In the Absence of Shoes

google image

Once upon a time,

every time I came in the back door,

a jumble of shoes would greet me,

shucked off by my kids after school,

backpacks dropped in a heap,

escape, escape, 

from the day's confinements.

I used to deplore the jumble,

wondering how on earth 

to make five pairs of shoes 

(one pair each was all I could afford)

look less like a toppled mountain

and more like we lived in 

an orderly establishment.

One Christmas, 

my son wanted Doc Marten boots

which I could not afford, but

I bought them anyway, because

it was Christmas.

New Year's morning I went downstairs to find

ONE boot inside the back door. 

The other had been lost in last night's partying.

Someone had tossed it

out a car window, 

and he had risked frostbite

hopping home with only one boot

through the freezing snow.

Not our finest hour,

Who knew that one day,

I would walk in my door,

shuck off my ONE pair of shoes,

and miss that big heap of tennis shoes,

and all of the bodies they carried around

through those busy happy laughing

messy years?

inspired by the prompt at dVerse: on shoes

In My Shoes

I know about women and shoes,
but I seem to be missing that gene,
so any poem written by me
on that topic
has to be about not-shoes.

What I wear on my feet:
Crocs, for slipping on
to run the dogs in and out
and down the street,
calf-high mud-boots
for heading to the barn in rainy weather,
a battered pair of running shoes with clunky laces,
that have to be wide enough for comfort 

-rather like a flat-bottomed boat-
which I replace when the soles fall off
every three years, give or take,
whether they need it or not.

I have a daughter who wears
a fascinating array of footwear,
including combat boots for Kicking Ass,
cool strappy things for dressing up,
anything from platform heels to fitness shoes,
and all that lies between.

She did not get
her sense of style
from me.

When we go out,
beside her tall, beautiful elegance,
I feel like the frizzy-haired Witch Down the Lane,
in my baggy sweatshirt, cackle,
and only pair of jeans.

Yesterday I met an old hippy over in Coombs.
Our laughing eyes recognized each other.
(It must be something about the Frizzy Hair:) )

He told me he was in Haight Ashbury Back in the Day,
that he wore thigh-high leather boots, with buckles,
in which he promenaded.

Back in the Day I wore polyester
and pushed a buggy with three little kids in it
inside the strait jacket of a conventional marriage
where I didn't fit, 

with my big unwieldy unconventional spirit,
that kept bumping up against
the edges and the confines
I was kept in,
till the madwoman finally
burst out from her prison
and was no longer mad.

In those days, while in desperation
I pushed my buggy,
I watched, with awe and envy,
the benign, coolly-dressed and
totally FREE-spirited hippies
wandering smilingly up and down Fourth Avenue.
I wondered how they had learned
to be so free, to be so much Themselves,
while I still felt such a non-person,
trying on a role that didn't fit.

I just missed that freedom bus by five seconds,
pushing my buggy along a parallel street
just one block down.
When I broke free, I remember pushing
my giggling babies in that same buggy,
as I hippety-hopped down the hill,
laughing and leaping,
heading us all
towards a happier life.

I made up for missing the 60's later,
in coffeehouses in the 80's, and in
the Land of Refugees from the 60's
in Tofino in the 90's.

My spirit never tried to stuff itself back
into that little box again.

The only red shoes that ever spoke to me
were Dorothy's,
on that journey she made
away from and back to herself,
where she found she had always
had the power inside her,
and found her home within,
where she had started out.

I have worn out a lot of running shoes this lifetime,
walking through some of the most beautiful
landscape on the planet.

All I ever needed was a pair that fit me,
that can carry me into the wilderness I love.
A pair I kick off at the door
when I come home tired,
slide back into every time
I'm heading out.

