Friday, March 22, 2019


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,



Graceful heron
swooping across
the evening sky
like a pteradactyl,
Prehistoric bird
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.

Wednesday, March 20, 2019


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 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

for Susan's Midweek Motif: Empowerment

Monday, March 18, 2019


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,
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.

Friday, March 15, 2019

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
where we walk
heads thrown back
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
ringing through
the silent canopy
piercing me through
with each piercing
I'm made new
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.

Thursday, March 14, 2019

Dreaming in Green

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.

Wednesday, March 13, 2019


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.


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.

Saturday, March 9, 2019

Begging Bowl

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.