Do scroll down (or choose from the archives) to read my first All Souls' Day entry, a tribute to Phil, my beloved soulmate and spouse who returned his body to Earth, light and the stars and his spirit to Everywhere in God when he was 37 years old in 1985. The Witness Magazine where my poetry often appeared in those years gave me a memorial tree for Phil, who was my priest Presenter at the Philadelphia Ordinations. His mother, my mother-in-love, Betty Campbell was my lay Presenter. They were both tall and lovely in their bones and made impressive bodyguards as well, for one built closer to the earth in elfin form such as me. Betty followed Phil in 1988, and his father, Doug Campbell, in 1993. Below their images are poems for all three, tops in my personal corner of the Communion of Saints across the dimensions.
First, I'll quote this passage from the Dedication page of my website, finished in content but not in design. The dedication is at the top of that page overlaid on this image of sunset coming over the Cascade Mountains with that white volcano Mt. Hood that I love, taken from my backyard, though the mountain is still sleeping . . .
“This Web site is dedicated to The Right Reverend Daniel Corrigan,
1900-1994— Champion of All Forms of Justice,
Hero of Just Causes, Prayer-full, Grace-full Activist,
1900-1994— Champion of All Forms of Justice,
Hero of Just Causes, Prayer-full, Grace-full Activist,
Truth-full and Loving Human Being—
Thank you, Dan for knocking down unjust walls
and helping me and so many others over the barriers.”
Thank you, Dan for knocking down unjust walls
and helping me and so many others over the barriers.”
Administering Holy Communion are new priests among those later referred to as the Philadelphia Eleven. Left to right: Merrill Bittner, Alla Bozarth-Campbell, Emily Hewitt and Marie Moorefield.
At the altar stands one of the three ordaining bishops, Daniel Corrigan top left, with Bishop Antonio Ramos who came from his Diocese of Costa Rica to stand in support of some of the ordinands with whom he'd attended seminary in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and and especially to offer support to his three brother bishops who were taking such a leap forward from custom by ordaining these women to the priesthood of the Episcopal Church, an act which would bring tremendous criticism from their colleagues and countless others:
At the altar stands one of the three ordaining bishops, Daniel Corrigan top left, with Bishop Antonio Ramos who came from his Diocese of Costa Rica to stand in support of some of the ordinands with whom he'd attended seminary in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and and especially to offer support to his three brother bishops who were taking such a leap forward from custom by ordaining these women to the priesthood of the Episcopal Church, an act which would bring tremendous criticism from their colleagues and countless others:
Bishop Daniel Corrigan, retired bishop of Colorado, Bishop Robert DeWitt, former diocesan bishop of Pennsylvania and Bishop Edward Welles, retired bishop of West Missouri. Read about the event in historical context in this entry:
Dan Corrigan was the bishop who ordained me to the priesthood on July 29, 1974, Feast of Saints Mary and Martha. Below at the 25th Anniversary Celebration at the Church of the Advocate, we follow little children representing the colors of humankind, holding hands as they dance down the aisle behind the drummers who established a joyful rhythm in the liturgical procession. After communion, the black Gospel choir sang sacred hymns of thanksgiving and I broke into spontaneous dance.
Twenty-fifth anniversary liturgy, procession and post-communion dance.
Eleven women risked their ministries and lives as they knew them by stepping forward to meet the bishops and present themselves for ordination to the Sacred Order of Priests. Renowned Civil Rights activist, Bishop Corrigan ordained the eldest, former space scientist Jeannette Piccard, and the youngest, Alla Renée Bozarth, at that time known as Sister Alla Bozarth-Campbell, a last name which she shared with her husband Phil Bozarth-Campbell until his untimely death in 1985. Bishop Corrigan was then 74 years old, Dr. Piccard was 79, and Dr. Bozarth(-Campbell) was 27.
Alla writes, “Decades later, when Bishop Corrigan was in his nineties, his wonderful wife Elizabeth told me that even though he was struggling with the effects of Alzheimer’s disease and unable to read prose books, he continued to stand at their Santa Barbara home windows each day facing the Pacific Ocean and then turn to face the surrounding mountains, while he read my poetry aloud as prayers. Knowing this made me happy beyond words. . . . I was grateful to know that portions of my poetry, straddling the lines between logic and sensory aesthetic centers in the brain, could serve my beloved ordaining bishop in this way as prayers of thanks and praise. After his death, Elizabeth and I had several telephone conversations during her first year of initiation into the sisterhood of loving and beloved women bereaved of their transfigured spouses.
