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 at what 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.

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,

or make me less

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 birthing 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.

For my prompt at What's Going On: This poem.........

MEET ME IN KATHMANDU

 

What is the magic
that picks me up by the scruff of the neck
when I open the pages of a book?

Meet me in Kathmandu.
I will arrive leading an elephant
I have liberated from her chains.
Twenty-six years, she lay on the pavement,
without hope.
Her eyes now gleam:
with relief, with awakening trust, with
-amazingly – kindness.
Although I am human,
like the beings who chained her,
she is willing to believe that
I mean her no harm.
Elephants forgive.

On a rooftop, above a monastery,
at three a.m.,
nuns are practicing kung fu.
Even the birds are not awake.
It is four hours until morning tea.
Below, monks’ rumbling mantras
grumble sonorously.
All is peaceful, conscious, awakened.

I have arrived along the Saffron Road
in the pages of a book,
where I live with delight
as the slow hours pass.

At the monastery,
the youngest nun is six years old.
Her parents brought her to the nuns
to gain good karma,
and also because
there is no money to feed
so many children.

She is nervous, watching the other nuns
to see what she is supposed to be doing.
In her bed at night,
I wonder if she remembers home,
cries silent tears,
feels unmoored,
unmothered.

I turn the page,
and now, so soon, it will be eventide
in the purple mountains,
smoke rising from the chimneys
and the cooking fires,
as amber light falls on stone walls,
and pilgrims make their weary way
homeward.

I must make my own way home.

Meet me in Kathmandu.
We will speak of the magic
of books that lift us up and away,
taking us on magic carpets
to the land of our dreams.


I wrote this poem some years ago when I was reading The Saffron Road, A Journey With Buddha’s Daughters, by Christine Toomey, who travelled the globe to tell the stories of Buddhist nuns. The book took me right into its pages, as books always do. My heart journeys to Tibet, to Nepal, to Africa....to so many places through the pages of wonderful books. This book  a beautiful glimpse of a mysterious way of life. 

I thought of it this morning at the library. I had to find this poem to remember the title of the book. I am going to read it again, as I often do with books I especially love. (So many books! So little time!)

The nuns doing kung fu reminded me of one of the sweetest things I have ever seen - a one hundred year old nun, here in Tofino, doing Qi Gong up at the Community Hall with the seniors' program. (I adore Qi Gong. This summer, I will be doing it weekly at the beach on Friday mornings. Yay!)

Three Months Until my 80th Birthday

 

The ferryman is paddling my way,
but has not yet rounded the bend.
So far, I can't hear the singing,
the dip of the oars.

Not time yet.

Remember those years
when energy was inexhaustible?
When you could walk miles
along the shore, then miles back,
that big black wolf
grinning at your side?

I hobble now,
but my heart still lifts on eagle's wings,
my eyes blessing the water, the trees,
the sky, the harbour,
the blossoming cherry trees
full of baby hummingbirds
in my front yard.

Grateful.
Grateful.
I never take anything for granted,
each peaceful day a gift, a blessing,
each smile, each kind word,
moving today gently into tomorrow.

Still here.
Still so glad to be here.

Bring me a blue sky,
a heron perched on a treetop.
Spring rain.
It will be enough.

The ferryman may be on his way.
But it's not time yet.
Not yet.

Inspired by "Two Months Before My 65th Birthday" by David James. And by a story my grandma told me about her friend, who had a near death experience and came back. She found herself crossing a desert, with a river ahead. She could hear people paddling a boat, the oars dipping and lifting, the people singing. They were coming to get her. But then she came back. It wasn't her time yet. Not yet.

TRUTH

Truth.
How much can we handle?
How do we find what's true
when the world is upside down
and filtered to us through
a madman's lens?

Haven't we been here before?
We fought fascism and authoritarianism
in World War II
and never dreamed
it could happen
in North America,
"the land of the free".

Truth:
the oligarchs are siphoning
riches into their bank accounts
as fast as they can.
Truth:
Congress is not doing its job,
fearful of a demented leader.
Truth:
The madman started
what could turn into World War III
on a whim, with no plan
how to stop it,
even as he sets his sights on
the next "excursion"/distraction.
About the impact of his actions 
on all living beings
on the planet:
"I don't care," he said.
Truth.
The only true words he has ever spoken.

Truth:
The power is in the people,
yet the polling booths
are under attack
by voter suppression.
Prepare for your next vote
with everything you have.
Democracy is on the line.

Truth:
I am way too tired,
after a lifetime
of human rights movements,
to be worrying this much
in my last years.

Truth:
we can't stop resisting.
Our grandchildren and great-grandchildren
and all other beings
deserve a future.

for Susan's timely prompt: Truth - something we aren't seeing a lot of on the evening news, thanks to right wing billionaires taking over the airwaves. MSNOW is still there though, and telling the truth as loudly as they can. 

Song for the World's Children

source

Song for the world's children:
in Iran, in Ukraine, in Gaza,
in so many desperate, terrified
and hungry places, 
a song that is

sorrowing, sorrowing,
a song that has no end.

Big-eyed children

with every rib showing,
hiding in the rubble,
sitting on their grandmothers' laps,
those grandmas with weary eyes,
who have seen this all their lives,
and it still makes no sense.

How can hearts harden enough

to continue warring

when they see the children:

innocent, starving,
being killed by bombs?

A normal human would

stop the endless fighting,

put down the guns,

get right to work,

boiling the water,

gathering food, clearing the road

so the aid trucks can pass.

What's more important

than feeding the children?

Not ideologies, politics,

borders or power.

An ancient soul peers through

those surrendering eyes;

it waits a thousand years

for the world to grow wise.

First, feed the children.

Mop up their tears.

Then ask why we've been fighting

for all of these years?

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On - Children

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.