Thursday, January 18, 2018

FOR THE TREES



The Hanging Garden Tree
on Meares Island,
Tofino, B.C.


Womyn of the earth,
we are rising, all over the world:
primal, wild,
womyn of the wind
and the ocean's roar,
womyn in sisterhood with trees,
clothed in moss green and salal,
mists and cloudlings in our hair
dotted with the last morning stars.
We are rooted, connected;
understanding all living things
are interdependent,
we move through damaged forests,
planting trees and dreams and hope
for tomorrow's children.

Strong, sure-footed, eyes bright,
we are coming:
to plant trees,
to clean streams,
to rescue abused animals and children,
to topple the man-child
off his tarnished throne.

We make obeisance
to the morning sun,
salute the four directions,
proclaim, loud and strong,
that a new day is coming.
Out of the ashes of patriarchy,
we are rising:
to turn off the money-greed,
for we know there is Enough for all;
to turn on the nurturing, the restoring,
the repairing, the healing, the cleansing.
Our inner fire will burn away
the dead-spirited and the dross,
transforming this earth to
healthy growth after so much loss.

It's a new day.

Mother Earth is crying out in relief
that the wild womyn
of the new dawn and the ancient cave
are on the march.
Everywhere She is rising,
planting seeds and hope.
Dew-blessed, singing, joyous,
a million million strong,
we know this world can be
better than it is.
Mother Earth can be healed,
but not by corporate greed
and corrupt power.
We know peace can come,
through social justice,
not through war and killing.

We are coming,
we womyn who listen
to the moon and the tides
and the seasons,
we, to whom the earth speaks
of its ways and its reasons.
Wild Womyn all,
we dance on the earth,
claiming our power,
for this, and no other,
must be our most determined 
hour.


for my prompt today at Real Toads: The Tree Sisters aim to plant a billion trees this year world-wide. My prompt is to write about  whatever aspect of the state of the earth fires your passion - trees, climate change, extinctions - but to do it with hope, as much as is possible. I went a bit over the top, given the sorry state of things. But I do think if women rise up all over the earth to speak for things both wild and tame, we have a shot at turning things around. But we don't have much time. The orange man is destroying it all.





Wednesday, January 17, 2018

Wild Woman's Soul

melindarodriguez.com


Wild Woman’s soul
lives halfway between
a cackle and a howl.


She has traveled far
to get to where
the wild things are.


It took years,
under the chatter
of her monkey-mind,
to hear the steady wise voice
of Wild Woman, 
in her soul,
speaking.


Years more, 
to learn to follow
her advice.


Wild Woman’s soul
lives halfway between 
a cackle and a howl.



She has traveled far
to get to where 
the wild things are.




Tuesday, January 16, 2018

A Walk On the Wild Side



On Sunday, it was sunny and beautiful, and warm as a spring day. Chris and I took Menina the dog (we borrow her for walks on the beach), and spent the day adventuring. First we went to Combers Beach, one of the long wild beaches, accessed by a forest trail.



So cute!






Combers at high tide


The tide was in, so there was no beach to walk on.


Menina loves our rambles.

We headed to Long Beach,
to find some sand.



Chris and Menina at Long Beach



Incinerator Rock
How many thousands of photos have been
taken of this landmark?



Sun, big waves, a gorgeous day!
Walk along with us!


The tide caught me


Housing crisis in Tuff City. LOL.



A portal


So much life on the rocks




Looking back along the beach - 
I used my zoom, which is amazing.
This scene was a very long ways away.



I remember the wonderful vista on top of that rock. 



This is the photo Chris took from up there. Wow.



Me, down below. Note Menina, 
stretched out full length in a tide pool.


Blissed out.




Another zoom shot, the length of the beach away.

We stopped off at Grice Bay on the way home.
It is on the inlet side of the peninsula,
so peaceful and beautiful.



Soft blues



I love these camel-shaped hills.
This is Indian Island.
It has some human inhabitants,
from time to time.

A glorious day.
One would never know it's winter.


Thursday, January 11, 2018

A Ms Magoo Kinda Heart



Wild Woman's disability is
she wishes she were cool,
but finds herself most often cast
as Ms Magoo, the happy fool.

Teetering  at the cliff-side, 
others clutching at her cape,
"Look at all the pretty stars!"
she cries, eyes and mouth agape.

Down she goes! Vexatious rocks!
A branch has hung her by her socks.
She mimes she planned to slide the cliff :
I'm fine. It's really fun. As if.