Alla writes, “Decades later, when Bishop Corrigan was in his nineties, his wonderful wife Elizabeth told me that even though he was struggling with the effects of Alzheimer’s disease and unable to read prose books, he continued to stand at their Santa Barbara home windows each day facing the Pacific Ocean and then turn to face the surrounding mountains, while he read my poetry aloud as prayers. Knowing this made me happy beyond words. . . . I was grateful to know that portions of my poetry, straddling the lines between logic and sensory aesthetic centers in the brain, could serve my beloved ordaining bishop in this way as prayers of thanks and praise. After his death, Elizabeth and I had several telephone conversations during her first year of initiation into the sisterhood of loving and beloved women bereaved of their transfigured spouses.
“Russians call the death of the body and its holy return to the earth the transfiguration of the soul, and Dan’s soul had been able to sustain practice for its transfiguring birth into Paradise long into the development of the disease that afflicted his mind and body. What a privilege and blessing it is for me to have been part of their lives in the ways that Elizabeth reported to me before his physical death, and to remain part of her life afterward.
“I cherish the memory, among other things, of her telling me that as his physical disease progressed, having forgotten how recently he’d told her, every ten minutes or so during his waking hours he would say to her, ‘I love you.’ What a wonderful thing to hear, what a wonderful thing to say, making sure by so many moments of tender declaration that these words would be the last words she would hear of his voice on Earth.”
Dancing My Way Up
Resting up for death is not my choice—
I’d rather spin like a dervish, attired
in the crimson and purple silk vestments
of the ancient High Priest before
the Holy of Holies, a layered gown long
to the ground, bordered with dried pomegranate
rattles and golden bells, cascading rows of gold bells,
and bells on bare feet, and when I feel it
coming on, I will wear my way in sun
or holy water of rain or dark night
and find the right-feeling grass on which to turn
toward the light and dance my way into heaven.
Alla Renée Bozarth
The Frequency of Light
The Phil Tree Pictures and Poem
Here’s the Phil Tree as a baby, and not many years later,
large and protective of birds, flowers and fountain, then
as Enchanted Bottom in Love from "Midsummer Night's Dream,"
and wearing golden earrings on his dear donkey's ears:
large and protective of birds, flowers and fountain, then
as Enchanted Bottom in Love from "Midsummer Night's Dream,"
and wearing golden earrings on his dear donkey's ears:
In memory of Phil,
the tree was shorter than me
when I planted it nearly twenty
years ago, a gift from The Witness Magazine,
often visited by my poetry.
My gardener had advised me which tree
to choose. “Your husband was long and lean
and shaggy, right?”
“Right.”
"A weeping sequoia, then."
"A weeping sequoia, then."
At first, the young tree faced the mountain,
feet spread wide for balance, belly forward
as if pretending to be falling over backward in awe,
as if pretending to be falling over backward in awe,
arms outward in wonder and joy.
I once took a photograph of Phil
The Phil Tree is a weeping sequoia, then,
I once took a photograph of Phil
standing in exactly this position
on a hill in San Francisco, mouth open
in delighted mock fear of falling backward
toward Union Square and the Bay.The Phil Tree is a weeping sequoia, then,
and extending himself lovingly
and protectively toward earth,
weeps only tears of love and awe.
and protectively toward earth,
weeps only tears of love and awe.
The next summer, he had spun
to the south somehow, raised his arms
and was clearly conducting the creatures’ chorus.
The third summer he had pivoted
completely around toward the house
and placed his arms in invitational dance position,
asking me the question through my windows
whether I’d like to come out into the garden
and join him ~ "Wanna dance?"
Sometime after that he began to play his guitar.
A decade passed and birds began to perch
on his ears, which at first seemed to be two more guitar necks
carried over his back, but had become more and more a part of him.
For several years he worked as a one-tree band, playing a guitar
(twelve string no doubt), with a classical Ovation and a folk stringed instrument
slung behind him, while a contraption held a harmonica up to his mouth.
Later, it morphed into a flute, and his beard grew long beneath it.
Visitors began to say, regarding the twenty foot tree,
“It’s a bunny!” This was a happy allusion to the Easter animal,
to which I smiled in acceptance, but I knew something else was going on.
