3,000 Words About a Picture

During June 2016, long time member of the Sonoma Writers Alliance, Joan Shepherd, suggested that a painting by Sonoma artist, Christine MacDonald be the inspiration for the weekly poem or prose story that members write and read each week. This is a reversal of the axiom that “a picture is worth 1,000 words” but it was not offered that this was just an exercise in mathematics.  Serious readers ... and writers ... know that all collections of words are not equal in their impact. Think of the first line of The Constitution of the United States of America, its 52 words preface the guidance of an entire nation. 

Following are some of the poems and stories inspired by Christine MacDonald’s work of art. They bear witness that the picture inspired much variation in the imagination of the writers and their perception of the artist’s inspiration that bore the image. The writers hope you will enjoy their work and Christine’s. 

Christine’s website : http://www.christinemacdonald.com      

The Dog Who Looked at the Moon - Lucille Hamilton

I know I will upset grammarians who will point out that “who” is only for the two-legged animals. Who, in my book, is reserved for those whose spirit is so finely tuned to speaking with us humans that it would be improper if not inappropriate to use which, which would raise up a debate on what of Great Mysterious’s creations has a soul, etc. and I don’t want to go down that passage with the dog I have in mind. 

   

Finn appeared in our lives one autumn afternoon when we were having a break from our chores, sitting out on the lawn overlooking the islands that have surfaced near in the bay of the main land. They have taken on the aspect of the Arthurian tales of mystery, of places where the wounded spirit goes to be revived. And it is true, for I have seen just a casual tourist altered by a visit to the isles, experiencing a change that is quiet and yeasty in its ability to rise and form some self-questioning that leads to change and reassurance. 

We had no idea where Finn, as we came to call him, came from. We were having tea and he just wandered up our slight hill and sat down, head on paws observing. He had no collar and as no one claimed him, he became ours. He came as a frolicking shoe-munching puppy, and grew into a thoughtful and intuitive being, able to watch with wisdom and affection the interplay of the humans he had taken on. 

He could tell the shift in the weather, which can be quite sudden living among the islands as we do. He knew when and where fish were gathering and kept us informed of predators, barking at skunks and deer. He could read people’s intentions. It wasn’t until some time passed that we became aware of his many skills at understanding and translating for us that which is unseen. 

The picture of him you have held in your hands, well, I’m sure you have felt the magic of it. There is a story that goes with it. Christine is an artist who lives further up the hill on the edge of the forest. She and her husband have lived on Barra all their lives and are familiar with the folk tales and myths such places hold to themselves. Christine has the same “eye” as Finn. They understand each other and it was she who taught us to pay proper attention to Finn and his behavior. 

We all know how the moon affects us. It does so particularly with Finn. He will go down to the beach at the full moon and sit, sort of meditating on what that world  traveler has to teach him. The effect on the tides, the running of the fish, foxes in the woods and the return of spirits for good or mischief. Finn ”knew”  that the Ferguson’s calf was in danger alone in the woods, that Angus was having trouble with the haul of salmon he had landed, that Elsie’s barn had caught fire. That sort of thing. He also anticipated events: if you found him sitting and not budging from some place, you’d better pay attention as some thing requiring your attention was bound to happen. 

It has been a long time here on Barra since we’ve had a Spirit Dog with us and it is important to recognize that it has happened with the coming of Finn back to our island world. It encourages us and reminds us to pay attention to what is natural and nourishing to us and our world, that there are always signs out there for our interpretation. That is why we have come to sit beside Finn on nights when he is down at the beach watching the full moon rise in the sky, enlightening us all. 

                                        ***

I Had Rather Bay the Moon Than Be Such a Roman - Michael James

Hey Moon, listen up, my friend! Give me your full, round attention!

I’ve had it with people! They are weird. They get themselves tied up in knots all the time, mostly over trivial things like speculating about the morality of their actions because they can’t do things just for them-selves. They have to have reasons before they can push themselves into action. So they like to make fun of us canines who, once a month, feel the fur rising along our spines, and cannot rest until we have found a nice cliff overlooking a lake where we can reconnect, through some full-bodied howls, with you, the light of our nights. We don't hold back under the full moon; we let it all hang out, both lungs, full throated. Nothing namby-pamby about us on those occasions.

And two-legs wonders what we do it for! They can’t imagine that we don’t do it for anything at all. We just do it! What’s so mysterious about that?

If a two legs were caught howling under a full moon, you’d know for sure it would be an act, a put-on or for some reason like research. They have to cook up justifications for all their actions; they can’t do anything simply because they want  to.  You don’t hear us wondering if we are treading on someone’s toes, or awakening sleepers in their four walls when we bark at night. We don’t worry if the senate is going to think us ill-mannered for cracking open the midnight safe and letting out the family chords for all to hear. We go for it, man, and be damned with what anyone thinks! 