How many more pairs and pathways
are there left me?
There's no knowing,
but there's one thing
that I know for sure: 

when music  from those years 

calls to my spirit,
I can still kick them off
and dance a lick or two
across my empty room

Shanyn over at dVerse has us writing about shoes tonight. I had already written the above poem in 2011 for Annell Livingston's Red Shoes Project and, since I am very tired, decided to haul it out, dust it off, and post it, as it fits the prompt so nicely.

The photo is four year old Sebastian, trying on his new "finger gloves", which cracked me right up. He is hilarious!

Jasmine is laughing, too!

Grateful? - Let Me Count the Ways

Mount Arrowsmith

as seen from the Quay

ourbc.com photo

Driving to the mall, I thrill at the way

the clouds shroud the mountaintops, 

layer upon layer, as if someone

has draped them artfully

in angel hair,

the occasional cedar 

pointing pokey spriggy fingers skyward

through the gaps.

I smile at smashed pumpkins alongside the road,

memories of Hallowe'en such a short time ago,

and now I'm Christmas shopping.

Raven flies low across my windshield.

Lead me, Raven.

Keep me Looking Up.

Christmas music and goodwill

in all the shops - it isn't Count-Down yet,

we are all still full of cheer.

A pensioner - ahem, another pensioner and I

(I keep forgetting)

exchange smiles in the line-up.

"Just shopping for the kids," she beams

as she stacks chocolate and small Yuletide treats

upon the counter and counts her bills and coins.

"Thank heavens for the Dollar Store!"

In one of the Only Two Possible stores

in which to find a real gift

in this gray little town,

I find The Perfect Thing for my daughter,

and all of my stern admonitions

(repeated yearly) about how this year 

Christmas will be Very Small 

go right out the window,

and I escape to my car 

clutching the package, smiling.

I mail off a Welcome to the Family box

for our newest puppy,

a huggable furry teddy bear 

just born to be loved,

rescued from a garbage dump 

in northern Saskatchewan

in minus 40 degree weather,

now destined to be loved and spoiled

for the rest of his life, 

and wish I could be there

to share the joy

when it is opened.

Christmas is not Christmas

without small kids

and puppies.

I narrowly avoid being T-boned as I pull out

from the Purolator lot, vision obscured 

by the Purolator truck, muttering

"I can't see! can't see!" then "Oops!"

Close one. But not this time.

Heading home, by now the blue blue hills

are more exposed,

wearing their clouds like a fluffy shawl,

draped low on their shoulders.

Beauty. Always. Everywhere.

Four dogs and two horses to greet me,

barks and whuffs,

as I pull in, Christmas lights 

winking from the windows.

And it may not be my dream,

it may not be the beach,

but it's what I've got,

right now

and, for today, it is

Enough.

flickr.com photo-Arrowsmith

posted for Laurie's prompt at Poetry Jam : to write a poem about things one is grateful for without using the words thankful or grateful.

and for Kim's prompt at Verse First : to take a walk, and Walk in Gratitude. I took a drive in between the walking :-)

Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends south of the border. And Happy Being Alive to my friends everywhere else!

"Walks Far Woman" *

Sometimes

it feels like

I've spent

all of my life

walking towards

you.

for Kerry's prompt at Toads: to write in black and white.

* reference to the Blackfoot woman of that name,  who lived during the last decade of Indian dominion in North America. Her life has been portrayed in book and film as representative of that time in history. An amazing story.

La Loba II

Granddog Penny Joy on Grandma's couch

La Loba,

in your dark cave,

under the full moon,

sing.

Sing as you gather the bones 

of my brothers, my sisters.

Sing as you lay them down

on the ground.

Place them end to end,

tenderly, carefully,

piece by piece, 

until they are whole.

Then breathe life into them 

and watch them leap up,

joyous-eyed, tails arcing,

 teeth snapping and smiling,

around the fire.

Sing,

as they take my heart with them

and run away,

beautiful, laughing and free,

into the welcoming

midnight forest.