While rabbit ears serve as antennae, perhaps to heaven,
the Phil Tree was developing a double hump on its back
where the two guitars had formerly hung.
One hump might have been a back pack befitting a woodsman,
but two humps suggested that Phil and his tree
were growing their wings.
Protective limbs now reach down to curve
over a young ailing tree rose called Neon Lights,
and cradle the pyramid rocks and waterfall
to guard the gathering of all manner of birds
from the neighborhood cats and coyotes.
This is angelic work, I believe.
And those long ears pointing through the sky
hold a constellation of crimson and gold,
feathery singers swaying in the air to that music
he still makes by means I no longer can tell.
What I see is the secret pleasure of play,
my paramour wearing donkey’s ears
to woo his Titania (me) with Bottom’s dreamy seductions,
and I hear that Midsummer Night’s Dream of Mendelssohn
throughout the day, humming to me from Paradise
that Songe d’une nuit d’été!
Alla Renée Bozarth
The Frequencies of Sound
The Family
In the boat below are Phil’s dad, Doug Campbell Sr., Phil, Alla under the pink hat and Phil’s mom, Betty Campbell on Burntside Lake in the North Woods near the town of Ely and the Boundary Waters between Minnesota and Manitoba north and west and Ontario north and east. The lake party picture is followed by Betty walking in her beloved woods at Camp Van Vac where the family has enjoyed long summer vacations since Betty’s and Doug’s children were children. These pictures are from old family albums. Our dear family friend Diane Sundell took the picture of us in a boat on Burntside Lake, and Phil's older brother Doug's godfather, Bishop Fred Putnman, took the picture of Betty walking in the woods around the lake. Trust me~ Everyone in the boat is grinning. We had a great catch and were looking forward to getting back to the cabin so Betty could do her magic, frying northern pike and bass with bacon like she did with trout . . .We thanked God for our place in the food chain and dug in.
I discovered the true story on which the poem below Betty's picture is based 23 years after my father died when I tackled my closet and archives during a storm of spring cleaning and decided to go through all the files, including his. I hadn't opened it in decades. Among other treasures, I found a handwritten letter on the back of a map from Betty to my father, thanking him for his hospitality toward Betty and Doug during our wedding week in Oregon. (Along with other loving ideas he manifested, Papa had taken them to the beach to coo and cheer with him as they surreptitiously drove past our honeymoon motel!) On the car trip back to Minnesota, Doug was eager to stop at some choice rivers in Montana for a trout fishing side trip. The rest is in the poem and the facts, though shown in a poetic light, are exactly as Betty reported them to my father. What joy for me to discover this buried treasure so many years later. I wrote the poem and sent it through cyber space to Betty's family so they could read it while sharing her table together in the family house (which until recently has stayed in the family through three generations) on Mother's Day. The last poem is for Doug and speaks for itself.
Betty Learns Fly Fishing and Meets the Archangel of Angling
Up past her knees in the trout stream, a leak long poked in her waders,
leg soaked, unable to keep up with her husband jubilantly bounding
a mile ahead—she stopped to contemplate which of these
was the greater misery. ~~ Her first time angling.
What kind of a cockeyed sport is this? she thought.
Look at the man. I think I’ll hate him for a minute.
The wetter she got the more her nose ran
its own streams down her cold chin.
Her flimsy feminine hanky was in the river.
She was ready for it to snow on her next.
She hadn’t moved for two minutes
during this silent soliloquy.
Suddenly, from downstream, a very elderly fisherman,
arms up to hold his gear high, came gliding across the rocks,
his face luminous with the radiance of a person living his bliss.
He approached without slowing down or missing a stride,
and she said apologetically, “I’m a tenderfoot, but I’m trying to learn.”
“I’m an expert,” said the Ancient, and grinning with a wink, leaped passed her.
Well, I guess I didn’t impress him, she deduced with a shrug of her spirit and brow.
She turned in another direction, opened her eyes to take in the light
on the water. Before sound, she felt presence, turned again.
Here came the old fishing wizard, looking into her eyes so hard
from a shrinking distance she felt the strength
of intention before she could see him clearly.
“This is for you,” he bellowed over the ruffling water,
In a second, he was there, took her hand and opened it,
tucked a small object into it, winked again and leapt on.
She looked down in wonderment.
A pale pink and milky peach stone rested in the hollow of her palm.
The first smile of assurance slowly opened her face.
