Ask Martha Ward LLC

07/15/2021

Terrifying & Beautiful 3.14.21
by Martha Koock Ward

Ageism, race, gender, class
shunning, shaming, blaming
- all that is crass, craven,
a damnable morass. Denying
your existence denies mine,
both are losses, light condemned
to darkness, neither light to shine.

What if instead, we pooled our empti-
ness in a formless field of mutual caring,
where each could fulfill our limitless,
creative selves, expressing & growing
our capacity. What universe could be
seen?

I feel such anxiety and frustration
to the max, how hatred, fear
and misunderstanding drain our
life potential, leaving us like dry
husks, empty sacks, untried, un-
trusting, torn into rags.

Let me lay this burden down by
some other stream, of thought -
a dream, a vision of possibilities
From the arc of its bow, arrows
released will flow through the current
of air, and land, plant, grow our true
selves in a garden there.

07/12/2021

When at the End… 7.5.21
by Martha Ward

When at the end, there was
hardly a goodbye. Children
how they can flee to be what
they are to be, unknown,
evolving on their own.

Deeds done are done far away,
unknown, unremarked,
known perhaps to some distant
observer, participant, teacher.

All the more cherished when
she sails back into my heart’s
port once more. No need for her
to knock, it’s always an open
door, on a creaky hinge.

Fielding questions pictures appear
~some of what’s transpired over
the now gone years. Does it matter
how long the wait? Not really.

In the interim years, I’ve changed
too, my learning curves taught by
her absence & that of others I once
knew. Pieces of puzzles placed in
a peculiar frame, some don’t fit,
some have fallen off the table,

At the end, our respective mysteries
return from whence they came.

07/12/2021

04/15/2021

As if Walking on Thin Air…by Martha Koock Ward 3.29.21

It’s curious to think my life path
may be like the quest in “The Last
Crusade”, for the “Holy Grail.”
Well, it is my quest, right?
Remember, Indiana Jones threw
sand across the abyss, making
visible, the path to the cave. There the
plain goblet Jesus used at the Last
Supper sat among the gilded gold and
silver posers.

A Knight Templar, the eternal guard,
witnesses the failed discernment
of all comers to select the sacred,
and instead choose a secular vessel.

My departure from that a path is
like Pinocchio’s. I allow myself
to be seduced by some wily fox, and
needy dog along what appeared to be
soft mossy sidetracks, short cuts, and
unmarked mazes, missing opportunities,
and loosing sight of aspiration.

Climbing out of gulches and sliding down
weak shale sides of hope and despair,
I landed in Poetry. Here, I am stripping away my
own falsehoods; finding my faith and embracing
gratitude; savoring solace beyond all paths.
My quest is relinquished, in favor of enough.

By Martha Ward – 3.29.21

03/17/2021

the stamp of uncertainty 3.17.21
by Martha Ward

My descent into the
circle of life,
of light,
of sound and
the movement of everything.

The severing of the cord
of safety, of surety.

The loss myself, no longer within.
Without.

My eyes smeared with an
unknown unguent.

My velvet skin washed of the only
clothing I had ever known.

With ink rolled on the
soles of my feet, and those
held just so against the
official document, I was marked
with the stamp of uncertainty,
and entered a world unknown.

“A truth which comes to us from outside always bears the stamp of uncertainty. We can believe only what appears to each one of us in our own hearts as truth.”
Rudolf Steiner

03/12/2021

LATE

The White rabbit poked up an ear
than his nose, out of the hole in my
head. He said, “I’m late, I’m
late for a very important date.”
Then fled, taking my thoughts
with him of what I meant, instead.

I arrived, late – nonetheless, was
let in. Words to prompt me, as
this poem I spin. Spinning a web
of where I have been and what it
means to be late again.

What was it tonight that kept me
at bay. Well, it was Aretha’s singing
in a well documented way. She
reminds me of how much I miss
my own song, so I start to hum, to
see if I can lure it back home.

Or, is it in silence where I am clear
as a bell, taking a vacation from
knowing or needing to tell? I won’t
let where I am, or how. dictate some
problem state. I just wait for the
chime to ring loudly, that says come,
let’s hear our poetry read aloud.

by Martha Ward – 3.11.21

03/11/2021

Ever the Bridge

Curiosity walked me
to the middle of the Bridge.
Here, Patience and Hope
awaited my arrival.

Each offered guidance.

Patience’s gift, for me, was
to notice the openings,
at the beginning and end
of my breath, where a gentle
eternity of spaciousness
offers loving comfort to me,
without concerns nor problems.

Hope reminded me that all
change is the language of the
universe, that I am a syllable
of that language and the Word
has the capacity to carry my
very meaning to the other side
to unlimited being.

