Saturday, October 22, 2016


They say the dead are among us,
we just can't see them.
On Samhain,
when the veils between the worlds
are thin,
are your paws padding softly beside me,
as they for so long did?

I keep waiting,
for the weight of your snout
on the side of my bed,
but it does not come.
Perhaps just a hint
of a cold breeze on my cheek,
an ache, some tears,
a sigh.

Where have you gone,
my big, noisy boy,
when I can no longer feel you,
other than a missing
that goes on forever,
in my heart?

Shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

Wednesday, October 19, 2016


If i am  plum
and you're a peach,
from my tree to yours
is quite the reach,
the distance feels too far
to breach.

Extend a branch,
or refuse to dip?
This is the way
foundations slip,
when no true words
escape the lip.

Lofty branches
up so high
have conversations
with the sky,
but when it comes
to peach and plum,
it seems all converse
is struck dumb.
If  Difference
we cannot overcome,
you stay peach
and I stay plum.
But the Garden
is meant for

for Susan's Midweek Motif prompt at Poets United: Conversation - this ditty could be applied to  personal situations, or political differences. I have never heard so much divisiveness being spouted in my life than what is happening right now. Time to try walking in another's shoes. Time to try being kind.

Sunday, October 16, 2016


Michael Richmond photo
Heart of Vancouver Island

is a sun-struck tree
blazing proudly, briefly,
orange and crimson,
whipped by wind,
buffeted by rain,
till she is
left naked,
except for one last, curling,
dead-brown leaf,
that clings tenaciously,
till it slowly, painfully,
loses its grip,
and lets go
into the cold, unforgiving greys 
of November.

For Magaly's prompt at Real Toads: turn October into a poem.

Friday, October 14, 2016


Looking at the sky, we long to learn
the language of clouds, of mountaintops.
Mother Sky, teach me
how to sing like small bird, like raven,
like Owl.
Quiet my heart, so I may listen
to the breath of Grandfather Cedar,
and learn to speak tree,
to speak river,
to speak wind.

Transform my soul
to make me worthy of
learning to sing
in whalesong.
Lead me along the shore,
to count the waves,
my heart singing 
joyously and forever
the song of Ocean.

One from 2015, my friends, which I will be sharing with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where there is always good reading on a Sunday morning. I am posting early, as a huge storm is expected and am not sure I will have computer access tomorrow...............

Thursday, October 13, 2016

"Blowin' in the Wind"

1980 in Kelowna

His nasal voice
was exactly like Bob Dylan's;
as he sang to us in the candlelight,
we were so very willing,
to live in a world of peace and love
and no more war,
that world we'd sung and marched for
in the heady days of yore:
"Hell, no, we won't go!"
But peace comes infinitely slow.

My heart mourns, now,
when I hear him singing
"Blowin' In the Wind",
for we still are seeking peace
more than we ever were before.
The answers just aren't blowin'
in the wind any more,
and there's a holocaust
about to come a-knockin'
on our door.

for Bjorn's prompt at dVerse: Bob Dylan, or whatever he brings to mind.


All the little mist-genies
are rising from the river,
on this apple-crisp, pumpkin spice
autumn morning of my life.
The trees are calling to each other,
as excited as school girls 
sporting their new clothes:
"Look at me! I'm so burnt-orange!"
"Ah, but I'm blaze-scarlet,
redder than red."

Surely, they must know
they are all equally beautiful,
in their uniquely different shades and hues,
together a symphony of colour
for the eyes,
a feast for the heart to store away
and nibble at
all winter long,
like a December squirrel.

The Somass River

If only we remembered to see souls instead of bodies, each as unique and beautiful as an autumn leaf.................Shared with Real Toads in response to Hannah's prompt at Transforming With Nature's Wonders, to take inspiration from a quote.

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Wealth, an Inside Job

With my great-grandson, Damian, 
when he was small

There were years when I thought
I would be happy if, for once,
I had a new couch,
instead of the used ones I had
made do with all my life.
When I finally got one -
it was just a couch.
It came, it went,
like all the others.

I spent many years
collecting shelves of books,
a whole wall full.
Now that I live in one room,
I am constantly purging
both shelves and closet,
getting rid of all
I once had gathered,
to create space.

Doing hospice work,
I saw what life boils down to.
In the end, one needs only
toothbrush and comb,
set on the small cabinet
beside one's hospital bed.
I gazed at the photos
beside the beds in palliative care,
showing the full lives
the people had lived,
the houses, dining room sets, good china,
knick-knacks they had treasured,
all long gone,
or soon to be givern away,
or taken to the dump.
Their real wealth, the smiling faces
in the photos of the families
they had cherished.

We take with us
only what we accumulate
in spirit, our soul's growth,
the stories and memories we have made,
and the legacy we leave behind us:
our children, grandchildren,
our true wealth on this earth.

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Wealth