A DISSERTATION ON RIVERS

Elaho River

Jon Merk photo

                                         

The river of love can 

knock you to your knees,

when that tall dark stranger's heart

develops teeth that would

consume your essence, 

if you allowed it-

a napalm strike that levels 

the landscape of the heart,

scorched earth devastation

in its wake,

from which all of your foliage

must begin to grow anew.

This is when you will discover that love

- real love, not napalm-love -

is the river, the ocean, and the droplet, 

one drop an ecstasy on the tongue

after times of great thirst.

After passing that class,

you enter Being 101,

discovering your true identity: 

minute, one solitary drop in the turbulent sea,

and vast, part of the ebbing and flowing,

of the largeness

of the ocean itself.

Fall in love with the way

the moon splashes stardust

on the surface of the river,

irradiates the pond with an 

unearthly radiance,

lights a silver pathway across the lake.

Beyond, the dark and lumpy 

mountaintops huddle

like the hunched shoulders 

of an indolent giant,

the moon a bauble for him to bat 

from side to side.

Let the evening breeze whisper 

endearments in your ear,

translated by the silvery timpani 

of the leaves, falling 

from their accustomed branches

without attachment, without regret, 

free of fear.

Learn to fall like that,

in love with the whole world,

and you will never

be alone again.

Allow your heart

this most glorious

pilgrimage.

One from 2013, my friends. Shared with the Poetry Pantry. See you There! 

On Gentle Paws

The new dark is creeping in
On  gentle paws,
nibbling at the late afternoon light.

Soon lamps and crackling fires
will replace those  soft summer evenings,
full of children's voices.

I pile the pillows high,
set out the fleecy blankets,
stack up the books,
like nuts for a winter squirrel..

We are at the turning of the seasons
once again,
the new dark creeping in
on gentle paws.

For Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif ...Equinox.

A Windigo Wind

source

A Windigo wind blows across the land,

warning us that we have been taking

more than we need,

and putting nothing back.

It is trying to tell us

we need to go back

to the Old Times,

when man and nature

lived in harmony,

and no action was taken

without consideration for 

the seventh generation.

A big black wolf is wandering

through my dreams and through my heart,

wolf spirit,

Windigo of the wolf clan,

howling a lament

at the destruction

of his habitat,

the starvation of his young,

the extinction

of his tribe.

I am swimming a wide river,

farther than I have

the strength to go,

when, under me,

lifts the body of a great turtle,

who supports me to

the farther shore.

I am lost at sea in a thick fog

and cannot find home

when a pod of killer whales,

sensing my distress telepathically,

encircles my boat

and guides me to shore,

to my own dock,

then glides silently

into the night

and away.

Nature tries to help us.

Creatures show us the way.

But in our noise and clamor,

in the tumult of our souls,

we cannot hear them.

The forest is deep and dark,

and there are spirits here.

I look, and look again,

and all the trees are rearranged.

Shapeshifters, shadows,

flit from tree to tree, 

and a mournful Windigo wind

sings through the branches.

Owl, Oracle, Guardian,

protect me as I go.

A poem from 2013, shared with the Poetry Pantry at  Poets United.

* In the film, The Great Wind, Windigo, punishes a young man for his greed, for wanting more than he needs. Wikipedia describes a Windigo as a legend of the Algonquin people, a cannabalistic spirit that can possess humans in times of famine and who is to be guarded against.

The event with the killer whales really happened to an inspiring woman I met once,  who lives among the whales in Simoon Sound. Alexandra Morton has dedicated her life to the well being of the whales and to raising the alarm about how fish farms endanger wild salmon habitat.

Waking From the Dream

source

In the 60's and 70's

we were wide-eyed, long-haired 

barefoot children,

full of love and peace,

placing flowers in gun barrels,

saying Hell no, we won't go

to the war machine.

Walls were crumbling.

Consciousness was expanding.

Almost, we changed the world.

The status quo, challenged, 

was alarmed and fearful.

One by one, we watched

our golden heroes fall

to assassins' bullets.

Our dreams went fast asleep;

the status quo regained its footing,

and it wore heavy boots.

Now, we awaken to the nightmare.

Yet, I ponder:

if the global consciousness has created

what we're living now,

so could it create

a world of social justice.

I feel consciousness accelerating 

on the planet,

see the Rainbow Children  

arriving in response.

We might yet stand together

as 7.4 billion souls longing for

a peaceful, balanced world.

But the clock is ticking.

Can dreams happen

overnight?

Wild Geese

The wild geese flew over my head this morning, their honking stirring that need in me that longs for the wild places. I stood in the yellow field and watched them go, my heart lifting with the beating of their wings.

I can feel fall closing in. The breeze off the canal last night had that fresh scent with a tinge of wildness, that tells of rain and snow-kissed winter air on the way.

I am ready for the season to change. I love them all, each having its own pleasures. But perhaps I love fall best, with its oranges and yellows, its jack-o-lanterns grinning along the side of the road, the hint of wood-smoke in the air as people try to warm their chilly houses.

I pile the books up high - the ones I'll read all winter while the wind howls through the trees, and rain batters the windows. I'll look up, bemused, watch the weather cavorting through the treetops out my window, then plunge back deep into the page. I journey far, without ever leaving my comfy purple bed.

The days are shortening, easing us towards winter darkness, taking back the daylight that I miss so much through the long gray Alberni winters.

Yet I'm ready for it, too, with its cozy indoor rhythms, and the serene passage of slow and quiet days. Safe and warm in my little house, I'll watch another winter pass, moving ever towards the promise and possibilities of next spring.

We Appreciate You!

Mary Kling

She keeps a low profile, 

declines being featured,

doesn't want a lot of fuss,

just steadily steers our little boat

through the blogosphere,

as sure as clockwork,

reliable as sunshine

after rain.

She is quick to thank everyone else

"for all you do",

but I am sure she doesn't think a lot

about all she does, week after week, 

month after month , year after year,

keeping this site open

to encourage and support poets -

all for the love of poetry,

for her work is given freely,

with no thought of return.

I contemplated the prompt "Appreciation",

as there are so many things to appreciate,

in nature, in the animal world, in humanity.

But when I think about how much Poets United 

has meant in my life 

and the lives of so many others,

I had to take this chance to say:

"Mary, we appreciate 

YOU!"

I can feel her blushing from here. But really, Mary, you deserve a ton of thanks for keeping Poets United going all these years. I also tip my hat in acknowledgment of Robb Lloyd, the founder of Poets United in 2010, who responded to my question at the Blogger forum as to where I could find other poets, by saying: "Why don't you try Poets United?" I did, and it changed my life.

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Appreciation. Of course, my appreciation extends to the staff and all of our members as well. But Mary does the steering, quietly, without fanfare. So this one is especially for her. Smiles.

The Children of Aleppo

source

If the white witch waves her magic wand,
will the children of Aleppo dry their tears?
The rubble, stones and crumbled bricks re-form
from the detritus of war these many years?
If  her bag of charms holds an antidote for war
that she has been loathe to put to use thus far,
waiting for humans to be better than we are,
may she use it now, pour balm on every scar.

She casts her spell, knowing her illness will be swift,
but she's obliged to use her powers well, or lose the gift.


for Brendan's intriguing prompt at Real Toads: to write about a bag of charms. This led me to look up white witches, who use their powers for good, and often fall ill or weak after doing so. But they are "obliged to use the power or lose the gift." I could have written more, but the prompt is ten lines or less, an extra challenge.