I leaned on the railing of the Bridge
and watched the waters flowed beneath,
carrying my possessions away.

By Martha Koock Ward

02/25/2021

through a cold night (revised)
my only poem for Storm Uri February 2021

Cold has frosted both pane
and wall. The floor, a vampire’s
icy breath, drains heat from my core,
with each step, my feet are its frozen
feast.

My eyes are sewn into the dark,
no light to make my lids come part.
I’ve fallen deep into a dreamless
night, from which even my fantasies
have taken flight.

The naked night shades where I left my head,
pillowed in some other world, its dreams
waiting to be unfurled. Finding blankets,
I swaddle, head to toe, with cold.

My ark landed, I stretch along this shivering
shore, I slip between stem and stern,
finding berth, in darkness. Some heat persists
within, a banked coal still burns.

Lost in flannel folds, an infinity unfolds
where no stories take hold. Wordless,
with no thought for form, I'm held without
harm. The sun creeps in with his warming
dawn, and promises to stay all day.

02/04/2021

This Planet Makes Sense 2.3.21
by Martha Ward

I orbit often around orbs of
others, in the atmosphere of
their altered states, lacking oxygen,
lifeforms mingle with dead ideas.
Pheromones pe*****te my outer self,
while within, I seep into dreams of
infinite possibilities.

"O, what a world, what a world" cried the
Wicked Witch of the West, as she puddled
under a wash of water soaking her persona
of being a hag, living with flying monkeys
as her only companions, and they subject
to her demands like "January-6ers"to their
windy-wasteful leader.

But what of now? This morning, I saw the
moon waltzing away with the stars, and the
sun kissing the leaves, where their toes touch
the twigs that hold them tenderly. From my door,
I orbit my home front, quietly, fueled by
my breath, wrapped with memories of loves
lost midst the labor of living. Yet there is more.

01/15/2021

You Can Write Me Down in History
by Martha Koock Ward 1.6.21

When all was a crumble -decency,
democracy, derided by desecraters,
was I among you, while you witnessed,
horrified?

I had a choice, I chose well, for me,
to assemble with generations of my
family relations, to relive a tradition
of storytelling we know well.

This Epiphany offered two expressions of
the state of our State. One burst forth from
darkest fears and rage; Congress & Senators
present, nationwide viewers were shaken to the core.

The other was composed of our families’ children,
seen across a virtual stage. Angels, Shepherds,
carol singers, the audience from near and far,
our 81st annual trek, we followed the wandering star,
into this glorious night.

Four Jesuses in the mangers – one deep in Brazil;
another on the Texas Coast; the youngest babe
born is Seattle's latest boast, the oldest hales from
north of Big-D. Magi, three kings knelt before the
Jesus-babes, humbled by Innocents' mystery.

Yes, you may write me down as one who indulged
in love of family, during this indelible day in history.

01/12/2021

Rock Skipper - 1.11.21

The world champion rock skipper has
such a studied windup of his body, as
he prepares to launch the flat stone,
carefully curated , cradled in his
right rear reaching hand. Ready,
aim, fire…..

Silence, until the stone kisses the
surface, like a child, a spouse, in a
hurry, barely buzzes your cheek, and
is gone on, out the door to explore,
to earn some more.

The rock skipper’s eyes travels with the stone,
counting how many other kisses it delivers
across the water, stretching out longer,
going still further, fueled on by each
kiss.

The stone thrills at causing the water
to pucker for more, knowing the water
would swallow it whole, if it slowed.
The kisser knows that to tarry would be a
mistake. If slowed, the stone’s last kiss
could be at the bottom of the lake,
gathering moss, not glory.

On the shore, a young woman marks the
final kiss of stone on the wet surface, before
it fades, in a flash. She knows better kiss
awaits her, when she welcomes her world
champion rock skipper home.

01/02/2021

2021

Did I push the door open,
or was it pulled from the
other side? Regardless, the
frost-fresh rush of air filled
me, enlivening the possible
with a sharply increased
likelihood of probability.
Ha! Throw such description
into the dustbin of 2020,
more hind, lacks sight there.

Instead, awaken and be amazed!
Our strength in numbers & will
wedged open our ability to choose
better options, kindness over crazy.
It’s like entering a familiar grocery
and finding all the produce and
packaging has been surprisingly
rearranged.

Together we will can help find
where the ketchup, kale, candies,
coffee, crab cakes, creams,
scrubbers & soaps have been
relocated. That’s our full time job
now, to assist and reorient each
other, to support a new landscape,
to help each other find what is needed.

