SURVIVING THE APOCALYPSE

The jays chatter on my front lawn,

squawking over seed, as if this life
will go on forever,

and the seed will always be there.

This is hope and Carrying On
during the apocalypse.

Somewhere wildfires are burning,

animals fleeing in terrified distress.

Those fighting the flames

can hear their anguished screams.
(I hear them in my dreams.)

I walk into the forest: coolness, peace,

sunlight slanting through the branches,

everything green, green, green:

leafy breath and human sigh.

This is relief and comfort

during the apocalypse.

At the CoOp, we catch each other's glance:

we nod; we smile:
solidarity, a community caring 
for each other
during the apocalypse.

It feels like a large segment of the population

is experiencing a psychotic break, convinced

by fake news that reality is fake

and illusion is real.

"Communist news!" they jeer

at the free press, and try to suppress it
like Communists themselves.
My mind boggles

at the depth of the rabbit hole

we have fallen into.

If the Mad Hatter pours me some tea,

it will be no stranger than what

is on my tv screen.

The sandy beach stretches ahead

as it always has; the waves surge to and fro,

they ebb and flow, in their eternal dance.

This is my moment out of time,

my walking meditation, like

Thay in Plum Village:

with this step, I breathe in calmness,

with this step, I breathe out peace.

"I kiss the earth with my foot."

This is survival. This is

trust in the Big Picture, and

 - we live in hope -

in Mother Earth's ability to survive us.

This is me, trying to survive, myself,

to stay steady, to withstand. This is me,

holding onto hope,

dreaming in green

during the apocalypse.

Inspired by the amazing poem "Surviving the Apocalypse", written by 15 year old Nina Evans, a prompt for Wild Writing by Laurie Wagner

In The Slow Lane

 

Wild Woman never hurries

any more.

Her pace is slow and stately,

like an old barge,

plying stagnant waters.

Sometimes she yearns for
a tugboat
to give her a little push.

Yesterday, on my mobility scooter, I passed a blonde cherub beaming at me from his stroller. He thought my scooter was very cool and would have liked to trade. "Wheels at both ends of the spectrum", I grinned at his parents as we passed.

WHEN WILD ONES GROW WEARY

When you love a wild thing,
it is impossible to return to being tame,

once he has gone.

You can pretend you are civilized,

but the twitch of your whiskers will,

sooner or later, betray you.

Stalking the sunset,

sweet memories will accompany you.

The thought of that little wolf-pup,

gamboling along the beach,

and, when he was bigger,

plunging in and out of the surf
with a loopy grin,

will bring a smile, and a tear.

Love is joy. And then pain.

But oh! the remembering!

so bittersweet.

Forever, now,

I will listen for his song.

I will live all the day long

remembering,

a weary wolf woman

with wolf howls in my heart.

 I created this poem by using titles of four of my poems.

He Walks Among the Stars

 

The starpainters have taken over now. They look down briefly on this planet of turmoil and trouble, shrug briefly, then turn to play among the northern lights.

Down below, I stand, an old woman, seeing things I never thought could happen in the land of the free, my heart aching…….swooshing down landslides in Nepal, climbing into vans with handcuffed innocents hauled away by masked and heartless ghouls, an orange wanna be king taking up all the oxygen with his ranting rhetoric. The Himalayas are melting, and people are distracted by all the chaos (which is an effective strategy for those making all the money). I am looking up....up above the cacophony and suffering on this planet, trying to catch a glimpse of the starpainters, watching for the One Who Walks Among the Stars, for he is truly there now, painting beauty across the sky.

for Mish's wonderful prompt at dVerse, a tribute to Canada's Gord Downie, who was given the title Man Who Walks Among the Stars, by the Assembly of First Nations. He succumbed to brain cancer at the age of 52. In his short life, he gave the world so much. 

