Wolf

 

Wolf by Longwalker

Wolf
in the blue twilight,
Wolf
in the tenderness of dawn,
are you wondering,
sweet fur brother,
where all your wilderness
has gone?

Your forests are burning,
bombs rain down
from the sky.
We humans are too moonstruck
to ask the question:
why?

We raise goblets of red wine
to drown our sweeping sorrow;
tilt at windmills,
and carouse like
we won't die
 on the morrow.

Wolf,
have you ever
seen such foolishness
as this?
Wolf,
stay safely far from us.
Seek the wilderness
you miss.

for Shay's Word List. This is where the wolf led me today. A cheerful ditty. LOL.

Sigh

 When the news
brings you to tears,
where is an old woman
to turn?

DISTRAUGHT SISTER MOON

 

source

Distraught Sister Moon,

I see you up there, pacing around,

wringing your hands,

"what to do,

what to do,

what to do?"

Down below, all hell is breaking loose:

bombings, shootings, drought,

famines, floods, melting icebergs,

forest fires,

wildlife fleeing in terror,

no where to hide,

dangerous people with bad hair

behaving badly.

I see you trying to efface your fullness

quickly, perhaps thinking

if you lessen your roundness,

the populace can return to calm

under a slice of moon.

But when were we last calm?

By your light, madmen and prophets collide.

By your light, poets seek truth and beauty.

By your light, we dream of a better world.

You have stopped pacing.

You like where this is going.

Okay, hear this:

By the Light of Your Silvery Moon,

on earth

(perhaps in vain)

we dream,

we dream,

we dream

of peace.

For Mary's prompt at What's Going On - a Dream of Peace

This is a poem from 2017 which you may have read before. My brain can't come up with anything better at the moment, it is full of porridge. The italicized line is, of course, the song title. I remember when that song was on the air waves and the world felt so much more peaceful than it does now - after the War to End All Wars - that didn't.

TAKE THIS POEM

 

Cox Bay, Tofino - photo by Warren Rudd

Take this beautiful morning,

this springtime sunshine,

this blue-sky day, with the song

of a thousand seabirds,

wheeling and circling

at the edge of the sea.

Take the eagle's cry,

from the top of the cedar,

as he surveys his kingdom.

Take the heron,

gliding past my window,

looking like a skinny matron,

purse clutched under

her wing.

Take the waves, rolling in like

white-maned horses, wave upon wave,

day after day - our own glimpse

of Eternity.

Take this moment, peaceful,

crisis-free, in the places

where you are;

breathe deep the ordinary, when

so much in this world is no longer

routine. Feel the peace

of nothing-going-on
- in your life, if not
in the world outside your door.

Let your prayers be prayers

of gratitude. May your tears

bless those living through

apocalyptic times.

(Our turn will come.)

Take this poem which

I offer you with open hands.

Take its wish that you

and all you love

be blessed. Take my dream

of a green and flourishing earth.

Maybe if we share it,

some green tendrils

will begin to grow.

Take a break from the terrible

and disheartening news.

Let's walk our peace into the world,

step out into our front yards.

Let's lift our arms to

the cloud-dotted blue above,

the trees breathing with us in tandem,

such generous and benevolent beings.

Take this ordinary morning

into your heart and let it live there

all day long.

Take this poem,

like a prayer of peace,

into your very being.

Let it sing.

Revisiting this poem from 2023.

Dark Days

 

As the Filipino celebration,
Lapu Lapu Block Party, winds down -

children dancing, families smiling their last smiles,

joy in the early evening -

suddenly a black SUV, at high speed,

mows through a crowd of celebrants,

bodies flung high, crashing down

- the dead and the living -

ambulances lined up, responders running,

pulling on blue gloves,

eleven dead, thirty sent to hospital.

"How do they come to the.......

How do they come to the........

come to the still waters and not love?"*

That is the question of the day.

Have compassion, inclusiveness,

equality, citizenship, become words

of a time Before?

