The Bones of the Poor Quotes

“I hear the soldier’s footsteps right outside
From Roman legions that are hunting me—
A mother, warrior, Boudica, queen.
That swarm of angry hornets aims to sting
My skin with fire, piercing me with pain.
I will never accept an end like that.
Now happily spared the brutality
Since you opened up the door to hide me,
Anam Cara, you prove to be a friend,
To help in my hour of direst need
Just as we had previously agreed.”
― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor

“Some sudden light illuminates my mind.
Serene as tufted clouds in summer skies
Slowly floating through the expanse of air.
Calm like the lark who watches from her perch.
Weightless like a small dandelion seed.
Freedom. I can float away with the breeze.
I feel attuned to the sun and the sky,
To the yellow oxlip, rosettes of leaves,
Clusters of spring flowers under the trees.
I feel a presence and sense life rising,
Spirit in all things, living soul, divine
Shimmer of being within, so sublime.”
― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor

“Very soon, I will be travelling there
With the great heron out to the North Sea
To dance with the deep, where I will just be;
Roaming the headwaters and tidal flats
Liminal as light upon the surface,
In waves that crash on rounded marshy coasts.
Think of me as the sun rises each dawn
When you feel that surge of an inner strength
With each ephemeral moment of time.
I know I will be there eternally,
Immersed, one with the great estuary.”
― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor

“I lay on the grasses in rolling fog,
In yellow hayrattle and fairy flax,
By the dusky moorland and blanket bog;

The snipe chirps out her plaintive monologue,
A skylark warbles while diving her tracks,
I lay on the grasses in rolling fog;

Sky continues his subtle dialogue,
The sun recites hymns to the zodiacs,
By the dusky moorland and blanket bog;

The peaceful clouds roll by in epilogue
Casting shadows of forgotten syntax,
I lay on the grasses in rolling fog;

The meadow hums in ancient analog,
Oxeye daisies keep their secretive pacts
By the dusky moorland and blanket bog;

I need no other church or synagogue
Within my particular parallax,
I lay on the grasses in rolling fog
By the dusky moorland and blanket bog.”
― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor

“Listen close—my previous life was good.
My mind has many pleasant memories:
Camping on the Wensome’s chalk river shores,
Running in green fields, picking spring flowers,
Exploring the sand dunes and pine forests,
A picnic on the mud flats, carefree days
At home with my family in the village,
Watching the terns, sedge warblers and swallows,
Lessons in cooking and animal care,
Untamed rivers and lakes, games with my friends,
Sandy beaches, marshes, fens, and reed beds,
The barn owl who liked to sing every night,
Stirring conversations with my husband,
Mundane chores alongside both my daughters,
Magical countryside, large gray stone blocks,
Tall flint walls in a nearby Roman town,
Spongy saltmarsh, woodlands, and butterflies.
It was all a gift, all blessed—and now
I feel an unexpected clarity.”
― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor

“Undulating rivulets emerged when
Paleocene glacial ice had formed
Fluvial rifts worn in naked chalk hills,
Currents flowed over burnished boulders
Moving past numinous burial mounds.”
― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor

“Numerous gifted objects; black granite
Etchings, carved statues, broken goddesses,
Inscriptions, pottery, jewelry, rough-hewn
Garnets, flowers, consecrated herbs, skulls,
Gold ornaments, weapons, prized artifacts;
Sacrifices, ancestors’ ageless prayers
Left with olden Father Thames. For them,
The sinuous streams were alive, full worlds
Of votive offerings inside murky depths,
Lifeblood pleas, observances thereafter
Troubles now vanished, solemn promises,
Treasures carefully bestowed upon
Spirits, watchful deities; faithfully
Invoking his ancient name Tamesas.”
― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor

“From seasonal splashes near Trewsbury
European eels migrate upstream;
Myriad carp, redfin perch, brook lamprey,
Dragonflies, mosquitoes, wee midges,
Pale cormorant, herring gulls, wagtails,
Swans glide round woodland tapestry,
Braided channel islands rest alone,
Arched medieval stone slab bridges,
Tree lines fête ash, alder, chestnut, beech.
Floodplains, tangled sedge reedbeds,
Owls speed above tree-covered islets,
Teaming alluvium water-meadows
Growing lavender, iris, marigold.”
― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor

“Father Thames drifts beside misty heath
Dark surfaces veil universes beneath,
Hushed verge our temple, tall hedge my altar,
Heeding eerie owl calls some reveal they
have heard, long-expected wintery freeze,
Unending run which travels further east,
Aquatic animals receive refuge below.”
― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor

“Visiting sheer essence of bog and fen,
Walking rough footpaths along edges
Slowly nearing home, greeting itinerant
Passers-by, contemplating end journeys
We all take, flying towards distant seas
Like great blue herons do, understanding
Harmony amid nature’s undulate ways
Of old river rhythms, oh Father Thames.”
― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor

“I won't give in to despair while stars are beautiful in the night sky and know we cannot leave here while it is always midnight, and there is only that hope that we grasped and pulled down from these skies. Here where it is midnight we cling to the play of children lining up little tiny drops of joy, small shimmers we hap to wish upon for two blooms in spring, three sparrows to sing to me, and four kisses in the sudden flash of summer.”
― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor

“The Bodhisattva rests in glacial air, under
a dust of snow, leaves fallen into one arm.
This fairyland Buddha sits in an exquisite
etched chair, a powdery image of beauty.
Winter brings blinding thoughts of flaky
falling dreams, slushy icy hard footprints,
with crunchy mantras of wind. Forever
surrounded by obscuring of days, whiteout
of the mundane, penetrating freeze, and
blizzard of emptiness. Crystalline diamond
Vajra surrounded by endings. Slow drifting
meditations that meander to the ground.
White snow like bones, cold as death, frozen
in compassion. Drifting to enlightenment
with vows to return until all are in blessed
fields. Icy mantra Om Mani Padme Hum
to mountain emptiness, echoing forever
in alpine Buddhafields. Not this, nor that—
but always something else. These days, we
mostly see blessed falling flakes of snow.”
― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor