Saturday, April 30, 2016

Beltane

en.wikipedia.org


Braid the cattles' horns with daisies
now the winter's finally passed.
The pretty maidens all come lilting
one by one across the grass.
flowers in their hair, and singing,
dresses glimmering soft and sweet,
and they dance around the maypole,
tripping softly on light feet.

The Beltane fire is burning,
casting embers on the lawn.
Make your wish, set your intention
before the spring has come and gone.

Gather 'round the fire, my sisters.
Lift your pretty skirts up high.
One great leap, your curls a-flying,
as the lads all pine and sigh.

You're a mix of strong emotions,
half-demure, yet mostly wild.
Ride your wild-horse heart with caution,
half-woman, still mostly child.

Dance around the pretty maypole.
One by one, you claim your power.
From girl to woman you are changing,
like the springtime claims its hour.


for Magaly's prompt at Real Toads : maypoles, which made me remember another tradition, that of leaping over the fire, at solstice. Day 30!!



Friday, April 29, 2016

My Window on the World


My treasures are
all lined up in a row:
wolves, feathers, abalone shell and sage,
candles, prisms:
things that glitter in the sunshine,
and glint in the evening's candlelight.
In the centre are Pup's ashes,
his leash wrapped around the urn,
the leash that will never be used
for any other creature,
his place forever unequaled
in my heart.

for Bjorn's  prompt at Real Toads for Day 29: to describe one of our windows in a hundred words or less. I used 59. My windowsill holds all my treasures, and delights me every time I look at it. The cloth everything is sitting on came from the Himalayas. It is hard to see in the shadows, but on the left is a circle of wolves sitting around a candle. On the right are a monk and a couple of inuukshuks. In the centre is a photo of the beach with the words "I will walk there again." And I will!

Hint - if you click for a larger view, everything shows up more clearly.


Thursday, April 28, 2016

Which Witch Are You?



Disoriented, dizzy, sight-impaired,
Ms Magoo Witch zooms
through the window,
into the room
and crashes her broom
- splat! -
against the wall.
In a heap, cackling,
she rights herself,
straightens her tilted hat,
and announces, cheerily,
"I'm here!"


for Words Count with Mama Zen, , to provide a bio of who we really are, in 50 words or less, to fulfill Day 28. I used 38.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Open the Door, and the Bats Will Fly Out



We are a family of quirky, open-minded people.
We flee narrowness of vision,
fences, ideologies that confine or prescribe.
We seek open pastures to romp in
(and we want the cows to romp, too,
and not be eaten.
We are equal-opportunity dreamers).

We have among us vegans and raw vegans
and even a raw vegan baby
who attacks her fruits and greens with hilarious gusto.
We have minimalists and the other end of the spectrum,
It's all good.
To each his own.
Just don't hurt the planet, or each other.




We have someone who has gone off plastic 
in a big way
because she knows the harm it has done to our world.
She lives in a tiny house, and is teaching us a lot.
We have people who have escaped from cults.
We know whereof we speak.
We have one who escapes the planet regularly 
in nightly interplanetary travels,
when the fetters of gravity prove too confining.

In other words, we cannot be convinced that
control, rigidity, narrowness and the Thought Police
will do the world any good.
A wall between countries
will never get our votes,
no matter how outlandish the toupee.

Bring on your spacious skies,
inclusiveness, love and peace,
and  kindness-revolution-dreaming.
"A better world is not only possible,
she is on her way.
On a good day, 
I can hear her breathing." *


*quote by Arundhati Roy

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Openness. I didn't have to look far for inspiration. Meet our family, LOL.


Tuesday, April 26, 2016

SANCHEZ

my grand-dog Sanchez, age 15
R.I.P.

Little one,
ride like the wind,
across the rainbow bridge
to join your brothers.
May there be squeaky balls aplenty,
beaches to run on
and grass and playtime without end.

You gave us nothing but love
for fifteen years.
Even faltering, even blind,
you barked at the geese on your last morning
at the edge of the lake.
You so loved your life,
and your people.

It was your time to leave us.
We will always miss you,
your brother Chase,
and all the other beloved creatures
who so blessed our lives.
We will for all time remember.
We will speak of you always.
Your pawprints will run forever
through our hearts.

love, Gramma

My youngest daughter, Stephanie's, fifteen year old Sanchie passed away peacefully in her arms last night at the vet's. He had been failing for some weeks. Sanchez was a total character. He loved squeaky balls to the point of obsession, and always got so excited when Grandma came to visit, because I always brought toys and many squeaky balls. He had the most wonderful life with Steph and Gord, and his little pug sister, Chloe. He joins big brother Chase in doggy heaven, where I hope there are many squeaky balls just for him. We will miss him so much, along with all of the beloved dogs who have blessed our lives.




Monday, April 25, 2016

Day 25: a poem


Okanagan Lake


I come from a line of strong women
with hard lives,
from a house stale with cigarette smoke 
and booze in the bottom of the glasses.
I come from poverty and longing
for an ordered existence, 
for fresh frilly curtains,
for Normal,
from milk bottles on other peoples' doorsteps
that brought me to tears
on the way to school in the mornings,
a desire for Home bred bone-deep,
that has lasted all my life,
experienced but thrice.

I come from apple blossoms 
and weeping willow,
lake whisperings and 
peony-scented summer evenings,
music and dreams and a hope so bright
it kept me moving forward 
through the pain
of outgrowing my beginnings
into that shining Tomorrow
that was
the carrot of my youth.

for Susie's prompt at Real Toads: Where Do I Come From? Day 25

Sunday, April 24, 2016

Rising Up


Nahmint Valley



Everything on earth is reaching up:
small seedlings poke their way up towards the sun,
become tall trees whose branches kiss the sky,
fiddlehead ferns unfurl their tendrils one by one -
everything that grows is aiming high.



Babies crawl, then stand, then grow to six feet tall,
just so, our hopes ascend more than they fall.
Our eyes look upwards fifty times a day,
watching the light, the puffy clouds at play.



Water rises to heaven and falls as rain,
the cycle repeating, time and time again.
From birth to death, we're striving to grow wise,
and at the very end - our spirits rise.



for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. Day 24