OLD CRONE, SINGING

  

   

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The old year hobbles to a close

like a wrinkled, wise old crone

with a pocketful of secrets.

The new year dawns,

as fresh and pink as a young maiden,

the crone handing her those secrets

and pointing a gnarled finger

down the Path of Tomorrow.

Her head is heavy with remembering,

her ears full of the cries of wild creatures,

singing songs of lost habitat,

and floods, and fire.

But wait! Through the forest comes a message

from a young dreamer, a seer with eyes of truth:

"Change is coming,

whether you like it or not."

(Yes, whether by legislation or cataclysm,

Change will come.

And the young, brave-hearted, are rising.)

The old year has passed wearily into the new,

which straightens its shoulders

in readiness to face

whatever comes.

Trees and waves and shore

eternally sing their songs of beauty,

of hope, of Tomorrow.

The Crone of 2025 feels her heart lift

in response. She takes up her drum

and begins to sing.

for Mary's open link at What's Going On?

It is hard to write a hopeful poem right now. I picked this one, written in 2019, and changed the date, because I am feeling very much like a tired old crone these days. 

Two Souls, Travelling

 

You were fabled online.

"A spirit too big to kill"

one poet said, and it was true.

Those big wolfy ears,

your eyes that looked into our souls.
Even children told your story.

We were two souls, travelling.

We are still two souls, travelling,

just on different planes.

You always went before me on the path,

but you would double back, and wait
for me to find you.

Wait for me.

I am not far behind you.

for Shay's Word List

BLOCKADE NOTES

 

Available at Caitlin Press

Last night there was a wonderful gathering of land defenders in Tofino, to celebrate the launch of my friend Christine Lowther's latest book: Blockade, the story of how blockades have protected tracts of forest in Clayoquot Sound and other places on Vancouver Island, where the amount of old growth left standing is miniscule, even after all the efforts of forest protectors.

It was awesome to see all the familiar faces from those heady blockade days gathered together, and to hear folks' impassioned memories - and the sad recognition that the struggle continues. Right now,  Catface mountain, which is across the harbour from Tofino,  is threatened by mining interests, so more blockades may be forthcoming.

Chris's book is an amazing read, about what happened in the late 80's and early 90's, updated to relate what is happening now. The more things change, the more they stay the same. But I will say that there is a great contrast between the way the police behaved towards us in 1993 was entirely different, and significantly more respectful, than how the militarized "special forces" treated the land defenders at Fairy Creek. Corporate power rules everything now, including politicians.

But we protected the forests in Clayoquot Sound in the summer of '93, because we made it too expensive and difficult to keep fighting what was at that time the largest incidence of civil disobedience in Canadian history.

This is what I said last night:

I was drawn to Clayoquot Sound in 1989 by the ancient forests, the wild waves, the village full of folks who care about Mother Earth and her necessary old growth.

Always will I remember the summer of '93, gathering before dawn on the road, the smell of smoke from the campfire, people sleepily arriving from the Peace Camp, the gentle tapping of the bongos. And then the big trucks rolled in, huge, intimidating, and the official read out the proclamation to clear the road. Some of us stepped back. Those who volunteered to be arrested that day remained, and were carried off bodily, to cheers and tears, to the waiting police vans.

In 1993, I was a single mom, working three part time jobs, so I couldn't get to the blockades as often as I wanted. But I got there when I could, and they were the most passionate hours and days of my life. The wild woman who lived in my heart came fully alive that summer, and has never left me.

We were all ages, and all manner of folk: those who came for the summer, dedicated to protecting the forests, those who came in the early morning before work, elderly people, professionals, doctors, even an MLA. I remember the children, with rainbow faces, sitting on the road, and a policeman asking a determined little girl, "Are your parents here?" "Possibly," she replied, giving away nothing.

I was there for the women's blockade, all of us spiral dancing around the road, our faces aglow with primal womanhood, feeling our power, as the men sat in circle, off to the side, in respectful support. Ululations, wolf howls, pounding feet, powerful with love for Mother Earth, dancing for the trees, in defiance of the Machine, whose voracious jaws still threaten to devour everything loved, necessary, sacred.