Everything cleared. Into the river rainbow fish drew her,
she never knew such happiness.
Alla Renée Bozarth
The Frequency of Light, copyright 2012
Who is this Man?
.jpg)
Doug and Betty Campbell
Who is this Man?
What a tremendous thing
to be in a boat with a man
like that, whose face and
presence are a benediction!
Everything that comes from him
comes from a calm center,
a sureness, a place of knowledge
that cannot be divided from wisdom.
Fishing by his side on a lake
in the steady gaze of the sun
is a gentle grace confounding
all reason. He’s a man
and more than a man.
This frightens me
and pleases me greatly.
Wind becomes him, trees’ leaves
throw themselves under his feet.
Greenwood glistens more, grass dances
in his path. I will learn without learning.
It is enough to be with him.
Alla Renée Bozarth
The Book of Bliss, iUniverse, 2000
and This is My Body~ Praying for Earth,
Prayers from the Heart, iUniverse 2004
Prayers from the Heart, iUniverse 2004
.jpg)
Doug Campbell, my "father-in-love,"
greets me after my ordination to the diaconate
at St. Stephen's Cathedral, Portland, Oregon.
Doug Campbell celebrates an anniversary.
The following is a tribute poem to my ancestors
represented by Villa Wiard and Will Little:
From there, the Black Madonna would patrol the streets to gather in the needy
for hot soup, hot singing and smooth clean sheets for safe sleep.
Villa and Will
When Villa Wiard
married Will Little, my generation was four constellations
away, unborn, a mere
dim, distant indefinable scent in the air beyond the farm,
the scent of the
future that came along once in awhile in the springtime.
Sarah Standish had
married John Wiard, my ancestor, eight generations earlier~
Sarah the
granddaughter of Myles Standish, who may or may not have been
the only Roman Catholic on the Mayflower, and John the descendant
of my Breton archancestor, Johannes Wiard, who fought with
William the Conqueror at Hastings.
the only Roman Catholic on the Mayflower, and John the descendant
of my Breton archancestor, Johannes Wiard, who fought with
William the Conqueror at Hastings.
Villa’s mother,
Rovilla, was French Canadian, hence the French name.
Of Great-great-Grandpa Little, I know very little, except that
his people hailed from New York.
Of Great-great-Grandpa Little, I know very little, except that
his people hailed from New York.
Will Little courted and
married Villa Wiard back in Illinois,
and their daughter Alice Delphine would grow up to become
the most educated woman around, a tiny intellectual
who was also a rural teacher and midwife,
widow and mother of four,
her youngest child my grandma.
This was almost a century of generations and miles from
the big buzzing lights of sin city Chicago, where I went from
my mountain town in Oregon to receive higher education
at the university and in the sweaty workout rooms of
The Holy Ghost Honky
Tonk Gym and The Gospel
Blues Temple of Christ. and their daughter Alice Delphine would grow up to become
the most educated woman around, a tiny intellectual
who was also a rural teacher and midwife,
widow and mother of four,
her youngest child my grandma.
This was almost a century of generations and miles from
the big buzzing lights of sin city Chicago, where I went from
my mountain town in Oregon to receive higher education
at the university and in the sweaty workout rooms of
From there, the Black Madonna would patrol the streets to gather in the needy
for hot soup, hot singing and smooth clean sheets for safe sleep.
It was one of the
few places where people would not be robbed
of the lie that we
live in a safe world, that lie being a necessary possession
which some of us
mourn the theft of, for we needed it badly and still do
and can hardly
adjust to going on without it, because now we have to know
how unsafe everyone
here is, not yet being dead.
Imagine that it’s
taken me more than half a century to realize
that when Grandma
would say to me across her tiny kitchen table
in her little green
house beneath the tall trees, “Baby, I am proud as can be
of my ancestors, and
especially of being an eleventh generation
direct descendant of Myles Standish who came to this land on the Mayflower,"
direct descendant of Myles Standish who came to this land on the Mayflower,"
she was telling me
that I was a thirteenth generation heir of the pilgrim legacy.
And incidentally, on
my grandfather’s side, seventh generation Osage Indian.
Though Myles
Standish was hired as a military organizer to set up the colony,
he came with the
Pilgrims, and lacking Puritan restraint,
he shared
their spirit of new
beginnings and their freedom to invent themselves.