A leader in a turban, a man with heart,

weeps as he asks for a Canada

"where we all belong". I weep with him.
I want that Canada too.

Who peeled away civility and encouraged

hate and racism to rise? 

We lay tulips in homage to the departed.

The world we knew feels departed, too.

How do we get it back?

for Shay's Word List

The living and the dead line comes from the title of a poetry collection by Sharon Olds. The italicized lines with the asterisk are from Olds' poem "Sex Without Love". This incident occurred in Vancouver last evening. We are not used to events like this in Canada, but toxic rhetoric has an impact on some unsteady minds. 

(When I wrote this, I  assumed this might have been a racist act, but it appears to have a mental health component. It is all so tragic.) 

Jagmeet Singh, the NDP leader, gave a memorable and emotional speech here:

https://youtu.be/7ZbJHvf689E

(I posted this on my facebook page if you cant access it here.)

We elect a new Prime Minister tomorrow and I am praying it isn't the right wing conspiracy theorist, but the other sane, calm, experienced candidate. We live in hope. I feel like I have been holding my breath for years.

YOU, THE SEEKER, MY LAMP, THE MOON

Little hummer,

irridescent rainbow in constant flight,

you whirred into the room at dusk,

thinking my lamp was the moon.

I swiftly clicked off the light,

to guide you to the window

where you beat frantically for a moment,

till you crouched in its corner,

terrified of the giant

whose hands were slowly lowering

to cup you gently.

You stilled, as I carried

your feathered lightness outside

and, when I opened my palms to set you free,

lay for a moment on your back,

surrendered to your fate.

Suddenly recognizing you had survived,

could once more see the sky,

in that same instant,

you were halfway 'cross the meadow.

Just so, do our hearts encounter

their similar terrors,

bring them down to size,

recognize the open door of freedom,

and, each in turn, take flight.

At the farm, given I keep doors and windows open during all the warm weather, sometimes a small hummer would find its way inside, and lodge itself in a corner of the windowsill. In my cupped hands, they felt lighter than a feather, flight itself, suspended for that one moment. I have rescued hummers here, too, when I lived in the apartment building. One cute thing about them is how they hovered, whirring noisily, at the open sliding glass door to let me know when the feeder needs refilling. The blue jays would come to the opening and sometimes hop or fly in, then out, demanding seed. I loved that about the apartment.

THIS POEM IS A BIG RED HEART

 

Phoenix

Sebastian

This poem is a six year old boy
whose dad and dog both died.
This poem is a crayon.
This poem is a big red heart.

This poem is a sweet and valiant little boy,
who has known tears, but who loves to smile.
This poem gets knocked down, and
bounces back up again.
Like the boomerang, it keeps coming back,
because it has known death, so it cherishes life.
This poem is a six year old boy
whose dad and dog both died.

This poem is a crayon held in a grubby fist
by an intent little boy
who wants a picture of his pain.
This poem can draw a stick figure dad
with a big smile, and open arms,
and a devoted droopy-eyed dog,
with floppy ears and an old soul.
This poem is a crayon.

This poem is a gigantic wobbly red heart
with a dog inside, along with the words
"Papa and Phoenix are fishin' in hevven".
This poem squeezes the heart
of his mother, who lost her mate,
then, one year later, held the furry body
of his old fishing pal as he went to sleep
for the very last time.

This poem has lost too many loves,
but keeps on smiling, loving and moving forward,
because of a small boy made almost entirely
of hope and trust and sweetness and love.
This poem is a big red heart.

for my prompt at What's Going On: a choice of either "This poem is...." or Hannah's Boomerang Metaphor form.

My heart is even sadder than it was when I first wrote this poem. Because Sebastian, the small boy in the photo and in this poem, with whom I spent time in his early childhood years, died last August in a boating accident, at age fifteen. Now he AND his Papa and Phoenix are all in "hevven" together. This world brings lots of people (and dogs) to love - but also, lots of losses.