There's a sign up ahead.
It's too bad she can't see.
The folks below are shocked to see
Wild Woman flying free.

A Ms Magoo kinda heart,
in a benign world ever funny,
Wild Woman cannot see the grey.
She keeps her blue skies sunny. 

Now she's out in the orchard
dancing - skip skip skip -
there's many a sorry stumble twixt
the high-step and the flip.

Follow fools into the meadow.
Let's all hoot at the owl,
dance with the chickens,
both fair-weather and fowl.

Smiling grimly 'top the steering wheel
and blinded by the light:
"Officer, I'm not impaired,
I just don't have much sight."
Wild Woman rarely drives at night,
because she knows she's blind.
Thank God the policeman
was Canadian, and kind.

Each little touch of pixie dust
gets followed by an "ouch!"
I think it's safer keeping
Wild Woman on the couch.



I rejigged an old poem, because it fits Paul's prompt at Real Toads  (to write about a cartoon character that influenced you as a child), better than anything I can come up with today. This prompt begs for humour. Also sharing with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. Heaven knows we need a chuckle.



Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Moving Through the Inner Rooms




I move through the rooms of my body,
where my past is preserved:
the little room of childhood,
shot through with golden sunshine,
the loft in the treetops of my teen years,
where music and dreams led me forth
into a brighter tomorrow,
the tight, windowless room of marriage,
that I fled upon waking,
the rambling, noisy rooms 
where I raised my children,
full of laughter, and kites,
and lake ripples.




At mid-life, I discovered
the seat of my Knowing,
living in the centre of my being.
Her voice was insistent,
would no longer be denied.
She plucked me from 
my circumscribed existence,
lifting me over the mountains to the sea,
where I lived in a driftwood shelter,
no roof, and no door.




From it, I gazed at the expansiveness
of sea and sky, limitless horizons: joy.
Jonathan Livingston Seagull flew
through my inner rooms. My heart felt
the thump of his wings
with every heartbeat.

I live in smaller rooms, now:
constrained by age and the body
that feels all of its years.
My eyes rarely leave the sky.
They caress the rounded tops
of the hills sheltering the harbour;
I catch my breath at their slopes,
bedecked by clouds.
My body is in love with the sea;
my heart, with remembering.




This vessel that has carried me faithfully,
this  frame  that has contained all of
my hopes and my dreams,
my laughter and tears,
now accommodates
all of the rooms of  Memory.
Tinged with amber light,
the past shines brighter
than the present, now,
as I make this circular passage
back to where my journey began.


for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motiff at Poets United: Of the Body


Tuesday, January 9, 2018

The Song That Has No Words

photo by Jon Merk


All you have learned
is a book that nobody reads
because they are busy 
writing their own.
But in the moonlight,
at the edge of the pond,
still and silent,
the faintest of melodies
may stir in your heart,
that old familiar song, 
of mis-step and transformation,
that has accompanied you so far,
a song of burning, 
of being honed.

Like a butterfly encased in stone,
wounded, yet liberated 
by the mallet's touch,
you arise at last 
like a fluttering dream
on the edge of awakening,
and begin to dance
to the song that has no words.


Found this poem from 2015, and dusted it off for the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads.

 

Saturday, January 6, 2018

The Kindness of Dogs



They come to me with trusting eyes and doggy smiles, wig-wagging, accepting pats, nosing my pockets for treats that are always there. They are pure beings, whose emotions - love, joy, happiness, pain, sadness, grief - are written plain. They do not know deception, are confused by humans' changing moods, astonished by a sudden moment of cruelty, since their love, at least at first, holds no expectation of unkindness. I heard his yelp of pain, turned around and, from the way his hip hit the ground, I suspected a blow, perhaps a kick, from his person, who was "training" him with fear and intimidation. How many times can my heart break in a day, a week, a month, a year? It grows heavy with tears. For dogs, the moment is always Now; this minute's meal, or treat, or belly rub, or run on the beach - or hungry, frozen existence chained in the backyard - is all-there-is. Until the next time. The kindness of dogs is a religion I could believe in. I learn much from their unconditional acceptance, their lack of judgment for the humans of every type they pledge their hearts to. Their loyalty is limitless. May their humans grow to be the people their dogs deserve.

Black dogs, brown dogs, dogs
of all kinds - each doggy heart
wanting only love.


for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.