Thursday, March 23, 2017

WTF?



He speaks
the way electricity
short-circuits:
a scrambled stop-and-start
of incomplete phrases,
plucked at random.

Yet his henchmen 
eat up
every
incomprehensible
word.


for Mama Zen's WTF? prompt at Real Toads : write something strange you saw this week in 60 words or less. I had just read the Time interview with an incoherent trump. Sort of like you'd expect on a closed ward somewhere.  Only took me 26 words. The sign really says it all.


Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Mirror, Mirror



I looked into the wicker-framed mirror
and a shift occurred with my eyes:
my grandma's face super-imposed
on my own,
her expression grave and wise.

She looked at me
with eyes that knew me,
with eyes that could always
see right through me.
She had a message
she wished to impart
that I had to decipher
with my heart.

I took up the cane
that she left me,
her mantle of matriarch
becoming my own,
stepped forward into my sixties,
welcomed into
the Age of Crones.


for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Mirror

I remember the day I looked into the mirror, in my little trailer in Port Alberni,  and suddenly saw my grandma's face transposed on top of my own.


Tuesday, March 21, 2017

The River Wild



In the piney-woods,
the path is scattered with pine cones
and fallen branches,
ground soft and springy underfoot,
smell of canopy and trees,
song of the river
wild in winter flood.

The rough bark of Grandfather Cedar
tells the story of a thousand years
of standing in one place.
When you look up,
when you lay your hand
against his trunk,
when you listen,
you can feel and hear his message:
Endurance.




Look into this little pocket of forest,
draped in moss and old man's beard,
salal springing up everywhere,
ferns and fiddleheads,
small white winter berries,
rosehips,
toadstools and wild morel,
every inch alive with myriad life forms,
an entire ecosystem existing here,
in a patch
no bigger than
your hand.

Listen to the silence,
alive with the forest's breathing,
and the secrets
only the forest knows.
If you take the time,
this old tree
will share with you
his wisdom.




The river is wild in winter.
It expends its force
tumbling and crashing over rocks,
rushing the banks
and frothing white and foamy
through the canyon.




Sit a spell.
Just Be.
Breathe the river in,
breathe your worries out.

The word I'm looking for, here,
is reverence.


for Grace's prompt at dVerse Poets Pub: The River. In my time in Port Alberni, it was the river that sustained me. I took Pup often, as it was the wildest place available to us, and it eased, for the time we were there, our mourning over the wilderness we had lost. I was unable to go back there, after he died. 

All photos other than the one credited are mine.



The Children of Syria




This is one of the most moving and beautiful videos ever......I don't know how the adults of the world can watch this and not rise up and put an end to war. The children sing of hope amongst devastation. May the leaders of the world hear their cries.


Sing, children of Syria,
your dreams of a world
where bombs do not fall
and buildings do not crumble,
a world where your laughter
replaces wails of grief
when family and friends
lay dying.

Sing your belief
in a life
where peace is possible.
Sing to those leaders
of a world
where hatred and division rule,
and soften their hearts
with your innocence and beauty.

May the words you sing
bring about
the world
of your bright dreams.



Sunday, March 19, 2017

Gaia




Beautiful Gaia,
you gift us daily with your
moons and tides,
your dawns and evensong,
your blue hills and forests green.
Your wild creatures
and your beauty
bring us joy.
May you
our heartfelt services
employ.

May we repay you
with love, kindness and care.
May we grow ever 
more connected, more aware
of how to help you live,
in gratitude
for all the gifts
you give.


Saturday, March 18, 2017

Finding Home



Walking to school in the morning,
passing by little cottages with picket fences
and milk bottles on the porch,
tears ran down her face,
she so longed for a home of her own,
a place of refuge,
peaceful and safe.

She grew up and created those homes,
many of them,
lost some and started over from scratch,
with nothing, as single moms do,
sleeves rolled up,
eyes bright and determined
and a heart high with the challenge
of rebuilding a nest for her four chicks,
one made with laughter and hope
and dreams of new beginnings.

Observing this sequence of events
backwards, hindsight being 20/20,
she recognized at some point
Home had become a place inside herself,
that she carried with her,
the way a turtle inhabits its shell,
or a sand dollar creates its home
from the sand and grit around it,
and carries it along.

Home was within,
and it also was as large as
the forest and the sea,
under the bright blue sky,
shared for a time
with a big, black laughing wolf,
whose heart contained
all the wild.


for Brendan's prompt at Real Toads: to write a poem about home. This was the quest of my life, since childhood. I spent years walking miles,  looking at houses I passed, imagining the lives lived within. This feeling of homelessness finally stopped when, in my early 30's, I had my first  real home, thanks to my mother's help, where I raised my children for a time. But there would be many more moves, and homes, after that. For one who only wanted to settle down, I did a lot of moving! Perhaps 40 times all told in my lifetime.........


WALKING ON THE WINDS OF MORNING

Beautiful photo made for me by


Traveler walks
on the winds of morning,
gentled by the soft mist,
attuned to the music
of the spheres.

Tiny birds alight
on her shoulders,
then lift off, twittering,
to follow her passage,
branch to branch,
through the sleepy forest.

She is Sky-Woman.
Though her feet are planted
on the earth,
her eyes never leave
the sky.

There are footsteps
softly padding along
behind her.
She does not turn
to see who comes.
She knows.

He is invisible,
but she knows those perked ears,
that arching tail,
that long black snout.

Walking on the winds of the morning,
their two spirits touch
through the veil of mist.
Their two hearts
are never
apart.


One from 2011, my friends, which I will share with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United this Sunday.