01/01/2021

SO LITTLE IS STONE - 12.31.20

So little is stone.
But this doesn’t matter.
I placed those stones weeks
before wobbling off one, and
crashing to the ground on
another, breaking my arm.

Those rocks were placed, by
me to address a question about
where a boundary was located.
That’s it isn’t it? Wanting
respect, giving respect, unsure
where the lines are, marking
them well or crudely.

I laughed when my sister
congratulated me on setting
up the scene for the accident.
I recall my acceptance when
the bone snapped, and the grace
of all that supported me from
that moment to this, where
I’m re-educating my muscles,
stretching my tendons, and such.

Could there have been another
approach? I don’t know, and I
have encountered so much good
– like my non-dominant hand being
useful in new ways; and receiving,
accepting help I never thought I’d
need. Boundaries shift, rocks rock,
bodies fall, most get up and move
on.

12/30/2020

Darkness Deepens
by Martha Koock Ward 7.16.20

The darkness around us deepens.
The light lingers over the trees as
the remaining heat shifts off, in a
rising breeze.

Our conversations wander aimlessly,
a fragile sequence. We are like children
sharing secrets, under a blanket of stars,
that dart on then off, shaken in sand
from the Saharan desert.

There is something on your heart that
hesitates, pauses longer at the commas
than usual. Like a dasher pulled from
the ice cream freezer, you are full and
yet seem reluctant to leave the dark
that thoughts can carry on uneven
ground.

The space station passes
overhead more quickly than
anticipated and the dark is full.
Departing, you turn and tell me
the rest, that refuses to go home
until it is said.

12/03/2020

When I remember
by Martha Ward 12.2.20

When I remember the child, I
see me nesting in the giant fig
tree’s labyrinth of limb, moving
lithely or peering through the
leaf patterns playing silent notes
conducted by the sun heat Milky
stem juice oozes it stickiness.

When I remember the child, I
recall the heat pressing into my
tender forearm from the linen
ironing press, I had no business
touching, in a house without
adults around.

When I remember the child, I
feel the depth of bosom enfold
me and smother me with what
I needed most. To be seen, to
be heard, to be fed, and shooed
out to play.

When I remember the child, I
find me in the middle of myself
finding how to be a bug in the
rug” of my everyday self, and
knowing, always, where I can
find me.

12/01/2020

Bones by Martha Koock Ward
I throw the bones across this page of my life.
It feels important to gain guidance, as globally,
meaning of life is shifting.
From my place of temporary stability, divination
feels possible, as the ancients of many cultures
used such elemental forms: bones, shells, sticks
to gain focus, assurance for the near while, for
their next steps.

A feeling of calmness has been growing, in me,
not my usual “stir the pot” point out the deficits,
about where we missed the mark. For the first time
I am willing to wait, to observe, to find the
connections between disparate states within
the collapse and collision of currents of change.
How can I account for this?

In the marrow of my bones, the sentient seat of
my being I have anticipated this time, this tipping
point, where the status quo couldn’t stay and
had nowhere to go, except to exit the scene.
I had wanted this new age to replace the old
within some ordered scheme. Indeed it appears
to be doing the opposite, to the extreme.

Do I know if I will see “the other side," take
hold of what is an unknown shore? I do not
know. Yet, it doesn’t seem important to me,
to know, instead, its being present each day.
Its not necessary, for me to enter the fray. Nor,
indeed, this is where I’m called to go.

Such is the divination that comes from the
throwing of the bones across this page of
my life.

6.15.20 – ODD Monday Poetry – prompt - “What do I know deep in my bones?”

11/24/2020

No Other Shore/The Only Bank 11.18.20

I row my boat ashore, walk the
bank, find a stream that feeds
into the larger body of water.

Cradled on a mat of reeds the
baby self of me, freshly born,
waiting to be lifted, to be claimed.

I lean down and take this me to
my chest, shoulder, heart and
hear myself sigh with relief.

Coming home to myself, bigger,
braver, more balanced, after years
covered by others grievous grief
and expectations.

How innocent I am, how innocent
I have always been, how grateful
I am to discover this again.

Here is permission for me to be
freshly born, feel the dawn of my
full body full spirit rejoicing,
singing my last decades
by Martha Ward

11/11/2020

Cave with Canines 10.21.20

by Martha Ward

As we “cave” indoors, due to Covid,
all the more pets, often pups, are being
brought into our homes and our lives by
the score. A hearth animal lets us know
we are home-safe, in these times, so
unsure.

When we venture out, we meet
a menagerie of others’ canines’
chosen chums, their dog-god
attendant humans leashed, walking
dog led, along an especially scented route.

I recall more the names of dogs,
then those of the human paired.
What remains of the walker's body
soon wanes from my memory's retention.
It is their dog which commands my
attention.