The Drones

 antiwar.com

A child looks up,

begins to run:

the drones are coming,

 thesleuthjournal.com

raining bombs

on the undefended

in the name of

Freedom.

occupy.com

Forgive the villagers

for not appreciating

the "help,"
for they lose sight
of how this will ever
 increase

their basic human rights.

Peasants bombarded
under a morning sky,

just another slice of

a toxic political pie.

nytimes.com

Amidst the rubble,
in a dented kettle,

Grandma brews a cup of tea

to comfort those 
who have survived
the bombs of the Free.
.
She has seen it all before,
and it  makes her spirit sore.

No making sense
of insanity;
she doesn't even try,
for next week
more bombs will fall
from this same sky.

AP photo

In the soldier's hearts,
outside the compound,

enraged by the death

of their very own,

the flame of hatred

and revenge

inevitably
is sown.

There is no chance
this anger
will  find any
surcease.
With bombs
there is no way to

ever

forge a lasting peace.

[At a recent conference of international countries, the legality of unmanned U.S. drone vehicle strikes was questioned. Venezuela called drones "flagrantly illegal" and said that, by its accounting, only about 10% of casualities were "targeted individuals". "This is like a collective punishment," Venezuela's representative said. TheGuardian.com]


posted for Susie's challenge at Real Toads: to write a protest poem. I always can find a lot of things to protest. Drones are the latest unfathomable atrocity to come to my attention. I so relate to the ancient grandmas over there, trying to keep the children alive in the rubble.

Further on Foxes

Some incredible fox hunting footage and info from Discovery.
Amazing!

Red Beach

via photobucket

the birds singing to the emptiness of her soul

red blooms like the bleeding of her heart

home of the cranes, repository of her dreams

posted for Hannah's Transforming Friday prompt at Real Toads: Red Beach, Panjin, China, a marvellous sea of colour every autumn. I have not even attempted to count syllables, or adhere to any form, just transcribed what came. But Hannah says we can do that!!!! Wikipedia says this area is home to the cranes along with hundreds of other bird species. Wow. Bucket list.

Earthling

I am an earthling:

feet in the mud

eyes on the clouds

head full of stars,

my heart held hostage

by the mountaintop's rosy hue at 4:15

just after the sun sinks low behind the hills.

I am an earthling:

I seek out water in its many forms,

from creek to river,

great lakes that mirror the unfolding skies,

my heart  pulled at

by the moon

and all the ocean tides.

I am your earthling, Gaia:

hold me on your mossy verdant lap,

fold me with branches,

toss me in your playful windrifts,

fill my heart with wildwood peace

and the morning canticle 

of one thousand wildbirds, singing.

And I will sleep tonight,

in my dreams, their voices, ringing.

The End of a Dream

Someone nailed the coffin lid on my heart's desire,

leaving me standing in a place 

where I have never been before ~ 

a place without a dream.

Which way, now, Raven?

Point your broken wing,
and I'll recalibrate my inner GPS.

Kim's Verse First prompt this week  is to go to a place where you have never been before and write a poem of seven lines. I pondered, for I have written poems in my mind even while walking through the forest,  racing like a lunatic back to the car to transcribe them before they slipped away. Where to go? Up in the hayloft? Swinging upside down like a bat? Another ride atop the Golden Dog? And then I knew. 

This week, I close the chapter on my Book of Dreams and return to a reality that is so much less  that I am hard-pressed to absorb the finality, and turn my compass in another direction. 

But I will. That's what Wild Women do.

What Does the Fox Say?

ctvnews.ca photo

Though my tail is aloft,
my balance is off.
Let me wrap myself in it,
and curl up in
a wooded hollow.
Then I will
begin again.

*Like a cat's, the fox's thick tail aids its balance, but it has other uses as well. A fox uses its tail (or "brush") as a warm cover in cold weather and as a signal flag to communicate with other foxes. National Geographic

National Geographic photo by Joel Sartore

for Toads, where Mama Zen wants to know what the fox says in 43 words or less, for Words Count. 

