LETTING GO

Right here, right now,

I am gazing at the bare branches
of the cherry trees,
divested of their leaves.

The visiting dog is

rolling and rubbing himself

on the lawn, and groaning,
making us laugh,

reminding me of my own wolf-dog,

how he cracked me up every day,

how, at times, he tried to talk.

What is wisdom?

What is letting go?

the poet asks.

I ponder.

Now is the time for

long, slow days,
remembering:

all the losses, all the gifts,

the hellos and the goodbyes.

How joyously we welcomed in

all of those highs,

how we mourned all the lows.

And yet what we were mourning

were the things that had brought us

the most happiness. So were they even

losses in the end?

Perhaps wisdom is

the letting go,

the acceptance of

Being Here Now.

I cast my mind back

through all the years,

plucking out this memory,

and that, like silver-backed salmon

from shining seas.

Truly, I am not counting losses

at all, but only gifts. Old age

is a time when, though we carry grief,
we hold it with gratitude,
hearts replete with
all of the beauty,
all of the blessings.

Letting go
of the beauty of this earth
will be the hardest.
But, for that,
all that we need do
is to
surrender.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: Letting Go.

Pantoum

 

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The owl in the cedar hoots under the wolf moon.
The village is silent, dreams just out of reach,
as wolves, bears and cougars pad about in the darkness,
I, awake and listening for what the silence has to teach.

The village is silent, dreams just out of reach.
Darkness, dark, it has never been so dark.
I, awake, and listening for what silence has to teach,
as the world is going mad, the horror fresh and stark.

Darkness, dark, it has never been so dark.
When will this world I love ever learn to live in peace?
The world is going mad, the horror fresh and stark.
Who will stop the madness? When will the nightmare cease?

When will this world I love ever learn to live in peace?
Wolves, bears and cougar, are fearful in the darkness.
Bless all the furry beasts. May they find shelter soon.
Wise owl in the cedar, lonely under the wolf moon.

I haven't attempted a pantoum in a while, so gave it a try.

WHAT BELONGS TO US

What belongs to us?

Not the sky, though our eyes fly to it
many times a day,
for beauty, for inspiration, for hope.

Not the earth, brown and humble and mothering,
though it forms a platform for our feet
and keeps us standing.

Not the trees, breathing peace and oxygen,
removing carbon dioxide and human toxins
from our struggling bodies.

Not each other, for we live and die alone,
though love is threaded through the generations,
and weaves a tapestry between our hearts
and every other.

Not the dreams we dreamed,
that got replaced by other dreams,
which turned out to be the right dreams
after all.

Not every item in my small rooms,
gathered with love, which will be scattered
when I move to a hospital and only need
a comb and toothbrush.
(Goodbye, all my wolves!)

What belongs to us? What do we
take with us on this long journey
to the end of things?

The memories. When we are lying in a bed
in just a hospital nightgown
(please bring me cozy blankets!)
our thoughts will go back to the beginning
and all the way through
this amazing, astonishing, unpredictable
and magical life,
and we will see the signposts
where we were helped and guided
off the wrong paths and onto
the path that is only ours

and we will be
grateful, grateful, grateful
for it all.

Inspired by What Belongs To Us by Marie Howe

A Hard Year

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Even in this bad year,*
I learned:
how to change my perspective
from angst to rueful observation of human folly,
from a distance, in order to preserve
what inner peace I can. How to stay open
and aware of what is, yet not to let it bury me
in gloom, so that I have something sunny
and positive to offer those around me:
belief in the Bigger Picture, which is unfolding
towards the other end of the spectrum
in its time. (May it accelerate!)

I watch the news. I shake my head.
I wonder what it will take for some
of those in power to stop the madness.
I am surprised by the change from anger
to - is it resignation? fatalism? or trust
that the arc of justice is long, and the pendulum
will swing once more the other way,
hopefully to not be forgotten ever again.
May humankind find the harmony 
of living in the middle, with equity for all.

