Dandelion moon

To Airflower -- Aracoma -- Joyce Anne (with an e) Herndon Lackey

You're the heart of the moon,
Dandelion,
Like wine from sweet weeds,
You'll bloom again,
Honeyfull, and blessed by the sun,

Your voice like a breeze through a
Southern evening,
Cadenced by whip-o-wills
And cricket fiddles,
Will fire a thousand stories
From the pens of all who know you,

For us, you left too soon,
For you, not a minute more
Than it took
To become immortal,

You befriended dandelions
Who bloomed between hard places,
Blessed our lives
With warm words
And wisdom, spoken soft, almost
An afterthought,

You came with reason,
And patiently found your way
along the paths of your own making,
Speaking your own words,
Altering lives,
Infusing our moments with JOY.

This was a one year for Joy, not a nine. What do you make of that? Nine is for endings. Ones are for beginnings. In numerology, our life goes through cycles of nine. When the cycle is in nine, something ends. When it is in One, something begins. We knew Joy for two rounds of Nine, two rounds of beginnings and endings.

Me and Joy met in the ninth house. Ninth house is for words, belongs to Saga, the Story Keeper. And it was from Story that we came to know each other. Prompted by fellow writer, Roberta Woods, Joy placed an ad in the local paper saying, ATTENTION WRITERS: please come to my house for a very informal meeting of the pens.

That was a step out for Joy. That year was another that added to One, a year of beginning something new. Her birthday, 11/5 added to the year 1992. In a ONE year, we take a step into something new. That year, we were part of something new for Joy. And she became the one who empowered us to bring our words into the open, something new for us. Until that time, I’d only a couple of poems in a poetry journal called The Rhododendren. I had written Hears the Wind and needed to know if it was any good, if I was writer.

We pulled into their driveway that day, answering that ad. They lived in a very large house with white pillars out front, a wide lawn in one of those manicured neighborhoods. We, from a borrowed trailer in a trailer park, were a wee bit spooked. But I had just written my book and I needed to know if it sucked. Or not.

There were only two other cars in the driveway when we got there. Then one of them left. We almost turned around and left, too, thinking we'd gotten the wrong place. But I had to know. So I got out of the car. So did my husband, Mark, and our daughters: 11-year old, Sarah, 13-year-old Heather, and 15-year-old Jennifer. We were Joy's writer's group. That night, we were all of it.

Others came later. We met Miss Margie (who wrote a book from Sarah's prompt -- The Lord and Miss Margie), and Roberta Hart Woods (A Shadow of My Own -- is that best title ever?), and Illa Jean Boggs, a newspaper woman who, in our meetings, wrote poetry for the first time -- succinct, to-the-point, miniature poetry. And others came. Some for a time and some for a long time.

A Scorpio, when they are doing what they came here to do, will empower those around them. Joy did that. She helped us, and others, find their words. In speaking her own words in her own way, she allowed us to do the same. She didn’t criticize if it didn’t meet what she’d previously known to be true. She’d marvel at some curl of a line or tilt of a word; she’d say, “I never saw that.” And then she’d look at it in her mind and see if that line or word had merit. If it did, she’d say so. If it didn’t, she’d allow as to how it takes seeing other folks way of thinking to let us know, sometimes, what we think ourselves.

Joy gave us the essence of her name. She gave us room for words, and in her company, we found much joy.

I have this picture in my mind:

~There is a moon in a waning phase, painted like a gone-to-seed dandelion. And from the right half of the moon, seeds drift across a night sky and into a sky gone wan with morning light. The seeds touch down and there are dandelions blooming, pale gold in the morning light and brighter as they cross the canvas to the sunlit edge.~

If I look close at those seeds, I might see the tapered end of a yellow pencil or the point of a fountain pen, fired to enthusiasm by Joy’s mellow voice and writing prompts. Joy’s work will bear much seed and touch down into a meadow of golden thoughts given expression. I wish you many blessings on the other side of the veil, Joy. I hope you like what you’re hearing from us, honey, and know how much we all love you. Blessed Be

This is a poem by Joy:

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

THE GENTLE PATH ON THE HIGH MOUNTAIN
by Joy Lackey

And now, I must go
through my own
dark valley of the soul
Know it, been down
this path many times
before
recognize the markers
the pebbles that i dropped
years and years before
much much long years past
we go again, don't we?
we all go back,
don't we?
Emily did.
I did.
You too.
We all will
We all will come back
again, better than
before
triumphant
ONCE AGAIN!
THE JOY WILL RETURN!

Joy Anne Herndon Lackey
November 5, 1948 -- February 6, 2010 -- (...)