And so I inherit
that spirit of independent autonomy and occasional anarchy
for the common good
that motivated those early modern immigrants.
Before them, it’d
been mostly quiet of newcomers on this continent since
the human ancestors
of the people who already lived here had immigrated
from the other
direction sixteen to twenty thousand years earlier.
The Asians, the
Europeans and then the Africans all came here with their own
songs of lament
and joy, love and supplication, their own pipes and drums
of thanksgiving
prayer.
We sons and
daughters of global immigrants, whether they came here
kidnapped and
enslaved or freely, still all sing on the same stringed instrument
built into our human throats. It’s our common birthright to sing.
built into our human throats. It’s our common birthright to sing.
We all know how to
clap and dance and ride the sound pitches on our own
breath swings through the
air, and we all pray as we choose and survive
this way, or if not
by making the sounds, by listening and carrying on inside
and saying our own
Amen in our own ways.
Being a descendant
of pilgrim people makes me the same as everyone else
since the beginning
of the Great Migration out of Africa
before the coming of
ice, when the call was strong to see how big
the world was and
how far we could go before it invited or forced us
to light ourselves
down and say, Home, if that happened, or at least,
Stay for awhile and
explore.
We all arrive
wherever we light
with our songs and
souls intact or in shreds,
depending on the
journey and how strong we are in body and spirit
and what help we had
or did not on the way.
Raising our voices
to meet angels’ choirs allows us not to mind so much,
or at least not all
the time, the fact that we can’t be safe till we’re dead.
The music of
everything keeps us all going anyway,
because it lightens
the spirit and clears the mind for when
we have to decide how we’re going to respond when
we have to decide how we’re going to respond when
life and death happen. We respond in an
instant,
sometimes, without thinking.
The singing helps us
forgive ourselves for what later
might look like bad
choices and moves.
We did the best we
could with what we knew or
believed and had at the time. We couldn’t know
the
pain and trouble our moves would lead to until
they presented
themselves.
Then we sang again,
to give ourselves mercy and firm resolve
without violent
judgment against ourselves.
At home again in Oregon, when I visit The Holy Ghost Honky Tonk
and Gospel Blues
Temple of Christ* in my mind, I come up singing
every time, dancing
around my kitchen without touching the walls,
thinking that Myles
Standish and all would never have imagined
such a sight, such a
sound, such a rhythm, such a person,
or that their own
blood runs in her veins and does such
strange and
marvelous things.
Alla Renée
Bozarth
*My names for The
Chicago Urban Training Center and Jessie Jackson’s Operation Breadbasket, where
I attended regularly, learned, cried, clapped and danced in the aisles.
My Blessed Misfortunes ~ Copyright 2012
~My Grandma~
My grandma (Papa's mama) was my best friend
through childhood. In the same private archeological
dig in my closet (see "Private Archeology" a bit past
midway on my "St. Valentine's Eve~" entry) I found
her original short story on which I based the poem below.
her original short story on which I based the poem below.
It was the same folder that had brought me the treasure
of Betty's letters.
I discovered Grandma's story on ancient yellowed paper~
of Betty's letters.
I discovered Grandma's story on ancient yellowed paper~
a story that she had written about her first year as a teacher in 1915 when she was 18 years old. Her one-room schoolhouse was filled with students from kindergarten through high school,
one of them as old as she was.
She lived in a covered wagon connected with
a boarding house. Here's my rendition
She lived in a covered wagon connected with
a boarding house. Here's my rendition
of her true story:
My Grandma~
Alice Delphine Williams
Alice Delphine Williams
Meetings of Mind
"Poetry is the one place
where people can speak
their original human mind.”
their original human mind.”
Allen Ginsberg
Ginsberg was a Gemini.
Ginsberg was a Gemini.
Ginsberg, the neurotic Manhattan ad man,
Ginsberg, the saintly beat poet, setting San Francisco
and the West Coast of time on a burning bush fire.
In high school he heard his bulky, grandmotherly
teacher, sitting in an embroider-collared black dress
at her desk, read from Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself
with exultation, and he fell all at once
in love with poetry.
My large, white-haired, bespectacled grandma,
the proven archetype, sat in her rocking chair
and uttered like an ancient Greek rhapsode
the ecstatic and sublime words of Whitman, Dickinson,
Yeats, Poe, Shakespeare’s King Lear, Browning, Byron, Tennyson’s Idylls of the King,
took me to Milton’s Paradise, and all from memory,
the divine utterances she knew by heart.