Doris Lessing

OMG.

I just read that you have died.

How can that be?

Only yesterday, 

I was a young, sad, 

hurt and hurting woman,

who read your books

to find inspiration and hope,

a blueprint

out of the labyrinth 

in  which I was entrapped,

onto the solitary pilgrimage

my soul needed

to undertake,

to be

all that I needed to be.

I did not find you until the '70's,

but devouring your words

showed me a direction

that my soul could take

out of bondage.

The chapter where the women danced

and the men adored them,

so foreign to my own

inadequate sense of being,

my own experience,

yet it gave me

a direction

in which to go.

And one day it happened:

I had finally become 

the woman dancing,

while the men drummed, and adored.

All of the heroines,

all of the oracles and spokeswomen,

all of the herstorians of our time

are aging, dying.

I, too, am aging, dying.

Writing furiously until the last moment,

to make up for all the years

I didnt have time, 

because everyone else's needs

came first.

Your death

is a passage

into that Otherworld

that I hope will be

all this world was not,

that I hope will be

the Divine Feminine.

Becoming Tea

There are no accidents. I happened upon the delightful volume of poems Reduced to Joy by Mark Nepo, (author of  the New York Times bestseller The Book of Awakening), and smiled with delight at this wonderful poem.

Coming Out

While there is much to do

we are not here to do.

Under the want to problem-solve

is the need to being-solve.

Often, with full being

the problem goes away.

The seed being-solves its

darkness by blooming.

The heart being-solves its loneliness

by loving whatever it meets.

The tea being-solves the water

by becoming tea.

Thanks, Mark. I so needed that!

These Days

Sproat Lake in February

At Real Toads, Shay has asked us, for Fireblossom Friday, to post a poem from our archives that we are extra fond of,  or think we wrote especially well. I have a handful of poems I  consider favourites. 

But I picked this one, written in the early 1980's, because it is one Shay once said she really liked, and so I believe it may have a bit more impact, and be technically a better write, than some of my others.

These days

I often find

my thoughts

returning

to dusty mesas

dotted with dry scrub

along the arroyo

through dry, sandy gorges

you once told me

was a river long ago

In reverie

I circle sleepy rooftops

finding yours

where we made love

one afternoon

your face so dark and beautiful

above me

those summer days

that ended

way too soon

Those days

you were an eagle

soaring/captive

caught somewhere

between the earth

and sky

while I caught my breath

and emptied out my being

into the wonder

of becoming

you and I

Now my spirit

sometimes walks

on summer mornings

-dew-fresh scent

of tall marsh grasses,

willow trees,

fresh lake ripples

lapping gently

on the shore-

the scent of

all the mornings

I remember

and I long to walk

beside the lake

once more

In memory

you turn

your slow smile

on me

always a bird

alighting on your hand

I hear again the coo

of doves at daybreak

and somewhere -

another time,

another land -

"Blackbird" is singing

in the dark of night

while two lonely seekers

try to hold their pain

at bay

by clinging

to each other

way too tight

unable to find words

to make it right

and somehow

lose their way

The dove

lost its mate

and flew

but keeps on

circling

  circling

back to you

never very far

from where you are

if you

but knew

Through all

those years

I saw your beauty

plain

and now I am

remembering

remembering

again.

The single step

that started

my long journey

the thousand miles

it took

to bring me home

all I was

searching for

I found

within me

forever now

without the need

to roam

I have one more

hug

to give you

in this lifetime

one more time

to see

the smile start

in your eyes

if we never

meet again

know I have

loved you

as no other

all the seasons

of our lives

Sigh. Still true. I wrote this in the 90's, in Tofino, about the one man in my life I truly loved. We were together in Kelowna in the early 80's. It is a lake town, too, as is my current town of Port Alberni, pictured above. 

