’m going to leave this chair, this room, this country to take a vacation halfway around the world.  It’s going to take around 24 hours to get there.  That is a lot faster than a century ago.

I’m going to leave behind three cats whom I’ll miss, a new computer that is giving me fits, and a home which will baby-sit my writings attempts.  I’m going to leave behind unfinished stories and the frustration of rejection slips. I’m going to leave behind all hope for routine.

I’m going to leave behind eight inches of snow, the last layer coming this morning.  I’m going to leave behind three televisions with recorders programmed for our favorite shows.  I’m going to leave behind the birds at the bird-feeder and construction out back where a wooded area once was.  I’m going miss my children and grandchildren, but our reunion will be all the more joyous for having missed them.

I’m going where they speak a Kiwi form of English.  I’m going to confuse my biological clock and my mind about the names of trees and wildlife.  I’m going to see temperate rain-forests and glaciers and hot springs and explore a Maori village.

I’m leaving, but I’m also coming back to the familiar.  This trip will only be a break, an interruption, a chance to get my life and my place in the world into perspective.  It is a chance to become a fulltime observer and writer who will practice putting her experiences into words.  It’s a chance to let my imagination wander and see what it creates.

Travel day will be a strain because of our fears that we will miss one of the four flights. Consequently we’ll spend a lot of time sitting at gates in airports.  But once we link up with our tour guide, we will be able to smile.  It will be like we are once again in the care of our parents who will do all the worrying.  We’ll be free to be children again.

Glacier on the South Island of New Zealand-2000
by Jeter Skeet

Guest Farm

At a guest farm in Manitoba
I share a long table on a sun-porch
     with a motherless raccoon
         who’s having her afternoon nap—
     one of many animals imprinted
          upon our hostess.

Outside there’s
     a castrated buck with misshaped antlers
          mistakenly transformed into an idiot's pet
     a half-coyote dog who lives
          a tame lifestyle curled up on the porch
     an earless cat
          who lost them to frost-bite
     a scar-faced one
          a hero of the tom-cat wars
     a  tailless goose
          victimized by buckshot
     a pair of uncommon ducks
          whose story I will never learn
     twenty-two retired horses
     two burros
     and me--
         a paying guest who is helping to support
              a motherless raccoon,
              a castrated buck,
              a half-coyote dog,
              and my other new-found friends.

Raccoon youngster
by Jeter Skeet

Wandering Blunders

I stubbed my toe wading in the Indian Ocean.
I fell up a wooden staircase bruising my arm.
I fell down a cement step skinning my knee.
I stubbed my toe wading in the Indian Ocean
and blistered my feet tiptoeing on broiling sands.

I’ve run with cramps from Montezuma’s Revenge.
I’ve done my business behind a Kopji boulder.
I’ve found relief beside a Range Rover.
I’ve run with cramps from Montezuma’s Revenge,
but I couldn’t use a hole without handholds.

On my way home, I’ve scratched my ankles raw.
I’ve hunted with cheetahs, fished with orcas.
I’ve danced with flamingos and arthritic flares.
On my way home, I’ve scratched my ankles raw
providing a tasty meal for chiggers and ticks.

I stood my ground during a brown bear charge.
I tripped over tumbleweed’s sagebrush.
I walked along the Sacred Way with ghosts
I stood my ground during a brown bear charge,
but wouldn't kiss the downside-up Blarney Stone.

Brown Bear leading her cub away from a male
by Jeter Skeet

From the Floor

“What?  Why does Jeter need us to climb in there?” Mysery cringed as she asked.   She  was looking at a backseat made up of nothing but a flat cushion resting on the hull of that propeller-driven two-seater.

“That’s the only way we can get to Little Salmon Creek,” Trixsay said giving Mysery a push in the right direction so they all could board.

Jeter ducked and his head went inside the plane following the camera bag, then he turned around to sit on the cushion and pull uncooperative legs inside so that the door could shut.  With more squirming, their feet were tucked under a real seat. Mysery was startled when the door slammed.  Close to tears, she sniffled.

Humdrum noticed a smell.  “Phew, what has the pilot been transporting—fish?”

