A WOLFISH TALE

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After years of keeping

the wolf from the door,

I let him in.

Oh! He was wild!

He wilded me along the shore;

I'd be untamed

forevermore.

Through Wild Thing's door,

we loped along,

cavorted 'cross the forest floor,

howled under the moon

our song.

I wasn’t lonely any more.

He led me such

a merry chase.

Toothy grin

and wolfish face,

feet and paws

never apart,

he claimed each corner

of my heart.

In time our steps slowed

to a hobble.

I knew that soon

I'd be bereft.

His paws still padding soft

beside me,

I grieved his loss

before he left.

I've mourned his leaving

all the years

from the day

this wolf tale ends.

In dreams, he asks,

"why are you grieving?"

I say, "I've lost my dearest friend."

He smiles his toothy smile at me,

reminding me,

"Love never ends."

for my prompt at Real Toads: Un-Fairy Tales  and shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

When I look back at those years, he and I truly did live a fairy tale. Those years are golden in memory. I have been given many gifts, this lifetime.

The Princess Who Ate the Pea

[image from favin.com - original source unknown]

She'd been told, of course,

about the princess and the pea,

the girl with such delicate sensitivities

she could feel a pea under 

fourteen layers of mattresses.

What does it mean, then,

when her bed has rocks in it

and the message is

"you made your bed,  now lie in it.

What doesnt kill you makes you stronger"?

How strong does a woman

have to be?

(Damn strong!
Strong as steeped tea.)

In her world, the prince did not come.

There were no glass slippers,
no magic pumpkin.

She got stuck in chapter one

of Cinderella,
never met a princely fella.

The Good Fairy got the address wrong,

so she has been cleaning chimneys

and other peoples' messes

for way too long.

Not Sleeping Beauty,

(and she envies her all that rest!),

she was, for years,

the aging woman in the Dickens parlour,

draped in spiderwebs,

waiting for her suitor

for decades.

She was always brushing

those damned cobwebs off her face.

Un-fairytales are her medium.

Definitely.

She has got un-fairy tales down.

She learned to hack her own way

through the thornbushes,

free herself from her own stone garret.

She galloped alone at a high lope

across the fields

on the great adventure of life,

with a brave heart for the journey,

no need to be rescued by a knight 

on a white horse,

with a back to cling to as he led the way

forward into Tomorrow.

Un-fairy tales can get repetitive,

the same old Rescuing of Others,

page after page.

Or, one may feel like she is beginning

a new chapter every other week.

It gets exhausting.

And delicate sensitivities?

One needs to toss those overboard

right from the start,

develop a hearty cackle

and a Can-Do attitude.

"Eat the pea, young women,"

is her best advice.

"You will need the nourishment."

for my prompt at Real Toads: Un-fairy Tales. This is an old one, that I re-worked considerably.  I didn't think I could say it any better. But, for all that, I still do believe in fairy tales. For other people, lol.

SMALL OWL

Small owl,

harbinger,
traveler-between-worlds,

(all that we know

and the unseen),

what do you see
behind those heavy-lidded eyes

when you dream?

What wonders do you witness
in the darkest dark
of night?
What do you remember
when comes
the morning light?
Mice, skittering across
the forest floor?
Or in your daydreams
do you swoop 

and soar?

Do you conjure shamans
in the nighttime woods?
Commune with wolves,
ululate, as small owls should?
Have you seen my black wolf
as the midnight air grows thin,
at the edge of the Other-world
trying to
get back in?

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Owls. I have written often about owls, with whom I have had a few encounters, one quite mystical. 

Skybird's Song

source

Traveler falters

on the path.

She is wounded.

Her wolf companion

has left her side,

and her hand

is empty

when it moves

to touch his head.

It is a blow,

a hole torn

in the

fabric

of her living.

But, soon,

she hears

a skybird's song.

It mends and weaves

the sore place

in her heart, bids her

resume her journey,

encourages her

from low branches

till she

gets up

and walks again.

She follows

that bird

the whole

day long.

One from my Soul Card Journey of April, 2011, shared with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads. We can listen for that encouraging bird, as we walk through this dystopian forest of bad news. Perhaps she sees farther down the path, to where the news is better. We live in hope.

Wild Woman Goes for Tea

photos from blog.wellappointedhouse.com

There is a dangerous old woman

who lives in the forest.