CLAYOQUOT SOUND HAIKU

 

Wolf Spirit, your call

from your misty mountain lair

sends my soul keening

*

footprints in the sand

my heart follows where they lead

till I'm home again

*

bonsai in the bog

a little touch of Asia

in Clayoquot Sound

*

shore birds on the sand

lift and dart and land as one

I watch in awe

*

in the following I tried 7-5-7

Luna leaves as Sol arrives

Sun and Moon - same sky

little boat chugs happily

for Rall's Senryu Sunday - haiku and senyru have the same 5-7-5 count. 

Remembering

 

There should be nothing here I don't remember.*

The ferry that crossed the lake back then,

that I thought would have wings,
making my father smile, is gone,

but I see that smile today, remembering.

The shore is still lined with weeping willow,

watered by the tear-streaked dreams of my youth.

My mother was so beautiful then,

with her long blonde curls and big blue eyes,

like a movie star, but fraught, at 

what alcohol did to my parents' love affair.

There should be nothing here I don't remember.*

Our house looked out across the lake

to the Big Blue Hills. My first dog, Dinky,

a black lab, and two turkey gobblers as big as me,

paced the driveway with me, a turkey on each side,
keeping me safe,
knowing I was too small to be walking there alone.

When my mom came out to check on me,

they spread their wings, flapping, and hissed, 

chasing her back inside.

I had so many dreams, in Kelowna days, 

of how life would be, when pain would have ended,

and happiness would be mine to live.

They did not come true, but ones better

than I ever could have dreamed

arrived instead, taking me on

the most breathtaking journey.

I had so many helpers and guides

to show me the way along a path of awakening,

bright as sunrise over the mountains,

I gasping at the wonder of it.

In old age, now, tears and gratitude 

for all of life, its pleasure, its pain, at times

that will not come again, I awash

at the joy and ache of it, the beauty

of the journey, for all that has been lost,

for the courage of living fully,

and not minding the cost.

Because - as the poet said so reassuringly -

All that is lost is not lost.*

It is sometimes an interesting exercise to take lines from someone else's poem and create a new poem from it.  I was inspired by Richard Blanco's "Looking for the Gulf Motel." I love his work.

Wild Woman on Aging

Everything in nature erodes gracefully.

But here comes Wild Woman, on the hobble,

one foot ponderously after the other: oops!

a gnarly tree root discombobbles.

The tree leans and cracks

like the fissures in her face,

and her daily prayer is simply

for a little pool of grace.

Still, for all she's learning,

she doesn't want to go.

She'll miss Mother Nature's

enchanting, never-ending show.

She is always Looking Up.

There's a Sky Show up above,

so much beauty everywhere,

so much loveliness to love.

Wild Woman almost bites the dust

as she goes hobbling by,

because she's got her head tipped back,

grinning at the sky.

Here comes Wild Woman,

eighty years around the sun,

with memories so clear

of when her life had just begun.

The journey to today has been

one amazing ride.

Wild Woman will leave cackling

on an outgoing tide.                    

LOL. Some fun for the open link at What's Going On. The idea is to take lines from another poet's poem and write a new poem. I chose lines from "You Ask About Aging" by Mark Nepo. The italicized and much more poetic lines are his. 

As What's Going On closes its doors, I will try to find our faithful friends  in the blogosphere, so we can keep on sharing our poems.

You Ask About Aging
by Mark Nepo

Everything in nature erodes gracefully.
The tree leans and cracks. The mountain
rounds for decades in the wind. The banks
of the river bow to where the river wants to
But we, so aware of being here, fear the
slightest change. My elbow is sore. Your
heart is slowing down. And just yesterday,
an old friend flew away like a bird with a
broken wing. Still, for all I have learned,
for all I am learning, I don’t want to go.
Though like the tree on the ridge that
has grown sideways toward the daily
twist of light, I see no greater destiny
or simplicity than to be stripped of all
pretense and want until all that’s left is
a branch of being waiting for its wind.