A Monk Standing in the Rain

 

After walking 2300 miles for peace,

through heat, storm and blizzard, illness,

injury, and lacerated feet, the monks returned

home to the temple. Bikkhu Pannakara

bowed to the ground before his teacher.

Blossoms were scattered at their feet.
A humble monk, come home,
saying "I hope I made you proud."

May all beings be at peace.

As he spoke, under shelter, about his journey,

rain began to fall.

He said, "I cannot bear to see you standing

in the rain, so I will join you there."

He continued his teaching.

He said, "If you do not leave me,

I will not leave you. That is my vow."

May all beings be at peace.

What does this have to do with anger?
you ask.
Everything.

He crossed a country seething with anger,

hatred, racism, injustice, and terror:
its people fearful, outraged, despairing.
Everywhere, he spoke about

peace, kindness, compassion,
helping us to quiet our minds,
to be present and mindful,
to be kind in our speech.

May all beings be at peace.

I have lived among angry people

much of my life. They taught me

how not to be angry. Because peace

is what I needed most,
and anger is not the way
to get there.

So these monks walking across America

during the worst year I can remember,

igniting hearts along the way

and around the world,
brought me hope I sorely needed,
the body memory of how much kinder
life can be.

May all beings be at peace.

The opposite of anger?

A humble monk, footsore

and exhausted, home again,

standing in the rain

with his followers,

showing us all

another way to be.

The Walk for Peace by nineteen monks crossing America for peace touched so many hearts,  hungry for their message of peace, kindness and compassion. I followed them online and follow them still. They were the best thing to happen, for me,  this year. They walked for us, for the world, and all its beings. 

t.rump's first term was hard on my mental health. When he was re-elected, I knew I had to detach myself, while remaining informed, in order to protect my well-being. That is even harder this time around.

This poem is the opposite of anger, but is what came to me as I contemplated anger, which we have too much of, in a world that longs for peace.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On : Anger.

Mother Sky / Small Bird

A twiggy nest,
a serene brown bird ~

singing!

***

Small bird,

with your sweetness

you are

the bodhisattva

of my morning.

Songstress,

you awaken me

to the plight of all beings.

***

You,

who own only feathers,

are far happier

than we.

Teach us your song.

***

for De's prompt at dVerse: a 44 word Bird quadrille

SEEING LIKE THE BUFFALO

Credit: Tom Murphy (source) 

The buffalo know to face a storm head-on,

to not turn away and risk the snow covering them,

but facing first, causing a division, the snow

parting and blowing past.

The buffalo came thundering at Standing Rock,

to defend the warriors trying to save the river.

Buffalo have deep earth wisdom and, it seems,

a strong sense of justice,

as do all wild things who are suffering the fate

of the voiceless, uncared for by those chasing 

oil and weath at the expense of every living thing -

including, in time, themselves.

Sigh.

That I see these things with clear eyes

does not help. Taking the existential view

does not let me unsee a hundred and fifty

little girls, what's left of them buried

as the rockets fall, buildings crumble,

and the insanity of war begins again,

thanks to one deluded demented old man

awake at two in the morning 

(where were his minders?)

deciding he could because he can.

Like the buffalo, I am looking at it head on.

Long before the world
recovers from its madness,

I'll be gone.

TEN YEARS LATER

Ten years and more later,

walking without you,

there is a familiar loneliness, that

has always been mine, ten years of being alone

at the edge of aloneness, a peaceful stillness,

a solitude that understands there will never

again be you and me, the complete companionship

of two wild hearts.

At the river's edge, the dappled sunlight

plays across the water; the great trees

lean down. We walked here, so often,

together, your brown eyes gleaming,

nose to the ground, smelling all

the wild smells, tail and ears up,

alert for scurryings in the bush.

Ten years ago, I dreamed of you.

Your absence was a presence in my life.

You looked uncared for and sad.

You were missing me,

as I was missing you.

I am always missing you.

I carry you within, a big black wolf,

in my wild wolf-woman heart.

On nights when the moon is full,

we both give a long, low, silent howl.

Inspired by David Whyte's Ten Years Later. The italicized lines are his.

for my prompt at What's Going On : Ten Years Later. It has been more than ten years now. But when I look back, that big, black wolf is always who I see, running along the forest trails with me.

THIS POEM

 

This poem will not bring the climate
back into balance, elect sane leaders,
stop incomprehensible and immoral wars,
or grant us peace.

It won't plump up our bank balance,
fix our broken appliances,
make our old friends, who have been
silent so long, send an email.

It won't make my hair
(or my children!) behave,
and I have always been
socially awkward.

This poem takes a rainy morning,
a very bad headache, fatigue,
outrage at the daily news,
and turns it into counting blessings:

gratitude, for the rainforest,
its owls and eagles and herons,
wolves and stumbling bears;
gratitude for my cozy rooms 
and fleecy blankets,
wolf pictures on every wall;

gratitude for the beauty of Mother Earth,
still blooming spring blossoms
and baby lambs, even though
her humans are treating her badly;
gratitude for happy dogs
lolloping along sandy beaches,
tongues out, grinning toothily:
no one does gratitude (and exuberance)
better than dogs.

This poem has taken a few minutes to write.
But all by itself, it has changed my mind
from sad resignation
to gratitude and hope.

Sometimes a poem can do that.

Not Someone Else's Daydream

 

Conventional husbands of the sixties quaked

when their wives discovered Ms magazine

and The Feminine Mystique.

We looked in the mirror and discovered

our eyes had grown determined.

Our wings flapped and fluttered

against confines

until we bent the bars

with the force of our will,

popped the cage door open,

and burst through.

There is as much pain in birthing self

as birthing others.

Much bleeding, and much healing.

Some thoughts in desperate midnights

of giving up,

but we stuck around in hopes

it would get better.

And, for a time, it did,
beyond our wildest dreams.

The jackals had come

to feast upon our bones,

but a wily raven warned us,

so we spirited them away.

Within the forest deep,

we put ourselves back together

with owl songs and wing feathers,

and learned a language

of our own making.

Then we re-entered our lives

as ourselves,

no longer

someone else's daydream.

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Women and History (Herstory?) 

Scratch a Baby Boomer and find a feminist, lol. In the early 70's, womens' consciousnesses were rising all over the place. It was a heady time. My chauvinist soon-to-be-ex was appalled at the developments. We are a formidable force, once provoked. Some orange-cheeked "leaders" would do well not to underestimate us. The regime in the States is trying to block women from voting by not recognising their married names. Good grief.

In Transition

 

First, I transitioned from active motherhood

to grandmotherhood, all those years

of shepherding growing children

along the forest trails, a gift to last them

all their lives: nature and books,

a lasting legacy.

Next, I transitioned to elderhood,

my favourite colour changing

from purple to earth's mossy hues,

rewilding myself into a world of green,
my love affair with nature
and a wild black wolf
the best of all my years.

I cultivated the sprig of poetry

that had waited patiently

all those busy years, for me to have time,

felt the rush of dammed-up words

springing free at last.

I feel myself in transition,
now, once more,

from this world I love so much,

suspended here, in thankfulness,

just before what comes next.

Now the words are all of gratitude:

for the life I've had, a wilder journey

than I ever could have dreamed,

for the beauty of the earth,

which makes my heart ache
with both thankfulness and grief,
for all the many gifts, the help
I was given along the way

and for that endless sky, containing secrets

I have yet to understand.
Leave the window open,
when it's time,
so my spirit can find its path
out into the cosmos
and away.