Wild Woman Goes for Tea

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 

sixty 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."

I Read Your Words

I read your words.
They fill my heart.
Though we live
thousands of miles apart,
your soul touches mine,
our thoughts share a dance,
and, should we ever meet by chance,
we already know
each other's hearts,
though we live
thousands of miles apart.

Am sick this week, kids, so penned just a simple response to Kim's prompt at Verse First: We are Interconnected. Nowhere have I encountered interconnection as amazingly as in the online poetry community, which has given my heart wings, and my poems a place to live. Thank you to each one of you. It still blows me away that someone in another part of the world is taking the time to visit my site and leave a comment. It makes me smile and just never gets old.

A Thousand Years of Living

When we walk through speckled landscapes where the shape-shifters dance,
we are walking in the footsteps of the ones who came before.
There are signposts they have left us all across the forest floor.
A thousand years of living - we dont set our sail by chance.

We are walking in the footsteps of the ones who came before.
The Old Ones' songs I hear upon the breeze.
A thousand years of living - we dont set our sail by chance.
I sing wolfsong to the mountains and knock on midnight's door.

The Old Ones' songs I hear upon the breeze,
under my feet the brittle leaves of summer past.
I sing wolfsong to the mountains and knock on midnight's door.
The night air whispers: here you are, at last! 

Under my feet the brittle leaves of summer past.
There are signposts they have left us all across the forest floor.
The night air whispers: here you are, here you are at last!
Walking through a speckled  landscape where the shape-shifters dance.

Argh. My lines are too long for the margins. Cant fix them. I am posting this for Real Toads Open Link, where I was amazed to just read Kerry's wonderful poem in memoriam of a slain poet, referring to the elders and footsteps. I have been working on this pantoum last night and this morning, and it was freaky to find myself somewhat on the same wavelength as another poet, which happens sometimes. Please dont miss Kerry's beautiful tribute here. And check out the links at Toads. Always wonderful poetry on open link Monday.

Spin Us the Web of Peace

Spider Woman

by Susan Boulet

from the Goddess Knowledge Cards

Grandmother Spider,

weave your gossamer threads 

around this spinning planet.

Reconnect us to

the web of life,

to our place in the cosmos.

Remind us

of our interdependence

on the earth

and its every living

and non-living thing.

Let one perfect dewdrop fall

to coat the morning.

Weave your web

artfully through our hearts,

so that we become caught up 

in earth's beauty

and wish to do nothing

to mar its perfection.

Raven is casting a black eye

upon the clouds and cacophony

of war.

Mother Earth is weeping

at our lack of unity.

But wait! 

Coyote is singing you

his weaving song.

Come! Quickly!
wrap us

in silken threads

of planetary

peace.

I am posting this for Mary's prompt at dVerse later today: Peace. It is the U.N. World Peace Day, so it's a timely topic. (It is always a timely topic.) Do click over to dVerse, as there will be some wonderful poems about peace to peruse.

GAIA SPEAKS

found at patheos.com - artist unknown

I once was pure,

but then you came in millions.

I watched you rip and tear 

at my bounty,

ravage my pristine hillsides,

frack my innards,

melt the polar icecaps, 

and reconfigure the sky.

Your  nuclear plants leak poison;

your underground "tests" destroy;

you fill all bodies of water with effluent;

your love of beef and oil

is filling the air you breathe 

with noxious fumes;

and your love of money 

is so desperate 

that you would gasp your last

in the grasping of it.

Now, if I shed tears,

will they be acid rain?

And if I smile a golden sun at you

will it burn up the desert?

If my unsettled spirit 

unleashes a mighty wind,

and covers your shores with mighty tides,

can you see how you have provoked

the winds?

how you have flooded the shores?

You have tied my hands

so that I dare not even weep.

Burdened me with grief profound

for the fateful promises

I must keep.

But still I advise, 

as hopefully

as only a mother can:

mend your ways,

or I must return

to how I was

when I began.

Posted for Kerry's cool prompt at Real Toads: to write in the first person of a god or goddess, as if she is contemplating life in the present era. Something I often think about. I chose Gaia, the Goddess or personification of Earth in Greek mythology.

LEFT OF CENTER, Oh Yeah, Baby!

Vancouver Sun photo

In our family, we are all decidedly
left of center.
Faaaaaaaaaaar left.
Left-brain concepts?  unwieldy and difficult.
Feel, baby, feel, stuff all that analysis 
in the cobwebby rafters,
it's peace and love, baby, all the way.

My son is most confidently 
left of center.
He attended an Occupy Vancouver rally,
last year,
where there was Too Much Talking
and decided it was time for action.

"Anyone who wants to march, 
meet me over There 
in five minutes" he yelled.
In five minutes he had a throng of avid followers,
marching his revolution through 
downtown Vancouver,
the police respectfully stopping traffic 
at every intersection for him,
assuming this was part of the organized action.
Event organizers were left in his dust
scratching their heads and wondering
where all the people went.

