Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Walking With Duck Feet

We enter this world
like a duck with its feet on backwards,
tumbling and falling
as we learn to make our way.

We leave this world
in much the same manner,
hobbling on our walkers,
(if we're lucky).
What we learn in the years in between
is resilience,
and how to cackle.

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Wolf Howl In My Heart

White Wolf steps into a trap and is caught.
Thrashing, in terror, she hears the hunter
crashing through the trees.
She tries to hide, caught, no escape.
Slowly, eyes fixed on him, she sits.
She raises her snout and howls
a sorrowful long howl,
a goodbye to the life she has loved,
so fraught with peril
because of his kind.

She is shimmering, beautiful.
He can see her breath in the cold air.
He hesitates. But then,
"I shot her anyway," he tells
the wolf researcher,
whose heart sinks in the telling,
as my hope sinks, in the reading:
another beautiful life, snuffed out
without reason.

I am reading "Wolf Spirit" by Gudrun Pfluger, about her research work among the wolves of western Canada.


I had eyes that sought romance,
then I married the loveless.
I sought a home to wrap around me
that became a cage.
Like the lion, I feared and loathed
the cracking whip.
Like the raven, I grew shrewd
and plotted flight.

Does every dream have to die
to gain us wisdom?
I packed my traveling bag with 
a lust for freedom,
pulled on my walking boots,
started down Liberation Road
on dancing feet.

for Susie's prompt at Real Toads: to write a poem in the style of Amber Rose Tamblyn, a girl who packs a lot of punch into her fantastic poems.  Wild Woman harked back to the 70's and remembered a few things. LOL. 

Monday, June 20, 2016

Ringed By Wolves

Council of Wolves Celtic candle holder 
(I happen to own one) available here.

Lazily, I turn
the kaleidoscope of my mind round
and round. A giraffe mama's long neck
bends down to kiss her baby's head. A line
of elephants parades ponderously past, trunk to
tail. And tawny golden lions lie amber
in the setting sun, as twilight falls
over the savanna.

Two more turns, and there is ocean: wild waves
galloping in to shore like white-maned horses. Eagles
spiraling lazily in the air currents, wind-surfing
the sky. And Old Growth standing sentinel
on this last pocket of pristine wilderness
before the logging trucks roll in
to carry it all away. The wolves,
with diminished homeland, are thin and hungry,
and wrestling seals for a hard-won dinner for their cubs.
My heart loves the wild ones, but my eyes
see clearly: my loves are in peril.
The wild ones are Third World citizens
in our young-souled country. I would ask for
forgiveness, for we know not
what we do. But before forgiveness must come
protection, restitution and restoration,
(as with First Nations, who are waiting,
along with the land and its creatures,
the ocean and its dying denizens,
for all wrongs to be made right.)

In a dream-state, the journey from
doormat to healer unfolds, frame after
frame. Drums sound,
owls hoot, shamans chant, and wolves
sing their kinship song to me, for they
have claimed me for their own, recognizing
that I am more identified with wild
creatures than  uncivilized humans,
who still have centuries to go
in the evolution of soul.

I click ahead just twice more, for that is all that is
left: the unknown yawns before. But I have faith,
and trust that there will be wolves and ocean waves
within my Heaven. I will sit in the centre
of the circle, ringed by their wise loving eyes
and bushy tails, and we will speak together, in kinship,
of many things.

shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

Sunday, June 19, 2016

The Little Death

photo by Marnie Creamer

Death says to Night,
"I do not always come at two a.m., you know.
Sometimes it's 11:15 in the morning.
Just depends on when the moving hand has writ*."

Night replies, "Every midnight,
when they close their eyes
and enter the little death* of sleep,
they are practising
for the moment
you arrive."

* "The moving finger writes and, having writ, moves on." Omar Khayyam.
* the little death ascribed to Arthur Schopenhauer. I next went to read the other poems and discovered that jabblog and I had the same idea and even a shared quote. Synchronicity.

For the Sunday Mini Challenge at Real Toads: The Sisters - Death and Night. (Formidable sisters!) Do check it out. There are some wonderful responses to this prompt.


This poem is a woman on a porch swing.
This poem is hummingbirds at the feeder,
dogs on the deck and horses in the field.
This poem is a blue-sky puffy-cloud 
afternoon in the country.

This poem is a woman on a porch swing,
rocking and swinging as her mind roves back
through the memories of all the shambling years.

This poem is a summer’s day:
hummingbirds buzzing and darting, 
dogs lazily thumping their tails,
and horses munching grass under tall cedar.

This poem has early summertime bees in it,
and flowers, and the sound of the sprinkler
swoosh-swoosh-swooshing across the yard,
to grow lush grass for the horses’ evening meal.

This poem is stillness, slowness, 
reverie, and contentment.
This poem – and this woman – know how to
see the glass half-full; sometimes brimming,
but always, stripped down to the essentials,
quenching thirst.

This poem is a summer-blue sky, 
and puffy white storybook clouds.
This poem remembers the whole story, but also is
its Right-Now story, even when the woman 
forgets to remember that,
and even though she knows 
the pages remaining are slim, 
compared to the bulk 
of the chapters gone before.
It is still the same story.

When she remembers that, 
she raises her eyes up, and up,
tracks a bird in flight, 
scans the horizon – the her-izon –
and finds much satisfaction
in sky, in dogs, in horses, in trees,
in that true blue dream of sky
she fell in love with in her childhood,
that has kept her Looking Up
(-head back, grinning at the azure vault -)
all these years.

A variation of a Boomerang Poem, created by Hannah Gosselin, and a great leaping-off place for poems.

Friday, June 17, 2016


When I was young,
I couldn’t imagine being brave enough
to climb a beanstalk into the sky.
But, in life, that is exactly what I did,
stepping off into the abyss,
a bemused Ms Magoo,
somehow managing to land 
more or less upright.

There were times I felt
the giant’s hot breath on my neck,
but I was nimble,
I was quick,
and hopped fast away.

The goose that lay the golden egg
eluded me.
My treasure was found
in the forest,
by the sea,
in golden friendships,
in music and the love of words,
in dogs, and all wild creatures.

My journey taught me things
I have been happy to pass along,
- not that anyone wants to listen -
they are all too busy leaping off
their own precipices.

I now sit in my counting-house,
counting golden memories.
My treasure still lies
in the heart-lift to be found
in that vault of blue fairy-tale sky,
the sheen of that
shimmering rainbow,
in windsong and the sight of
birds on the wing,
and the memories of so much love,
                        the memories of so much love……….

Inspired by Elizabeth Crawford and shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.