Her house is whittled inside a tree trunk,

and her music is the rainfall on the leaves.

"Whu-hoo", says the owl 

on the cobbled doorstep,

blinking her yellow eyes

and rustling her feathers.

"To enter, you must have passed 

seventy years of seasons.

The map of your life

must be drawn upon your face,

and your eyes droop with 

sadness and the memory

of your journey.

Yes. You are

sad enough and wise enough

to pass."

I enter and, within, the fire is blazing.

A grizzled white-haired crone bends

to pour my tea.

"And what are you wondering?

What question brings you here?"

she asks,

dipping a dainty finger

in her teacup

and stirring.

"What do I have to do,

to have my dwelling in a tree?"

"Grow back your clipped wings,

and remember how to fly."

google picture - original source unknown

One from 2013, kids. Because I am in need of a cup of tea. And wings. Or at least a bunch of helium balloons, to hold up my tired Head. LOL.  Sharing it with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

A Whale's Tale

Nuu chah nulth whaling circa 1700

source

The Nuu chah nulth people of the West Coast have cared for the land, water and its creatures for ten thousand years, according to the principle of Hishuk Tsawalk: "Everything Is One". Each being is seen as a relative in the tapestry of life. Even the lowly slug has territory that is respected. “There are spirit forms in everything that surrounds us,” the wise ones say. When someone harvested cedar bark, back then, permission was asked of the guardian of that area. After harvesting, that tree and that part of the forest would be left alone for many years to heal.  

In those days, pre-contact, the whaling canoes set forth from Echachis, at the south end of Wickaninnish Island. A whale hunter was trained from birth for the hunt. When grown, for months before the hunt, he prepared with prayer, bathing and fasting.  He and the whale would meet in dreams, to agree that that whale, and no other, would be taken. It was a sacred contract. He would paddle until he found the whale, and fulfil their agreement. After the hunt, everyone would gather to process the whale into the products they would use for food, trade, barter or sale. Then all would feast in celebration, with many songs of gratitude and respect being sung for the whale whose life sustained the village. First Peoples have always understood the necessity of maintaining the balance of the ecosystems that support all life.  How they must recoil at the mamalthni’s* heavy footprint on the land, our disregard for tomorrow.

In spring, I watched three whales rubbing themselves on the sandbar in the channel. I gazed across at Echachis,  reflecting on long-gone days, when the canoes would head out to meet the cetaceans. Whales, the keepers of  our collective memory, are now making their difficult trek through warming seas, pollution, hunger and death, brought by the colonial culture of domination, greed and money. The great beasts are the wisdom keepers, intuiting how all that we hold dear is coming perilously close to being lost. No wonder their song is so mournful, and their ancient eyes so sad.

If only  mamalthni*
would learn we are but one link
in the chain of life.

*Mamalthni is the Nuu chah nulth word for white people. I have been told these things by the Nuu chah nulth people of this land, in workshops and gatherings. If this earth is to survive, we need to hear their wisdom and learn to live with Mother Earth as they do. Soon.

A lengthy haibun for Margaret's Artistic Interpretations at Toads: a Whale's Tale.

The Slap of a Beaver's Tail, at Morning

To steady your steps
in this turbulent world,
enter the marsh
at the edge of the pond.
Listen to the thrush
sweetly singing her morning song.
The slap of the beaver’s tail
sends ripples across the water.
Your dog smiles.
There is only this moment,
right now,
breathing in,
breathing out,
your heart like a reaching root
warmed by the sun.

Perhaps you woke this morning,
as I did,
with the words of your dream
still speaking:
“The planet is burning,
and our leaders don’t care.”

We do all we can:
make the calls, sign the petitions,
make wise consumer
and life choices,
plant trees, help our neighbours.
Pray. March. Vote.

The reeds lining the pond
thank us for our good hearts;
the sun bathes the trees
in golden light, gifting us
with another day
of trying.

Enter the marsh
at the edge of the pond.
Listen to the thrush
blessing us
with her morning song.
Our hearts like reaching roots,
warmed by the sun.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Balance. Hard to find if one listens to the news. I did wake up this morning with those words from my dream. Sigh. I guess the rich crocodiles figure they can pay to protect themselves from whatever disasters come. Won't they be surprised!