It's Going to Take a Million Years

 

Nepal landslide, Reuters photo

A mountainside crumbles in Nepal,
an earthquake buckles
the ocean floor in the Atlantic,
a Kelvin wave floods
California shores,

Kelvin wave in California
aol.com photo

Wild animals and grey whales
starve and die.

The earth and water are too hot

from our addiction to fossil fuels.
To leaders and corporations,
stuffing billions into their pockets
means more to them than the price
the entire planet is paying.

Maybe they think their wealth
will keep them safe.
Maybe they just don't care.
Calling everything a hoax
and living in lies and denial
must be more comfortable
than how we thinking, appalled, 
conscious and horrified people feel.

But.

Tumult and disasters and collapse
beyond our comprehension
may yet come.
Mother Earth is meant
to heal and grow,
despite her misguided
and destructive children.

However.

It's going to take a million years
for the earth to recover
from our brief sojourn here.

Our peninsula, water on both sides. 
We are vulnerable.
getty images

The Kelvin wave is supposed to hit our narrow peninsula three times here on the west coast of Vancouver Island, once in a few days, then just before Christmas and again in January. The effects of the climate crisis will leave no one untouched, except maybe those billionaires in their gold plated towers. Stay tuned.

Wild Stone Hearts

 

Jared Lloyd photo

I once worked in a place
where hurting hearts came
to heal.

As I walked the path, each morning,
I found so many heart-shaped rocks,
picked them up and placed them
on my desk.

Many big hearts worked there,
welcoming in the wounded,
the distressed.

The people wrote their pain
into letters, and cast them,
with tears, into the fire.
Every time, the eagles came,
circling above, in witness
to their grief for all that
might have been.

Sometimes in winter, we saw
wolves dancing on the beach.
Old growth trees surrounded us:
protection, peacefulness.

They arrived, those wild stone hearts,
heads down, in pain. But the Circle
did its work. Slowly their heads came up,
their eyes began to shine.
They rediscovered laughter and hope again.

Their hearts, so guarded, softened
week by week. Six weeks to ease
their suffering, to turn towards life again,
the way stones are made smooth
by eons of endless rain.

Rhythm

 

"R-H-Y-T-H-M" Sister Catherine pontificated,
from her desk at the head of the room.

Grade nine. My introduction to rhythm,
to poetry,  to the world of words.

My first poem came to me there.
I wrote it down in my spidery scrawl.

                          ***

Gastown, 1972, as I felt personal freedom 
for the first time, and began to grow a Self.
Walking into a gallery: Here Comes the Sun
playing on the stereo. Love lying ahead,
just waiting to be discovered.

                          ***

Years later: a gathering of gentle people
in a meadow, just before sunset. The wild notes
of Mullingar rang out: fiddles, violins, drums.
Spontaneously, everyone began to dance,
in a wide circle, around and around the meadow.
My youngest on a friend's shoulders, both grinning.
Joy, as the sun went down on a golden chapter
of my life.

                          ***

2026. Songs of the 70's take me back
to all those joyous times: music, always
leading me, the sound track of my life.

Now they bring tears, for all the hope and dreams
we had back then. For how close we came
to changing the world.
For all that dark hearts have done instead.
For how much we need 
to change it back.

                        ***

SMALL BIRD

 

Small bird of my being,
you flit about
inside my mind
like a hummingbird
beating its wings
against clear glass.

So too,
you have flickered in my heart,
through all these years,
like a midnight gosling
seeking its mother,
in a strip of moonlight
on still water,
forever
in search of home.

Small bird, 
you have fluttered
until your wings
grew tired and slow.
You are an old bird, now.
Your flying days are done.
Fold your wings and nest
in the stilled and silent chambers
of my heart.
Rest now,
for you will soon
be home.

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.

Here is a video that cracked me up back in the day.........a smile for you.

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.