Hilarious. And it is just that easy 
to start a Movement. 

When our family gets together, 
non-biological members
try to maintain neutral expressions,
but they have no control over their eyebrows,
which find new purchase 
somewhere around their hairlines.

Left of center?
Perhaps Left of Left is more accurate,
with, at times,  a nod towards 
Left the Planet Entirely.

Hee hee, this is an irreverent response to Kim's prompt at Verse First: Just Past Center. But it was fun writing it:) My son really did hijack an Occupy Vancouver gathering:) His finest hour!

Letting Go

A blaze of color

as you cling to

your familiar tree,

before you curl up,

fall to the ground, blow away.

Your message to me

in this autumn

of my life,

when one most wants

to hold on:

instead,

the traveler's path~

Let go.

Let go.

Why I Love Vancouver Island

Kids, here are five minutes of sheer delight, to give you a sense of life on Vancouver Island. This was filmed in Cowichan, southern Vancouver Island, outside of Victoria. All over the Island you will find much the same quality of life, and the happiness of people who are very aware of our good fortune to live here. This came to my inbox today and I wanted to share it with you. It is so uplifting - and the scenery cannot be beat! Enjoy! This is why I love Vancouver Island.

Slightly Haunted

Your spirit runs far beaches,
pounds along the forest trails,
 mine, hungry for the sight of your
big ears and bushy tail.

 Haunted by your being gone,

I soar the mountain pass,

to those wild beaches we so loved,

where I'll find you, at last.

I'll look for you amidst  the waves.

I'll search along the shore,

or in the trees; you might be loping

'cross the forest floor.

Since you've been gone,

I've never stopped looking here and there.

Every big black dog reminds me,

and I see them everywhere.

Though it is now two lonely years

since we have been apart,

teardrops are still raining

in the landscape of my heart.

With thoughts of you my memories

 forever will be rife.

I will carry your loss within me

to the last day of my life.

Hannah, of Metaphors and Smiles,  set us a great prompt at Real Toads: to set our muse, hungry and haunted, into nature. For me, my love of wilderness is all wrapped up in a big black wolf, gone two and a half years now. The most magical place I know is the wild west coast of Vancouver Island, where he and I shared glorious years in some of the most spectacular landscape on the planet. I do not feel his spirit here, in this gray mill town we both endured, while longing for our wilderness home. I am haunted by his absence, so this prompt sent me in the only possible direction.

Leftovers

Mama Zen said 

I could use eight lines,

but I ate 

four of them.

This is what you call a no-brainer because I worked so hard today, no synapses are firing. Plus Shay knocked it out of the park with eight WORDS, so why even try? LOL.  

Fun exercise though, for Words Count with Mama Zen, to write about "eight" - eight words, eight lines or eighty - or even ate, which appealed to me as it is suppertime in western Canada!  Check out the other links over at Toads. They all wrote Real Poems:)

When the Going Gets Weird

weird animals from net.newsment.com

When the going gets weird,

the weird turn pro,

my Sis told me,

with pride

and sisterhood,

acknowledging

my excellence

at weirdness.

Weird has always

felt familiar.

Weird comes with

its own

built-in laughter.

Weird makes

the ordinary

stretch its wings

and try a little harder.

Weird puts a shine on

and does a little tap-dance

just to entertain you.

Weird turns a world of

Anybodies

into

Somebody Specials

with their

amazing, 

totally unbelievable

stories.

If Weird could speak,

it would tell you:

Come sit by me,

sweetheart,

and let me tell you

a few good tales.

One from the archives today, kids. Wild Woman is tired and busy, and weirdness is always a relevant topic!

Messages from the Other Side

At first, I don't bother looking,

so certain am I that  I can't discern.

Then suddenly I see you:

your wolfish face,

with my heart on your head,

just waiting for me

to find you.

Ha! Ms Lolamouse, over at Real Toads, has challenged us to write to what we see in some Rorschach blots. I barely looked, as I was sure I only saw ink blots. Then I did a double take and, oops! There is my beloved Pup with, astonishingly, my heart on his head. How Toad-ally cool.

I Remember

I remember the night at writers group
when Ellen Stood Up,
 because she was so outraged 
over some local issue or other.
(I don't remember what it was.)
Her strength and fury and standing up
silenced us into awe and, ever after,
we remind each other:
"Remember the night when Ellen Stood Up?"

One other Tuesday night,
then 72 year old beloved Betty, 
raging granny of the blockades,
who had survived living with four husbands
and bearing eight children,
(two of whom succumbed to cancer as adults)
Came Out,
to our applause
and cheers and laughter. 

