SONG OF THE FROGS

Port Albion just before sunset

Song of the frogs

in the fading light

soft fade the hills

in the falling night

God touching earth

with a gentle might

and all is beauty

within my sight

Soft falls the light

on garden walls

a rose-hued mountain

as night's curtain falls

a froggy symphony

serenades the night sky

and grateful, grateful,

grateful,

I.

*********************

ODE TO A HERON

Graceful heron

swooping across

the evening sky

like a pteradactyl,

Prehistoric bird

perched

on a treetop,

my heart swoops

with you,

then stills,

standing beside

the silent pond,

waiting for the night

to settle

around us both

as softly

as feathers.

***

These poems were written in 1999, when I lived, for a few months, in tiny rooms in Port Albion,  a small community outside Ucluelet, where Pup ran wild. We were joyous. We lived by this pond at the foot of a mountain, which turned rosy pink every afternoon before sunset. Our next move was heartbreaking, away from the west coast, inland to Port Alberni, where we mourned together our lost wilderness.

Sharing this with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

Rise

My Grandma and her horse, Monte

Note the wheel from the horse and buggy 

in the background.

No cars back then, in my Grandma's life.
They rode everywhere on horseback
or with horse and buggy.

"Be still.....you are the result of the love of thousands."
Linda Hogan

"The day the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace."
Mahatma Gandhi

I come from a long line

of strong, cackling women.

Each of us in turn has been 

captured, contained, caged,

silenced, oppressed, 

beaten and betrayed.

(- the open door of the cage,

the fear of flying,

the final desperate leap

when out we flew -)

Be brave, young women and,

more than that,

be determined, persistent, 

with your eyes on the her-izon.

Speak your truth.

You come from the love of thousands.

Your ancestors surround you,

whispering encouragement 

in your ear.

Our oppressors may beat us down

for a time,

but forever and forever

we will

Rise.

for Susan's Midweek Motif: Empowerment

SMALL BIRD

source

Small bird,

you flew down

to the lower limbs

of this old tree,

to encourage

my stumbling walk

through this forest

of darkness.

From branch to branch

you hop,

warbling encouragement

as I pass through this world,

so beautiful,

yet

so full of pain and guns, 

greed and madness,

a garden turned graveyard,

filled with the wailing songs

of a million mothers.

I will follow you,

small bird,

the whole day long.

You are symbol of

all that I cherish;

your bright feathers

light my way.

Your song sings hope

to my tired heart.

I am glad, small bird,

that, from above,

you see only the beauty,

feel only the love.

for The  Sunday   Muse,  a bit late. Just heard of the shooting in the Netherlands. No end to the madness. All automatic weapons should be banned everywhere. When will enough be enough? Sharing also with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads.

meditation on green

the color of life, of growth,

tall, spindly pine

draped in old man's beard

a thousand fern fronds

under whose umbrella

twin blooms

small as a baby's tears

peek pertly

jagged stump

covered in soft thick moss

framed by tall cedars

among whose lofty branches

songbirds flit

their trill echoing

across the sleepy forest

winding trails

through the silence

paths springy, living

underfoot

where we walk

heads thrown back

-alive!-

one with the ferns the fronds the trees

their height that teaches us to strive

the sky

a compass for

all our flighty dreams

clouds drifting by

one breath two breaths

leafy breath

and human sigh

birdsong

ringing through

the silent canopy

piercing me through

with each piercing

I'm made new

becoming

becalming

forest floor alive

under our

live feet

step so lightly

don't crush the mosses!

fairies drinking dewdrops

from the white bell-shaped blossoms

frogs in the skunk cabbage

yellow jonquils

line the deadened pond

the forest holds its breath

and waits

it waits

'til we are gone

One from 2001, to be shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where we have good reading every Sunday morning. Come join us.

Dreaming in Green

Sapphire's Moonbeam

What do trees see,

when they dream?
Do they dream in green?

Is a violin weeping,
when the violinist makes his bow sing
those long,  keening  notes,
as if his instrument might collapse with grief
at any moment?

For sure, mother wolf grieves
when her baby dies,
and mother dog feels the loss
when her puppies are taken away.

Does the Planetary Clock
know it is one minute to midnight,
even though we foolish humans
prefer to believe time will go on forever,
and disaster will strike for others,

not for us?

Where do prayers go
and, if they are heard,
how will we ever find out
the answers?

What is the sound of
one hand clapping?
the koan master asks.
The befuddled monk
will ponder this
all day.

for Fireblossom Friday, my favourite prompt at Real Toads. We are to ask an unusual question. I thought of a few, if not unusual, questions I ponder from time to time. As for the last one, I am more befuddled than the monk.

Beloved

They circle the harbour,

my mountains ~

guardians, protectors.

My eyes follow their familiar curves

~ Catface, Lone Cone, Meares ~

tracing their round lines,

catching my breath at

their ever-changing mist and cloud,

their slopes turning rosy 

just before sunset,

like blushing maidens, shy under

so many loving glances.

My eyes caress their rounded shapes

with gratitude and love

~ Catface, Lone Cone, Meares ~

watching over the harbour 

and our lives:

neighbours, protectors, guardians.

Beloved.

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Neighbours. Every day, as I pass through the village, my eyes fly to the mountains circling our shores. They are so familiar and beloved, my heart ever grateful for their beauty and proximity.

Begging Bowl

source

I take my begging bowl

out into the morning,

and it is heaped,

without my asking,

with delights:

sky of summer-blue,

perfect puffy clouds,

eagle wind-surfing the sky,

Lunabella's smile,

old black and golden dogs
with warm, brown, loving eyes,

old horse nibbling fresh green grass.

With humility and gratitude,

I accept what I am given,

these  riches beyond price.

We are heaped with blessings,

not one repeated twice.

I found this in my drafts folder this morning. It must be from a few years back, when old dogs and old horse were still alive. Sigh.