Why is it that the world needs to turn more brutal
in order for us to relearn compassion?

What do I hold onto?
The expansive ever-changing and yet eternal sky.
The reminder that, as we fall,
we break open, receptive to all that life
is trying to teach.

Who teaches me the most?
Dogs, who live only to love,
and birds, who survive on seeds and berries,
trusting only their own small wings.

Wild Writing: Day One: Inspired by the poem Bad Year by Jane Hirshfield The italicized words are hers.

The Last Things I'll Remember

 

The small cottage on Christleton Avenue

in the '50's: peonies, pinks, sweet pea, their scent

mingling on the breeze; me drifting

in the hammock - my boat of dreams -

under the weeping willow.

The little house on Ethel Street,

full of leggy, laughing children,

who disco-danced during sleepover evenings

for my weekend entertainment; the garden

out back, the swish-swish-swish of the sprinkler

in the early morning, before the children woke.

The coffeehouse, full of stained glass, music

and hanging plants, where people believed in me

till I could believe in myself - where my heart melted,

growing ten sizes, big enough

to make a mighty leap:

to Tofino, place of my dreams: wild waves,

old growth forests, eagles and herons

and wolves padding softly, one of whom

came to stay.

Then away, to my little green trailer

out Beaver Creek, Pup's kingdom,

after we lost our heart place by the sea.

And oh, Pup! I will remember most of all -

his wild wild ways, his loud loud bark,

his knowing eyes, true mate of my wilderness soul.
The one I hope will greet me
when I reach the spirit world.

And the very last thing of all: one last look

at the blue sky, companion of all my days,

always changing, ever-beautiful,

that kept me forever Looking Up.

* Title and inspiration taken from Joyce Sutphen's wonderful poem of the same title.

for my prompt at What's Going On : The Last Things I'll Remember

Here I Am

 

Here I am, at the farm, fire crackling in the fireplace, snow falling on the horses in the field, happy dog snoozing beside the fire. The tree is full of twinkling lights, all is quiet and peaceful, and I remember other Christmases in other years. 

How I loved Christmas when my kids were young. It was magical. Because we struggled to survive all year, on that one day, there was excess, the shrieks of happy children, then quiet, as they retreated to read their new books and I cooked the Christmas feast.

Now my granddaughter is making Christmas magical for her small kids. On Boxing Day I will see them open my gifts and wonder where life will take these small voyagers, along paths we cannot know.

It's Christmas Eve, and I am at the farrm, remembering Christmas across the span of years that have been mine. The journey has been amazing. I am grateful for it all.

WOLVES IN THE TWILIGHT

copyright Gaby Harig

 

The wolves came to me in the twilight,

hungry and sad, looking at me with

questions in their eyes. I could not

meet their gaze.

So many heartbreaks, all over the world -

the wild ones and I

feel them all.

It is not enough any more

to walk in the forest

or along the shore,

to breathe in the beauty and peace,

for my tattered heart and its grief

to find some relief.

For the wild ones, each day is a struggle

to find habitat and food,

to keep their young alive.

How do I carry the weight of the world

when the leaders don’t care

if any of us survive?

I am watching the planet I love

slowly melting into the sea.
Injustice is everywhere -
it is too much for me.

Children march for their future

not yet even begun.

The tycoons grin

as they stuff their wallets

with air stolen from

the lungs of the young.

The wolves came to me in the twilight.

“Give us some hope,” they said,

but I had none to share.

My pen, my heart, my hope

fall silent

in this spiritual poverty

(of which I am only too
aware.)

I can hear trees weeping

in the forest,

the wind wailing laments

at the shore.

I will carry this pain

with me

till I can carry it

no more.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Twilight

Sad. Hungry wolves in winter. And yet it is Christmas Eve. I wish you some joy, time with loved ones, some hope for a better year ahead. We live in hope because we can't live without it. Thank heaven for dogs.

 

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