Yeats, Poe, Shakespeare’s King Lear, Browning, Byron, Tennyson’s Idylls of the King,
took me to Milton’s Paradise, and all from memory,
the divine utterances she knew by heart.
Then one day, my Celtic grandmother began,
"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed
by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging
themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning
for the ancient heavenly connection
to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night . . ."
[from Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl”] and I heard a resonant
howl in my soul. It could have made her tiny house
shake off its foundation.
howl in my soul. It could have made her tiny house
shake off its foundation.
Grandma introduced me to the Whitman of our time,
and my life as a poet began. Seven years later,
I met the man, gentle and alive with his prayer beads
and bells, chanting his mantra songs, incense curling
around his ears, as we sat in a circle on night-stained
grass beneath the half moon.
I met the man, gentle and alive with his prayer beads
and bells, chanting his mantra songs, incense curling
around his ears, as we sat in a circle on night-stained
grass beneath the half moon.
“Allen, this is Alla,” the host said,
and he lifted his wine glass like festive Pan
meeting Artemis in the wilderness, or Dionysos
finding Ariadne, abandoned to solitude and pregnant
on Naxos and ready for an uplift of wings.
and he lifted his wine glass like festive Pan
meeting Artemis in the wilderness, or Dionysos
finding Ariadne, abandoned to solitude and pregnant
on Naxos and ready for an uplift of wings.
“All praise, fair goddess,” he said with a flourish
and bow, a Russian Jew metamorphosed
to a poet past places and times, including them all,
acknowledging my Russian rootedness along with
his own among the dark roses.
Blessed, I stayed and chanted the sacred
wordless prayers of song in the company of poets
until morning past dawn.
wordless prayers of song in the company of poets
until morning past dawn.
Now he has gone to join the transcended masters,
and I am aging alone, along with the rest
of all mortal kin, but still here.
of all mortal kin, but still here.
Cleaning out my father’s files twenty-some years
after his death but able to look at them
for the first time, I find a story written by
my grandmother about her first teaching job in 1915
when she was 18 years old.
for the first time, I find a story written by
my grandmother about her first teaching job in 1915
when she was 18 years old.
A one room schoolhouse in rural northern Illinois,
her students five years old to her own age.
She called it, “Up from the Pit.”
Her students were bright and willing, except for one,
a large fifteen year old named Albert,
who loomed over her.
who loomed over her.
Whenever she began a poetry lesson,
Big Albert commenced his merciless tirade,
scoffing, complaining, ridiculing, whining.
She tried everything to win him over.
Big Albert commenced his merciless tirade,
scoffing, complaining, ridiculing, whining.
She tried everything to win him over.
Not even Whitman could move him.
One Friday she forgot to pick up her paycheck
on the way home. Her landlady wanted
the rent money, and insisted that Grandma
trudge back for it after supper.
Thinking to save two of the three miles’ journey
on the way home. Her landlady wanted
the rent money, and insisted that Grandma
trudge back for it after supper.
Thinking to save two of the three miles’ journey
by cutting through a corn field, she was grateful
for moonlight on the chilly fall night.
She followed the fence line, but did not see
a fifteen foot open pit straight ahead.
Down she went, rolling the slope
to the bottom, where she hit water.
Terrified of what might be in there, she clawed
at the weeds on the slope side and dug her boots
into earth, screaming for help and cold to the bone.
for moonlight on the chilly fall night.
She followed the fence line, but did not see
a fifteen foot open pit straight ahead.
Down she went, rolling the slope
to the bottom, where she hit water.
Terrified of what might be in there, she clawed
at the weeds on the slope side and dug her boots
into earth, screaming for help and cold to the bone.
Presently, a male voice responded, and following
the map of her sounds, a familiar face soon appeared
in the wide opening above her.
By moonlight she could see
that it was none other than Big Albert,
come to help or taunt her.
come to help or taunt her.
And taunt her he did, laughing and teasing
for fully five minutes, until she sobbed in rage,
“You fiend! Get me out of here now!”
for fully five minutes, until she sobbed in rage,
“You fiend! Get me out of here now!”
Albert had her right where he wanted her,
down in the pit and helpless.
down in the pit and helpless.
“Okay, Teacher, I’ll get you out on one condition—
that you never again try to teach me poetry.”