When two-legs wants to take a hike out in the woods and fields, he can’t allow himself just to take off. He has to put on funky clothes, round up a couple of wheezing buddies, gather a bunch of sticks and little white balls, and march around prissy little greens whacking his balls ahead of him, pretending to lose them, then finding them each time and whacking them again. And two legs don’t seem to find that funny or peculiar; they don’t go putting each other in kennels for doing that even though it makes no sense.

Of course one of their main shortcomings is not taking time for really important things, like looking around them, listening, smelling, tasting, touching whatever they come across. Take smell, for example. I don’t think they have more than the slightest experience of a real aroma; in fact I don’t suppose most of them use more than one word to express olfactory sensations. “Smell:” that’s it for them. You know, they say we don’t see color, that everything we see is a melange of blue-grey-green. Well, maybe. But if so, we more than make up for that deficiency in the range of odors we can detect, in the audio frequencies we receive, in the tiniest movements we observe without even trying.

From our point of view, two-legs are sensorily deprived; they live in a world that would bore us stiff, it contains so little of interest. Nothing is going on; that’s probably why they have to yack so much. Why, they don’t even touch each other when they meet, except for a vey quick paw shake. How does one know another’s internal condition if he doesn’t smell her? How does he know whether to trust another if he doesn’t take the time to read his body language? They exist in little cocoons almost sealed off from each other and the world as if out of fear of contamination, fear of losing themselves in other beings, or fear of diluting themselves. They are a sorry lot! 

And yet they have the audacity to lord it over us, to make judgements about us based on the poorest sensory data you can imagine. And yet, with the little information they can scrounge up, they tell us we don’t have immortal souls and what we do possess isn’t going to the same place as they are when we die. Well I’ve got news for them, baby: they ain’t going anywhere either! All their notions about an afterlife for people who were good on earth is mere superstitious fantasy, wishful thinking at best. 

They like to think of us as inferior to them and not in need of things like freedom. Some of them keep their poor dogs ever on the leash except when they’re inside a house or a cage or a back yard. What cruelty! Imagine being born to roam free, to run with deer, to chase other four-legs in play, and being denied using that gift which Nature gave us! People who do that to their dogs should be euthanized, put down, terminated, or if that were considered extreme punishment, at least have their dog taken away and be replaced with a cat.

That would take an organization like an SPCA with police powers, and I wonder, Moon, in your flight around the globe, would you see if such a force exists anywhere, and would you tell me on my next howling night if you find one? Thank you, Moon!

***

The Tale of Mud the Mutt - Beverly Koepplin

Where have all the sheep gone?

I just took a short nap, where I was out of the wind and warm,

and when I woke up, the sheep were all gone.

I climbed over hill and through dale

and followed their scent and lost it and found it and lost it again

until I came to this beach, and I do not see the sheep anywhere.

I don’t really want to go into the water to look for them.

I think if they were here and went swimming,

they are long past saving anyway, just lumps of wet wool by now.

And besides I am not a water dog, I am a herder.

If I go in the water, I paddle gracefully, head held high.

I do not romp and splash and come out all smelly with a dripping snout.

It is getting darker and colder.

The orange ball in the sky is sinking into the water

and I am so hungry and tired.

I wish the sheep would show up so we could all go home.

I cannot return to the farm without the sheep.

If I did, my name would be Mud.

                                       ***

Watch Dog - Dave Lewis

My master he went fishing

Leaving me and the sheep behind

To the duties of a shepherd

He seems just totally blind

A storm blew up the day he left

Churned the ocean all to foam

Left the missus solitary

Scared in an empty home

Didn’t smash him on the shore

It blew him to the west

Out over the horizon

Where the sun god goes to rest

Now the priest he comes by regular

To keep the missus cozy

Shows up in the dark he does

The neighbor is quite nosey

Just looked to the ocean and saw

A boat with a broken mast

She sports a tiny sail 

But not coming very fast

‘tis the master’s boat I’m seeing

Tacking toward the bight

I’d better warn the priest

Or there’ll be an awful fight.

                 ***

Ode to a Master - Robyn Makaruk

I was there with you as you lay on your deathbed, 

your hand on my head.

I listened to your fading breath and

heard your whispered last words to me

“I’ll meet you in time, my faithful one, 

when you join me in Valhalla.”

They wrapped your mortal remains in the robes 

befitting the most revered of our tribe,

and placed them on the drekar

with the dragon-head already breathing fire 

as the long ship headed towards the horizon 

on the outgoing tide.

I am still here as the sentinel of your memory, 

my beloved Master.

Your essence has shrouded even the moon 

as I await the journey to join you.

