Haida Creation

I have lived where the crow's harsh cry shatters the morning
and in this city where the large raven
goes by his smaller cousin's name
I've seen the raven that the Haida claim
and know his clan
is everywhere
from distant legend
to the tree behind my house
his voice forever
makes his name.
Fran Sbrocchi

Blied Raven

Long ago no divisions existed between humans, animals and spirits. All things of the earth, sky, and, water were connected and all beings could pass freely between them. The Raven was a trickster full of supernatural power. He stole the sun from his grandfather Nasshahkeeyalhl and made the moon and stars from it. The Raven created lakes, rivers and filled the lands with trees. He divided night and day, then pulled the tides into a rhythm. He filled the streams with fresh water, scattered the eggs of salmon and trout, and placed animals in the forests. The first human was hiding in a giant clamshell and Raven released them onto the beaches and gave humans fire. Raven disappeared and took with him the power of the spirit world to communicate and connect with humans.

Meet Fran Sbrocchi


A Canadian octogenarian, Fran grew up on the edge of the far north, went to a tiny country school, became a teacher, her childhood ambition for she had counted her teacher's thirteen pairs of shoes. She taught in small schools for a few years and left for the west coast of Canada the year the snow fell higher than telephone poles.

In British Columbia, Fran went to a northern island city where she met her husband, a teacher too. During the next forty years she had two children, taught, went to university almost every summer, gained a couple of degrees, administered large high school libraries, taught summers and nights for UBC, worked in Australia and, on her retirement returned to UBC to study creative writing.

Widowed, writing became her doorway to friendship, and a new life on the edge of the most western city in the world with a new love who shared her interest in poetry. Fran has long been interested in computer communication and found a home base on the internet with the Soul Food Cafe when Heather Blakey and she began a correspondence some years ago.

Visit and you will find Fran's poems and digital paintings. Make sure to view more of her work at Soul Food.

White Owl Island

white owl

Fran Sbrocchi is a much loved, whimsical crone who has enchanted fellow travellers with her delightful impressions of travelling within Lemuuria. Here she is setting out, her carriage being pulled by a loyal member of her Donkey Union, to White Owl Island, a land of her dreaming, a land she remembers, a world she can never forget.

white owl

White Owl

A hammock has been set up
for each of you
who come to visit
The priestesses wait
to whisper wisdom
and the Great White Owl
will watch over you
while you find gentle sleep

White Owl

Today the priestesses on our island
have been weaving sunlight and green
A quilt of gentle warmth in hope
that the Gypsy queen will come once more
dance with them her graceful saraband
and rest at midnight under the white moon


Please don't let the owls know that we are hiding on their island. I hope one of the dear visitors will hang her hammock On our tree and keep our store room safe. We promise not to chew the ropes or drop from the branches onto your quilt. Tiny says you can have two of his best pecans for your desert. Signed Tiny and George, residents.

white owl

Many many Owl Moons have passed since Oman Mishogan carved the sign of the
Great White Owl, Ruler and Majesty and left it on the Island . This week the priestess, walking in the garden found the carving in the Garden of the Moonflower and brought it, with ceremony to the prow of the Island. Tonight their will be a sacred dance and a raising. Tonight the in the Circle of the Queen there will be dancing. All guests are asked to wear white. The Secretary

white owl



The Rookery - Day Sixteen

Weary of travel I return to the Isle of the beloved
Isle of the Great White Owl
Isle where my hammock sways beneath tall willows
Place born of my dreaming
place where dreams came true
when we danced with the owl women
and learned each other

A Time For Remembering


Fran Sbrocchi has been with Soul Food for many years. When Fran recently shared the losses that are so much a part of December I asked her to share memories of the death of her father and significant others. Take the time to sit quietly and remember those who have made such a rich impact on your life.
Heather Blakey

My Dad

I¹ve been with you
this past week, every day
we¹ve talked together
walked the old pathways
dreamed old dreams
finding the direction you made for me
by your short living, mine has stretched
so much further and in, I trust,
where you would have me be