“Yes! Fine! Now get me out!” He bent down the long
supple limb of a young tree growing on the edge
of the pit and she grabbed it to pull herself steadily up
as she climbed the slippery cone, until he could reach her and haul her all the way out.
Her enemy had become her savior.
supple limb of a young tree growing on the edge
of the pit and she grabbed it to pull herself steadily up
as she climbed the slippery cone, until he could reach her and haul her all the way out.
Her enemy had become her savior.
He’d been there down the fence line setting traps.
As he walked her to the school’s business office
and back again, she said, “Albert, I’ve tried so hard
to make you like me. Why don’t you?”
Surprised, he said, “Teacher, I like you fine!
You’re a good teacher, you make me want to learn.
I just can’t get that poetry, and it makes me sick trying.”
and back again, she said, “Albert, I’ve tried so hard
to make you like me. Why don’t you?”
Surprised, he said, “Teacher, I like you fine!
You’re a good teacher, you make me want to learn.
I just can’t get that poetry, and it makes me sick trying.”
After that, when it would come time for poetry lessons,
my teenaged grandmother would give Albert a wink
to cue him to go outside for a smoke. He’d grin
and she’d nod in consent and out to freedom he went.
to cue him to go outside for a smoke. He’d grin
and she’d nod in consent and out to freedom he went.
There’s Albert now, on the schoolhouse stoop,
lighting up a home-rolled stogie, and . . .
there’s Allen Ginsberg, just in from the future,
emerging from a field of tall corn and . . .
sitting down beside him to ask for a smoke.
lighting up a home-rolled stogie, and . . .
there’s Allen Ginsberg, just in from the future,
emerging from a field of tall corn and . . .
sitting down beside him to ask for a smoke.
I see them greeting each other,
the light between them, and
their conversation begins . . .
their conversation begins . . .
Oh, Grandma, everything’s going to be all right now.
Postlogue:
"You're a poet? . . ."
"Um hum. . . . Why?"
"Oh, I don't know,
I guess some people were just
born unlucky. . . ."
"Have you ever read any of my things?"
"No, no, I can't say that I have."
"Too manly for poetry?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"Well, I wrote a poem last night
while you were sleeping."
"Oh, you did? . . . Well,
you just keep it."
Jimmy Stewart to Claudette Colbert in
It’s a Wonderful World, 1939
Alla Renée Bozarth
My Blessed Misfortunes
Copyright 2012
Mama and Papa
As for my parents in the Great Communion,
I write about them extensively with dozens of pictures
on my website, which will ultimately be completed,
and also a little bit in the Interview here, and in more
detail in my book, Womanpriest which can be found
in the chronological listings below the Interview:
I write about them extensively with dozens of pictures
on my website, which will ultimately be completed,
and also a little bit in the Interview here, and in more
detail in my book, Womanpriest which can be found
in the chronological listings below the Interview:
Here's this, though, about my grandma's sister
Aunt Martha's garden, and their generation
of my family on Sunday afternoons.
Great Aunt Martha’s Grapes
In the summertime, Grandma and Grandpa
loved to play cards with Aunt Martha and
Uncle Tom on Sunday afternoons.
I watched and drank lemonade and honey.
One Sunday afternoon, it was Uncle Tom’s
turn to be “Dummy,” which meant
he had to leave the table and go play with me.
turn to be “Dummy,” which meant
he had to leave the table and go play with me.
He said he’d show me Aunt Martha’s grapevines,
full of fat purple fruit and huge leaves.
full of fat purple fruit and huge leaves.
“Pick one, Baby,” he said, and with one tug
it was free and into my open mouth.
it was free and into my open mouth.
Oh! What sweetness! What flavor! What glee!
Two more stuffed in, and then I said,
“I want to pick Aunt Martha some.”
Good thing I had my pink plastic purse
strapped across my chest for such things.
I filled it until it would barely close.
After awhile, we went back inside.
Uncle Tom sat on the couch
and spat in his spittoon, and
told how Baby had loved
the good grapes, ripe to perfection.
Grandma poured more lemonade.
I forgot about my gift to Aunt Martha.
It must have been some days or weeks
later when Mama noticed my pink purse
turning purple. What she thought
when she opened it she did not say.
In later years, she said I once collected
the best, ripest grapes from the vineyard
for a very special family communion wine.
It was a Sunday to remember.
Alla Renée Bozarth
My Blessed Misfortunes
Copyright 2012.