***

Harold - Ellie Portner

Harold was a small

Brown-haired shaggy mutt

Rescued from the pound

And certain death

Harold was mine

Mine was the hand that fed him

Mine were the errands we ran together

Mine was the piano where he urinated

When I left the house without him

His were the fleas

That invaded the carpets

That could jump knee high

To grab a bit of blood

His was the stink earned

Scaring the skunk

Under the house

His was the cancer

That ended our friendship

Mine was the sorrow

That Harold was no longer

A part of my life

              ***

A Dog's Tale - Joan Shepherd

Truthfully, I have never seen a mermaid. And I wonder about King Neptune, apparently a human of royalty who is the ruler of the seas. Sailors have reported seeing beautiful mermaids, even some that waved to the men to come closer. A whiskered cook wearing a greasy apron told me this story late one night as I drank strong coffee in a cafe in Scotland.

King Neptune had  been  ruling the oceans as long as anyone could remember. In the beginning, the oceans were pristine with  beautiful coral reefs in all kinds of colors, like a rainbow under water. Plants, too, grew tall, waving with the current of water to an audience of fish and other creatures. All kinds of fish, big and small, shared the seas in comfort, giving fisherman their catch in order to keep the occupancy in control. One could even see mermaids swimming about and often on a stable rock sunning themselves. No one ever saw an ugly mermaid. Half fish with scales reflecting the sunlight and an upper torso of a lovely woman using her long hair as cover for modesty.

One would think the mermaids would be happy living a life in or out of the oceans. But not Serenity. She had won every swimming contest except three when she didn't compete but was posing for a painter. Being out of the water and doing something productive pleased her. Talking to the artist was stimulating. Some of the underwater creatures had noticed Serenity with the artist and began calling her “Siren” instead of Serenity, so Severity decided go see King Neptune. 

King Neptune couldn't stay out of the water like Serenity so they met by the barrier reef in Australia.” Your majesty’”, Serenity began. “I have not been very happy lately. This sea is wonderful but it is changing. It's not as clear as it used to be, I almost got hit by some dumped garbage and I'm losing my scales. See here?” She indicated several spots on  her shimmering tail.  “I’m being teased and called a Siren just because I enjoyed talking with a man who was painting a picture of me. I'm thinking I'd like to leave this sea and live on land. But I can't looking like this. Not only would everyone stare at me but I wouldn't be able to walk and explore the land. I want to run, I want to meet more humans and see what they are like.I want to eat something besides fish and greens.” She began to weep salty tears that weren’t noticeable because they were under water at this meeting.

King Neptune listened intently with concern. “I understand, Serenity. You have been a good and beautiful addition to our oceans. I’d hate to have you leave but feeling like you do, it might be best. You can’t possibly go on land as a human.I do have the power, with help and your cooperation, to let you leave the sea and survive.You will be cold so you need fur. You want to run and explore with some independence so you’ll get four legs for speed and distance without tiring.You will need guidance so we’ll give you a human to teach, guide and love you.  And, you will need to learn dependance on others as well as loving those that help you. And lastly, you will miss the sea that has been your home so we’ll put you on a seashore and trust you to use all your instincts and knowledge to succeed. Are you still determined to make this change?”

It was now Serenity’s turn to think silently before a smile crept across her face, her eyes directed to King Neptune’s eyes. With a determined voice, said yes . “I think the best change would be a cat or dog. A cat  seems too small but can take care of itself. I want people in my life as I learn to  adjust to legs. A dog it is.”

The King gave her a few days to make sure she was ready  but her excitement was obvious. She caught  crab and lobster and got an octopus to crack the shells, wrapped fish eggs in seaweed, got some clams to dig up some turtle eggs for a party with all her mermaid  friends. A table of woven seaweed was decorated with trinkets made from fishing gear men had lost as well as borrowed coral which was returned immediately afterwards. All her friends were curious to watch the transformation but the King demanded a completely private spot near a dock where he and Serenity went through the painless magical procedure. The mermaid changed into a fairly large black and white dog that immediately shook sending droplets of water on King Neptune, then licked the Kings face and trotted off on four mostly stable legs. The dog explored the area a bit, ate a few french fries left on the wharf, and wagged it’s tail in pleasure. A man approached the dog and gave a few pets on it’s head which the dog seemed to appreciate but trotted down to the edge of the sea and looked out. The dog had no recollection of anything prior to the last hour but  for some reason, felt a deep attraction to the sea. A fisherman called out, “Hey there girl, you going to sit there all night? Come over here and get acquainted. I’ve got a treat for you.”

The dog’s head turned to look at the man, then back to the water, and back to the man. 

“Come on, girl. I won’t hurt you. Look here”, as he extended his hand.

The dog’s tail began to wag.  She stood and slowly walked to see what was in that hand.

                                         ***