Thank you, my dear one
for the gifts you gave:  Remembering
your courage when the witch that wasn¹t invited took so much:  your
childhood sight
the schooling that you loved
your homeland¹s gentle hedges
the wild waves of the northern sea
your mother¹s farewell
your sister¹s kindly touch

Against such odds you kept
the  hand of the White One¹s gift
our heritage?
the love you showed each day to our lady mother
the way you mended cuts children collect
the pride you showed in our accomplishments
freedom to learn, to  go on learning
the memory of your courage in the painful days of your long illness
my prayer, to have your spirit close.
Stay with me , Dad

Words For A Lost Love

Ghosts haunt my dreams
You lie quiet in the stoned grave

I hope you meant it when your said, “Go forward.”
I have loved and roamed again

You met me in that wet and windy town
I remember those first nights
that you no longer share

They say old age is time for memory
but memory is not an honest broker
rather one that plays the game
as if it were a pot of prizes
fished from time to time
with random results

I think you would approve my choice
whose touch awoke
even that is long ago
He and I
faithful in old age
and gentle as you would have me be
and that you gave me permission
comforts me

Leave Taking

The call has come
and I must leave you for a time
I go to the hills high above the town
to dream, to write, to renew the faded memories
of distant days, of places I once knew
a northern island, or a beach on the wide Pacific
I trust I shall not be forgotten
for on my return I¹ll need to seek you
in the far places or where the winds
of bitter winter dare not find you
May all be well
with you
on Calabar
or by a temple gate
a garden spot
or dark arcade
Take care, my friends
the time will go quickly until I greet you once again.

A fishing trip for words:
I heard tiny fishes singing
words of water, water words
words of rushing down the cascade
bubbles flashing in morning sun
words of jade, green boulders  waiting
gleam of grasses in the stone
words of tiny eggs waiting for warmth of summer sun
Water words: splash, dash, trickle, deep, I must go to the thesaurus
words of ancients, poets, schemers, lies and liars, trimmers, tryers
words to shudder, words to keep
All these tiny hooks and hooked,
all this in a stream, a brook, a river, ocean
Artic sea
fishes caught by seals
Small boys
calling caught one, on the shiny line
I pull my words and scatter

I Would Paint The Wind

I would paint the wind
my brush would hurl
across the winter field

I would paint the wind
tiny fluffs of dandelion
wafting into space

I would paint the wind
a hundred colors splashed
across my silent page

I would paint the wind
my sail stretched taut
into the sunset
into the distant sea

Ten Thousand Messages

Ten thousand messages waft upward into blue

Threads of my thinking, and of yours, netting
around our turning globe our laughter and our tears

Tied to this finite ground, we dance,
we fly, we dream and weave, and cry together
and know our world is but a ball floating  toward infinity

Will I Forget?

If I carefully put this work
in place
in time
will it still dance
or will the rhyme
refuse to cling
or, as hoar frost, drop from winter branch?

Will I forget and let it slip away?
Does the poem refuse the capture of a moment lost?
Shall I forget the planes that shaped
your face?


What is this long silence?
Has the circle been completed?
Words gone missing?
AWOL, the slippery thoughts
refuse to be named.
I knew flowers, yellow round
morning gleaming
named for a larger universe
now brown and faded as the winter
breaks stems
dark waters frown at the roots.

Why the long silence?
The worn thesaurus sits unopened on the shelf
a torn page
Was that the place you last looked?
I seek out crimson
find darkness
a circle drifts, a bubble
slippery, delicate, pale on the water
winding to break against the nearest rock
completed now
and lost.


We cannot change history without knowing it

We cannot change ourselves without knowing who we are
Circles repeat, but gyres move upward

We take to the streets carrying flowers of hope
Hope that the turning point will vary, climb
Hope that we find another direction.

Come to White Owl Island


You can come to White Owl Island. All you need is a WordPress account and a fertile imagination. White Owl Island is the perfect place to find yourself.