Friday, February 12, 2016

Wild Woman Nuggets

Wild Woman, in her habitat

So much depends 
on getting one's coat on

So much depends
on whether one's legs
hold one up
when you first stand up
in the morning.

So much depends
on one's ability to go on dreaming,
as the years roll by
and the dream stays
just one tantalizing  titch
out of reach.

for Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads: So Much Depends

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

The Inanimate, Conscienceless Book Writing Device

The "writer" sits at his computer,
slides in the softwear,
a context or two,
and in twenty minutes, 
a "book" is produced
by the inanimate, conscienceless
book-writing device.

There are thousands of these "books"
for sale on Amazon.

Poets with their scritchy pens
can only  mourn
the arrival
of times such as these.

Sadly, this is not fiction. A couple of years ago, I heard writers on CBC radio talking about these computer-generated books. One of them quipped they are in their early stages, right now, but give it five years, and one of them may win the Giller Prize. Sigh.

reference: Singularity Hub

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Inanimate

Sunday, February 7, 2016

Miracle / Not A Miracle

My daughter Zenny, with her pup Smokey
photo by my son, Jon Merk

There are two ways to live: you can live
as if nothing is a miracle;
you can live as if everything is a miracle.
Albert Einstein

             *****     *****

Rain sluices down the windows, day after day.
Inside, she looks out at the dismal greyness,
and tears roll down her cheeks.
There will never be sunshine.

Trees gratefully lift their branches in relief
as the winter rains sluice down.
They drink deeply, against the 
parching heat of summer drought.
How miraculous is nature's design.

Wolves can be seen at the edge of the meadow.
Quick! grab the gun! Fire shots into the air!
See if you can scare them off!

Wolves can be seen at the edge of the meadow.
Quick! Grab the camera!
See if you can capture their beauty.

The apples are falling all over the grass,
rotting and making a horrible mess.
What a drag, to have to pick them up every fall.
We should cut this tree down.

Apples are falling all over the grass.
Let's leave them, so  deer and bear
will find snacks waiting for them
when they pass by.

She is having a baby and she's just seventeen,
a baby having a baby. What a disaster it will be.

She is having a baby. Though she's just seventeen,
a baby is a miracle and, somehow,
they will find their way.

It is just an ordinary day.
Nothing is happening.
The hours tick by uneventfully.

It is the gift of an ordinary day.
Nothing is happening.
The hours tick by uneventfully.

It is all in the perspective. I plucked this poem, written in 2012, and am posting it for Poets United's  Poetry Pantry, where there is always good reading on a Sunday morning.

Friday, February 5, 2016

Wild Woman Hits the Road


Wild Woman, before she knew 
she was Wild Woman,
once packed up a little yellow Pinto with:
a ten day old baby, two small sons, 
a St. Bernard puppy (who grew!),
an English pram, an Underwood typewriter,
and assorted cereals, breads and cold cuts.
That's the Before shot.

Behind the wheel was 
an alcoholic con man,
temporarily disguised as
My Baby's Daddy,
with his calculating eye 
and a beer never far
from his right hand.

Down Highway 101 we rolled, 
past the glorious ocean
at which he refused to stop,
past the Monarch butterfly migration,
which we flew through,
because he was always rushing 
to get Somewhere Else.

My baby daughter smiled 
her first smile at me,
on that long drive.

We lived in and out of the car,
our own Hotel California,
for two months, give or take.
He had promised to get a job
and "look after you for a change"
but it didn't happen.
My kids grew lean and hungry
and once I wrote 
the only bad cheque of my life
to get them some food. 
(I repaid all of what this trip
- and this relationship - cost, 
for years.
But it was all worth it,
to have my sunny little daughter.)

It was an adventure.
There were high moments, laughter,
the feeling of being young, and alive,
along with the worry, 
and the coming to see
exactly how impossible
my life had come to be.

Late fall, we pointed the nose of the car north,
and made our way back up the coast.
I looked out at all the little houses,
the little yards, men washing cars,
kids playing,
moms hanging their wash out on the line,
and Normal had never looked
so good to me.

Note: on return, he hit the road, thankfully, and I was able to start my life over again from scratch, not for the first time, and not for the last. There is more to this story, but I'll save it for my memoir, LOL.

for Corey's prompt at Real Toads: Hitting the Road

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

Coming Back

I do not think I'll come back as me.
I will come back as Soul,
continuing the journey 
in another body, another lifetime,
perhaps carrying on 
from the level of karma 
I worked off here,
to hopefully make the next lifetime
a little smoother.

Perhaps those souls 
who touched mine in this life
will find me again,
also in other bodies,
like my wolf-pup found me this lifetime,
looking at me with the gaze of a human,
unable to verbalize the psychic connection
that we both always knew was deeper
than wolf-dog's and human's.

All I ask is that there always be
ocean and old-growth forest,
wherever this soul takes me,
on the other side of death.
And let a big black wolf come to guide me
when I cross over,
as I asked him to do,
at the end of his life, 
when he gave his wordless promise.

for Abhra at dVerse, who asks us: would you want to come back as yourself, if you were to come back? An intriguing question, which should bring some interesting responses. Do follow the link and check them out.

She, and the Song of the Sea

One of Pup's cousins on a Tofino beach photo: Chris Darimont

Wild Woman lives with the song of the sea in her veins, and the heart  of a wolf in her chest: a tired old mother wolf who has seen many seasons, and whose strength is wearing out. But she remembers the pulse of the wild; her blood quickens at sunrise on the coast, as she watches the indefatigable sun rise, morning after morning, the eternal waves ebbing and flowing, on the shore and within her being, through the everness of time, in the only place where her soul is at home. She carries this with her inland, in her waning years, yet every cell of her being is attuned up and over the mountains, where the seaspray, the ancient forest, the eagle's cry, the ley lines in this power place, call to her forever, singing: Come home, come home, so spirit and being can be one, before you lay your body down for the last time.

This place claimed her, long before she claimed it.
It has called to her for lifetimes.
It is forever and forever singing her home.

An attempt at a haibun (with syllable count gone wild), on the topic of Identity for Sumana at Poet's United's Midweek Motif. 

Monday, February 1, 2016

Old Raven

Old Raven by Jon Fitzpatrick

The prompt was to self-describe in ten lines, up close and personal:

OLD                and dented, but only mildly discouraged
WOMEN           always remember - It Could Be Worse
LEAP-FROG      across my heart - come on, I dare you!
OVER              and over, same old same old, but beats 
                           the alternative
DITCHES          rhymes with witches ~ a clue
WHEN             will it all get better?
OLD                as the hills, but with an undiminished
RAVEN            fly me across the forest on your 
                           midnight wings
CALLS             the wolf, like a shot, I'll be gone

I found this in my draft file - a Real Toads prompt  from a while ago, to be read both down (first words) and across. I must have played with it, but didn't post it. Just found it and it made me smile. Plus I have zero inspiration going on at the moment. Posting for Real Toads Tuesday Platform.