I remember the young woman
who wrote her pain all through that winter
about her mother's murder
by her father's hand
and what that had done
to her childhood,
to her heart,
to her life.
I remember her poem about 
dreaming of her mother
as a bird, a feathered being,
ending her poem with a plaintive
"What were you trying to tell me?"

I remember that group
of incredible, unique, talented
and blew-me-away-forever women,
and how the energy felt
when the prompt was set
and someone said
"Five minutes! Go!"

In the late 90's I was privileged to be one of the founding members of the Clayoquot Writers Group, which continues today, with many published authors among them. This is what poured forth in response to Karin's wonderful prompt over at dVerse: Try To Remember. She offered her own "I Remember" post here, and that definitely triggered mine. Women in writers' groups get to know each other at a very deep level, because we write our deepest truths. What a privilege it was to write my way through that first winter with that amazing group of women. Check out the offerings at dVerse. There are sure to be some great reads over there.

The Unexpected Ecclesiastic

Mother Earth

Wild Woman started out fleeing 

from churches with walls,

adrift in the world,

without rudder or ballast,

horizon or shore,

was buffeted about,

charted a course she hoped 

would improve the journey,

encountered storm, damage, 

death, betrayal, 

abandonment and shipwreck,

had absolutely everything stripped away,

emerging onshore clad only in her skin,

began again, 

and repeated this pattern 

several times over.

Somewhere through the course 

of these misadventures,

she fell deeply in love with life,

with the natural world,

and one or two million 

of its non-human creatures,

and gradually discovered

she had become an

unexpected ecclesiastic

in the Church of Mother Earth.

Posted for Shay's challenge on Fireblossom Friday over at Real Toads: to select words from her list to create a title, then write a poem to it. Of course one of the hardest words popped out at me, so I had no choice but to figure it out! This was a way-cool prompt. Cant wait to rush over and see what other poets have done with it.

There Is No Path

Wild Woman

spent much of her life

searching

for a path

that was

right under her nose

- and her feet -

all along.

"Traveler,

there is no path.

The path is made

by walking." *

quote by Antonio Machado

Posted for Kim's prompt at Verse First: Right Under Your Nose

The Things We Carry

humanrights.cn

How is it that in the West,

some days the thoughts we carry

are heavier

than this load carried by a Nepalese woman

and that,

while her physical burden

seems impossible to bear,

her soul, her thoughts,

are likely,

often,

lighter than air?

posted for Peggy's prompt at Real Toads: The Things We Carry

Rust and Bone

photo by Adrian Dorst of Tofino

"What's that smell?" she asked,

as the metallic odor,

rusty, like dried blood 

on an old knife-blade, 

distinct and Other,

like mud at the bottom 

of a primordial swamp,

crept across the motionless form

on the hospital bed.

"It's Death,"

I replied.

"It's Death."

posted for Laurie Kolp's cool prompt at Poetry Jam : Rust

RADICAL GRATITUDE

gotofino.com

how do we give back for so much beauty?
sight, and laughter, and love and dreams,
rushing river, burbling streams,
the miracle and mystery,
the beauty and the blight,
the chance to keep trying
to get it right.

give back for it all.
give thanks without ceasing.
even for the unwanted passage
that turns out to be the very portal
your soul has been seeking.

Oracle Owl calls from the forest deep:
don't go back to sleep, don't go back to sleep.

Thinking about gratitude a lot these days, and just how rich is the banquet spread before us, with all of its beauty, and so many choices. Last night I read this quote by Rabindranath Tagore, which sums it up nicely:

I slept and dreamt that life was joy.
I woke and saw that life was service.
I acted and behold, service was joy.

One from the archives, today, kids, as today is a busy one. Will come visit you all later.

Have a great day!

Dreamers of the Same Dream

Ayres Rock, Google, from worldmusic.net

I am seeking out the ancestral songlines

imprinted on the earth during the dreamtime.

Along those pathways will I walk,

loving every rock and tree.

The aborgines, wise beings, tell us 

we have lost our way,

that we are dreaming 

the wrong dream.

Our thoughts are full of More, and Not Enough,

instead of How do we give back?

Our thoughts are of Different and Other

instead of We are All One,

dreamers of the same dream,

connected to the All That Is.

The earth, too, is alive,

and everything alive has a spirit.

Friends, it is time to awaken

to a dream of a new earth.

We have been asleep

for far too long.

Awaken, before we wake into

a nightmare.

The world we see

reflects our global state 

of inner consciousness.

If we believe pollution, imbalance, scarcity, war

are inevitable,

that balance is impossible,

so it will be.

Change comes from being,

not only from doing.

Let us break free of our collective trance

and join the millions of others

who are breathing a new world

into existence.

Please, dear friends:

Awaken.

A new dream is now unfolding.

Let us dream ourselves awake

into a brighter day.

[Thich Nhat Hanh was asked "what do we need to do to save our world?" He replied "What we most need to do is to hear within ourselves the sound of the Earth crying."]