Any attempts at conversation petered out as the engine roared to life.  Excited by the fact that the wings were positioned over their head giving Jeter a good view, Trixsay reached for the camera bag. Then she noticed to her dismay that the side windows were dirty adding a gray tinge to an already gray world.

Mysery huddled inside of herself keeping her eyes closed.

Once the plane reached altitude, Jeter’s Wee Folk could only be heard if they shouted.  The overcast sky was creating curtains of rain masking the view of the mountains on the far side of the bay.  Above the water, clouds were parting here and there to let light through and add sparkle to the quiet water.  “What are those things down there?” Trixsay asked.

Trembling, Mysery opened her eyes.  She screeched.

Humdrum ignored Mysery and studied the scene on the water.  “Fishing boats mostly.  Looks like they’re at anchor.  Those further out are pylons.  Probably marking where shallow water begins.”

“And that?” Trixsay asked as she focused the camera.

Humdrum reacted to what he too was seeing through the camera. “A tidal flat.   The tide is out.  See that river.  The flat is composed of silt which is brought to the sea by such braided rivers muddy with glacial melt.”

“How did you learn all that?’  Trixsay asked Humdrum   She studied the snow-capped mountains, some volcanic.

“In New Zealand.   Remember their braided streams?”

“Hello, we’re going down.”  Trixsay said as Mysery screeched.  The plane banked toward a clump of summer grasses, Trixsay put the camera away.

The plane landed and rolled a short distance.  Outside the window, they saw people waiting for them.  Mysery sighed with relief.

A few minutes later the side door opened and Jeter moved their legs out of the opening and down.

Humdrum studied the sand.  They were on a beach—and standing in a giant footprint left by a grizzly’s kin.

Alarmed Mysery looked for the beast with wide-open eyes.

Brown Bears Footprint in Alaskan  mud
by Jeter Sleet

From 29,000-ft.

Flying due north from
    Baja to Seattle,
a band of orange-red light
    stretched  across
the extended horizon
    outside my window
as the sky above became night.

The sun seemed to
    ignite the base of
occasional clouds until
    they burned red
        as if the mists were
        sleeping on an king-sized
        bed of hot coals.
Reflected by a restless ocean,
    the sky formed a rainbow of
    blues from black to almost white.

Starlight, star bright,
the first star I see tonight.
I wish I may, I wish I might
have this wish I wish tonight.

Even though the first star I saw
    in the near blackness was
    likely the planet Venus and
    even though I was a grown-up,
    I made a wish.

I wished that our fertile Earth
    would always paint
    such wonderful sunsets.

Sunset from the level of the Pacific Ocean
by Jeter Skeet

Road Trips

My blessing for you, fellow travelers, is: May all of your stoplights be green.  Obviously this blessing doesn't count if you are traveling by air or rail or Interstate.  We were on the road last weekend which led Trixsay to ask a few questions about automobile trips—

• Why are the on-ramps to Interstates that loop around major cities labeled east and west when you want to go south? 
• Why are the Rest Stops one mile beyond the convenience store you stopped at to use the restroom because you couldn't wait any longer?
• Why do you always arrive 15 minutes after a Visitor Center closes?
• Why does a patrol car cut across the median to follow you when you've been passed by 90%  of the cars you've noticed in your rear-view mirror?
• Why isn't there more stimulating roadside reading along some stretches of Interstates.  Reading Slow moving traffic keep right or Ice may form on bridges ten or more times is boring.  Whatever happened to Burma-Shave signs?
• Why do some drivers interpret the word ‘yield' as a challenge to force another driver to move over into a crowded fast lane? 
• Why do the best scenes appear when your camera is locked up in the trunk?
• Why do men plan vacations when women's periods are due so they will be PMSing half the time and bleeding the rest?
• Why are zoos filled on weekdays with seven preschoolers per adult?
• Why are tourist traps so obviously tourist traps?

A tourist shop in Kenya
by Jeter Skeet

• Why does a two-star motel room cost twice as much in the center of town?
• Why are we continually moving from one place to another—tasting, but not digesting?  Why are we never in one place long enough to amass details that could become a setting for a story? 

In conclusion, I would like to offer just one bit of advice to you, my fellow travelers.  Fill free to call that driver who cut in front of you nearly forcing you off the road a ‘fucking SOB.’