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.

BLACKBIRD

For years I wandered aimlessly

up and down,

past all the pretty cottages

in the town

where happy people lived.

Oh, how I dreamed,

when I was on the outside

looking in,

that one day I would live,

like them, within.

I found a blackbird heart.

We loved each other true.

But, unused to being cherished,

knew not what to do

with all the feelings we kept

locked inside

through all the fear we tried

so hard to hide.

"And now you're inside

looking out", he said,

and it was true -

the cornerstone of my free spirit,

trapped and full of rue.
He could not say

the words to make me stay.

So I took my broken heart

and walked away.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: The Unspoken

In the early 80's, I met the man who was The One. But we had five teenagers between us, who made it difficult to be together, as they were unhappy with the changes we caused in their lives. Because the kids were unhappy, and because he could not make the commitment I needed to feel secure in the relationship, and didn't know how to ask for it, I left. Within the next year or two, the older kids were gone anyway. I regret I didn't have the courage to stay. Yet it wasn't long until I flew up over the mountains and landed by the sea, so that was the soul journey that was meant to be.

I Light the Incense

I light the incense in my small room. Nag Champa, my favourite and my grandma's favourite. My mother loved sandalwood best. But Nag Champa takes me to the Himalayas, the breathtaking peaks, where the snow lion walks on large soft paws, elusive, mythical. The Himalayas, where smiling weathered faces peer from dark rooms lit by flickering candles. 

I light the incense in my small room, a dark Tibetan kitchen framed upon the wall, an aged wrinkled Tibetan face hung above. Tibetan prayer flags flutter, as the breeze wafts the scent my way.

In memory, I see my Grandma's humble, peaceful cottage. In memory, I watch my mother light small cones of sandalwood, her huge blue eyes, her platinum hair, her movie star smile.

I light the incense in my small room. How quickly it burns itself to ash.