To end today’s celebration of the Great Communion, three poems from Love's Alchemy followed by an image of sunset on Mt. Hood.
You Have to Practice for Paradise
You have to
practice
for Paradise.
The music of sweet
forgiveness,
the colors of love,
the poetry of gratitude,
the dance of pure bliss.
And the food! the food
that needs your soul’s
palate at its highest
pitch of receptivity
to be sensitive to such
delicate, deep flavors.
You can’t keep postponing
your real life.
You can’t keep renting
your experience,
giving yourself only
in half doses,
a provisional presence,
a bit player
in your own existence.
Give it all you’ve got
every day.
You must empty and cleanse
your glass each time
to be able to fill it again
with everything fresh
and new.
Let go of attachment
and no longer identify
with merely your ego, your
body.
Don’t dismiss Reality
just because it’s too weird
to be true.
Go deeper to where the meaning is,
where the mystery lives.
You can only describe it
in as ifs.
Real bears don’t speak English.
Real angels don’t have feathers
or faces.
But we draw them
by our own lines of connection
to be able to relate beyond
ourselves
and understand ourselves and
them
through them and with them.
A fairy tale almost always
has the facts wrong, but
if you insist
on just the facts
you may miss the truth.
Listen to the Mystery
call your name. It will be
with love, love and forgiveness
and faith in you. And love~
Mysterious and True.
Alla Renée Bozarth
Love’s
Alchemy
Copyright 2012.
All the Way Home
We waffle and wobble
our way through life,
for we don’t see any signs
forbidding us, saying
No Waffling! or, Wobbling Not
Allowed!
It’s a balance kind of thing.
But we cannot be expected to
have balance,
for we live on a planet that
got knocked
off its course and wobbles and
tilts
its own way through time.
One moment of decision
after another, moment by
unconscious moment. And
once in awhile a moment opens
into an eternity of meaning,
an infinity of depth,
and we know the soul
has become involved,
engaged, made a choice,
not waffling or wobbling
but definite, clear.
And those steady moments
are what see us clear.
In a moment of conscious
clarity I choose to be here
and then to be not here
but Elsewhere.
I do not choose to torment myself
with unconscious indecision
that the body expresses
as more suffering.
The suffering is to give us time
and to get our attention.
I have had enough and more than enough of that.
I choose all of my life, free
and clear.
Ambivalence outgrown, I am fully alive and in love
with creation. When Nature
says, Well done,
it can move me whole from here
to there.
And this is a decision
of an awakened soul.
I do not want to be sabotaging my direction
by making secret, untrusting
decisions
behind my own back.
Let this choice hold
and hold me true to the course,
from the darkness at noon
to the brightness of midnight,
then Beyond.
Alla Renée Bozarth
Love’s Alchemy
Copyright 2012
How the Heart Becomes Pure
I know
the fractures
of the heart,
those burnt‑
open places
where the light
breaks through.
There are some
among us brave
enough and true
who are the pure
of heart and they
do not blow smoke
through these openings
to seal and darken them.
By Grit and Grace,
by Grace and Grit
they grow through
the fires like melting
gold, they survive
their wounds and grow
strongly into themselves
and graciously
beyond themselves.
They seem never to age,
and also to be very old.
To befriend such souls
is to be blessed past measure
and deeply encouraged—
our own timid hearts made
stronger, larger, lighter,
ready to open, becoming love
with or without love.
Pure and free to the end,
they endure.
They are always
beginning.
They are always here.
Alla Renée Bozarth
Love’s Alchemy
Copyright 2012
Mt. Hood, from the top of my hill before
winding down the road into the hollow
and up again to Wisdom House in Bear Haven
and the Garden of Rosa Mystica.
and up again to Wisdom House in Bear Haven
and the Garden of Rosa Mystica.
Trees, birds, flowers, Mt. Hood and dawn images are mine,
top image is by Mary Batinich, Mt. Hood in Alla's eyes is by
John Jarman, black and white communion photo of the Philadelphia
Ordinations is from Time Magazine, color images of the 25th
anniversary of the ordinations at the Church of the Advocate
are by Carolyn Prescott, boat picture of the family on Burntside Lake
near Ely, Minnesota was taken by Diane Sundell, and
the beautiful image of my mother-in-love Betty Campbell in Minnesota's
North Woods was taken by Bishop Fred Putnam, a family friend.