My son is rather conservative. That night I got a phone call. "Mom, I saw you on the news, dancing around the road with a bunch of hippies." Yup. That was me.

I was there the night they closed the Peace Camp, Dana Lyons singing his wonderful songs. My favourite, "Magic", always brings me to tears, because it speaks of a time when all the creatures shared the earth. I can see them still, beautiful, loving, gentle people dancing in a clearcut under a fat, round, Grandmother Moon, followed by a 15-minute group hug and blissful OMMMMMMMM.

Memories that fill my heart, a time of dancing on Mother Earth, for the trees.

Lone Cone in forefront, the beloved Wah'nah'juss Hilth'Hooiss, that guards Tofino harbour. It would have been clearcut, if not for the efforts of First Nations and their allies. Catface, in the background, is threatened by mining interests.

No Turning Back

I am crossing
a land of  elm and ash
littered with bones,
a scarf across my chest
like a golden sash.

A black bird circles
against blue sky,
pointing her wing
into the forest dark and deep.

(Until that moment,
I had been asleep.
When Raven points
her feathery wing,
listen closely to
the message she will bring.)

On a quaking limb,
rests a prodigious egg
in a woven nest.
I hear it crack,
and then my quest
is blessed.

A hundred small birds fly up
into the sky, and I
am granted the gift of Wonder
and put it in my pack.
I am on my journey now
and there is no
turning back.

for Shay's Word List

In the Dreamtime

 

connecting with the dreamtime

tapping into the deepest well

of our collective memories

with eyes closed, I call up

the Ancestor Beings,

here when this world

began, with its

mountains and rivers and trees,

its air and fire and water

when their work was

complete, they traveled back

into the earth and slept

sometimes their spirits

stayed behind

in rocks or trees,

and these became sacred places

Today we're in the Dreaming -

in the Now-

the only time the aborigines

recognize

Feel the spirits

of the Ancestors,

as you chant to the beat

of the drum

Look quickly

across the campfire

and you might catch their shadows,

see their kind wisdom-eyes

Hear them say:

"Right now one

of your eyes is sleeping,

but one of them is awake

When you see with both eyes,

we will awaken from our dreaming

to join you,

and the world

will be made new"

It is time to open our sleeping eye. This poem was inspired by Julian Lennon's amazing film Whaledreamers, about a gathering of aboriginal elders from all over the world, who met at the edge of the sea in Australia and sang the whales in, as they did in times of old.

for my prompt at What's Going On -  Saltwater and Whales

The Song of the Ancients

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Listen, friends.
Do you hear the song
of the ancient ones
floating on the breeze?

Can you hear the cries
of the wild ones?
Do you feel
all the broken human
and beyond-human hearts
sorrowing
across Mother Earth?

Let's join our energy
with that of the elders,
to sing in the mystical whales,
guardians of our collective wisdom
since the world was young.
Let's send our hearts
to the edge of the cliff,
where the wise ones have gathered
through millennia.

In spirit, let us
sing the whales into the bay,
as the First People have done
through all of time.
They are waiting
for our song.

A poem inspired by  Julian Lennon's song, Saltwater, and also by his film about the aborigines and the whales, titled Whaledreamers.

The Kindness of Mother Earth

 

What really gets to me
is that Mother Earth never gives up.
No matter how much we hurt her,
rip her trees out of the ground
(not even hearing their silent screams),
fill her oceans and seabirds and whales
with plastic, buy and discard
so much excess, warm her oceans,
heat her deserts till they turn to flame,
still, each year, spring arrives:
a miracle of green baby leaves,
baby wolves, orca calves,
and puppies.

Like a human mother, her heart hurts,
yet still she gives.
So generous, so kind.
So forgiving.

I am watching the light last longer.
Soon the trees out front will be
a froth of white blossoms.
The bare branches of forsythia
are poking yellow-tipped buds
along their limbs.

Seventy-eight springs,
and each one more of a miracle
than the last.
Every year, it takes
my breath away.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Equinox - what really gets to you?