SOLASTALGIA

 

Kelowna 1950's

Don Collier photo

I am homesick for a time

I thought would last forever:

golden days under the sun,

when the world and I were young.

Apple orchards and lake ripples,

flower scent upon the breeze -

life was innocent, and new,
days and nights of
joy and ease,

storybook clouds in skies of blue,

all our dreams still up ahead

just waiting to come true.

Hanging on my grandma's gate,

ice cream truck tinkling down the street:

a shiny dime was riches then.

(Oh, I Remember When!)

Most houses, then, were five rooms small;

we wasted not one thing at all -

no plastic carted off each week,

no birds with string

caught in their beaks.

Now birds are falling from the sky,

as I look up and wonder why

we changed so much that we forgot

the lovely life of days gone by,

when the world and I were young,

and all our songs lay up ahead

just waiting to be sung.

For my prompt at What's Going On - Solastalgia - feeling homesick for the past; existential distress caused by environmental change.

Now the miles and miles of apple orchards I rode my bike past then are condos. The "country" has retreated to the far outskirts, past all the expensive cliffside mansions. Innocence lost, we all carry the weight of what today's affluence and excess has cost.

MY HEART, A TIGER'S NEST

 

source

My heart yearns toward a monk's cell

perched on the edge of a mountain cliff,

halfway between here and heaven.

Yet here I am, in a grey little town

in the valley,

trying to fashion my unwieldy life

into something

that does not give offence.

My challenge, the cliff-walk

of understanding the distance

between where you are

and where I long to be.

My practice, the lighting of incense

and, sometimes, hearts,

with the weaving of words.

My sorrow, the mantra of my soul:

how to tame

the tiger's nest of

keening for all that was,

all that may never be again,

so it may bed down

in peace.

A poem from 2015, that I am reminded of because I am reading about a woman travelling to monasteries around the world in search of peace. This one is the Tiger's Nest Monastery in Bhutan. When I wrote this poem, I was still living in Port Alberni, missing both Tofino, my wolf dog and our lost wilderness.

KODIAC

He was white

with spooky light blue eyes

and big, wolfy ears.

He loved me
and I loved him.

He stood on his hind legs

peering in my window

to find me.

When our eyes met

he cavorted giddily,

like a silly boy,

insisting I come out

to pat those wolfy ears

and give him treats.

He was wildness,

contained,

restrained,

but with a large spirit

that longed to

run free through the forest

or along the sandy shore.

He would have,

if he were mine,

but he belonged to another,

who was not kind.

One more white wolf

to invade my heart

then disappear.
One more wolf
I loved
and could not save.

He joins the list of creatures
loved and lost
within my heart.
A Gallery of Tears
of those with whom
I wished I'd never part.

- for Kodiak

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On - Pets I Have Known

Kodiak lived for a time in my building with  a man who had a mental illness. He was very hard on Kodiak, which distressed me greatly. Thankfully the man was convinced to let Kodiak go. You never saw a dog so happy to be at the SPCA. The above photo was taken while he was there. When men came to see him, he growled and didn't want anything to do with them. But one day an older woman came, and he ran up to her wagging his tail. I think he thought it was me come to get him. She took him home where hopefully he finally had the life he deserved. It all broke my heart, and breaks it still.  

 

Through Awakened Eyes

Let me tell you something about happiness,
about wonder: those small moments
that take your breath away, scattered
so generously throughout the day:

cherry trees full of white blossoms,
and alive with tiny hummingbirds

planting seeds, and the excitement,
one morning, of finding little green seedlings
popping up on the windowsill - a miracle
every time, that food and flowers
can come from tiny seeds
poked into earth with hope and faith.

Happiness is seeing nature's beauty
all around, through awakened eyes.
You may not be thinking about anything,
just watching a cloud perch itself
on top of the rounded hills
across the harbour; your heart swells
to overflowing at the beauty:
happy, happy, happy
and
grateful, grateful, grateful.

It is kinship with the world, one being
among all the other beings.
It lives in the song of the waves,
an eagle's cry, the sight of a heron
perched on the topmost branch
of an old growth cedar,
and you wonder how the branch
holds her weight and how
her feet find purchase.

It happens when a hummingbird flies
through an open door, into your house.
You cup its featherweight lightness
in your hands, walk outside,
and set her free. Her darting flight
away from you is just how happiness is:
you don't want to hold it too tightly;
you know it needs its freedom
to come and go. Cupped hands,
only for a moment, and then release.

You know it will always
come back.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On: When Nature Takes Your Breath Away. It does that for me so many times a day. I am gifted by Mother Earth's astonishing beauty. It is my joy and my solace. And my heartbreak, that humans wage their insane wars on her landscape.

Yesterday

 

Yesterday -
so full of dreams and longings
and the loved ones
who shine golden
in memory

Today -
it didn't turn out
at all the way
I planned

but turned into
a better dream
than I ever could have dreamed
on my own

On the wings
of whatever comes
on some unknown
Tomorrow,
a dream I hold up
to the Ancestors:
when that day comes,
may I sail gently
into morning
and blue sky

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On - Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow

Where Were You Yesterday?

 

I was:
watching in disbelief as a news anchor asked
the head of the US military, "Is bombing a civilization
into rubble Biblically permissable?"

She was seriously wondering.
I was waiting for the Red Queen to show up,
and a white rabbit checking his stopwatch.

To recover I:
sat in the yard watching two old cherry trees -
planted after the second World War-
alive with blossoms and hummingbirds,
some of them babies, as they ecstatically
and drunkenly zoomed from bloom to bloom.

pondered this schizophrenic existence
where I am sitting here in such beauty and peace
while across the globe people are
forming human chains to protect their bridges
and infrastructure. On the screen, 
children, with their bewildered faces,
who would die if the threatened bombs 
were to fall.

Thankfully, the madman stepped back
at the very last moment. But with mad people
in charge, one can't ever take an easy breath.

I try. "Today will be my peaceful day,"
the smiling monk instructed us to say.
Yes, I am peaceful.
But the world is not.
And it is not just.
Therein lies the problem.

I will watch the hummers again today,
white blossoms against the bluest of skies,
and count my breaths, one, two, three.

Two Completely Disparate Realities

 

There must be at least two dozen hummingbirds
- many tiny babies -

darting drunkenly from blossom to blossom

in my cherry tree; blue sky above, cloudless.

I hold this in half my heart, while the other half

holds the morning news: can the madman actually

be threatening nuclear war? Might this be

our last day on earth?

I make what might be my last cup of coffee.

I mute the news anchor, who is asking 

- incomprehensibly, wide-eyed, seriously questioning -

"Is bombing a country back to the stone age

Biblically permissible?" the response:

"trump and God are angry so this is happening."

We are so far down the rabbit hole,

we must be dreaming. You can't

make this stuff up.

I sit in the sun, watch the baby hummers
dart about. I can hear them peeping
like baby chicks.
Springtime this side of Paradise.
I am in no hurry to see
the other side.

May all beings be free from fear and sorrow.
May all beings still be here
tomorrow.

Thankfully trump backed off from disappearing a whole civilization overnight, as he had threatened. But the madness continues on and those surrounding him who stay silent are as guilty as he is - even more, since they presumably arent crazy.