Kids, my two weeks away from home are coming to an end on Monday, thankfully. It has been difficult only having two hours a day around noon at the computer. I am ridonkulously behind. But will do my best this weekend, and life will return to what passes for normal next week.

PACIFIC WILD

Kids, here is some incredible footage to bring your heart pure joy, this blustery gray November morning, with the first chill of snow off the mountains in the air. Some young folks at PacificWild.org set up cameras near Bella Bella, in the Great Bear Rainforest, and captured  wonderful glimpses of wolves at work and play. This last wilderness area is at risk, not just from extensive logging, already decimating the ancient forest, but from the proposed oil pipeline. These wolves may be enjoying the last months of such free and joyous living, before Mankind moves in, as he does so destructively everywhere he goes.

The camera is down now, but you can visit their site and click on the links, to investigate further. I certainly will be. I saw them on the news last night, on CBC. It was the first I heard of them. I only wish I had been following along the entire time. Maybe next spring! Below, there is a short clip of the wolves fishing. 

Of course, I see my wolf-Pup in there - he was of the forest clan, and lived off the sea as a wee pup before he came to me. He always loved the water, and wild salmon was, hands down, his favorite food. The last meal of his life was salmon, for which I was grateful, after.



I see Pup's body language in these young pups, the hunched back and the loping. Such beautiful intelligent creatures.

American Sentences from Canada

Midnight crescent moon on navy sky, clouds scudding past, battleship gray.

Afghan vets' Antarctic trek : wounded warriors walking to inspire.

Call to Tofino: question asked, hopes suspended, dreams arising.

Oldster falls over fat golden dog:  plethora of quaking fat rolls.

Pondering the imponderables, one must  surrender self to trust.


at dVerse, the challenge (and challenge it is!) is to write American sentences, a form created by Ginsberg, each line having seventeen syllables. My "lines" dont fit all in one line on my template - but each one is seventeen syllables:)

An Ordinary Day

transformyourself.com

In the Land of the Over-Burdened,

an Ordinary Day is my Happily-Ever-After.

On an Ordinary Day, 

the sun grabs his hat and cane

and does a soft-shoe shuffle

across the sky,

just to make sure we notice.

In the Land of the Ordinary,

nothing ever happens.

I wake up, peaceful.

I survey the morning.

I make my tea.

All the hours ahead are mine.

No one needs me,

has a crisis,

needs a counseling session 

by phone.

Those days dont happen 

often enough

but, when they do,

the Ordinary Day

is my Land of Oz.

Last night at the end of a day 

too busy to do much 

gazing at the sky,

I did. 

Gathering an armload of wood 

to make a fire,

I stopped to gaze

at the crescent moon,

silvery against a navy blue sky 

full of storm-scudded clouds,

dark upon dark.

The space around the moon 

was clear which,

in that moment,

cleared an equal space 

around my heart,

proving an ordinary moment 

in an ordinary day

can turn extraordinary, 

just that quickly,

for those who have the eyes

~ and the willingness ~

to keep on looking up.

posted for Kim's prompt at Verse First: to write about the ordinary

Ravensong

Raven, by Sue Coleman

Raven,

lift me up on your black wing,

because I'm floundering here,

in this boggy morass

of Must-Do's.

I want to soar mountaintops, 

swoop over rivers,

sit in the crook of the tallest cedar 

on the planet

and survey the morning.

Send me a great gray space

with nothing in it,

that I might contemplate vastness,

letting go of the particular.

Invite me with your bent wing,

and I will follow.

Send me your gobble-cry

and I will sing it back to you,

as you ride the thermals,

I, land-locked,

and envious

of your

lack of tethers.

Lift me up on your black wing

and take me home,

where the winter waves

pound against the dunes,

where I can plant my feet

on the sandy shore,

and be homesick

no more.

Home Truth

en.wikipedia.org

The Real Work

What I would say in one sentence is that, for Americans, the real work is becoming native to North America. The real work is becoming native in your heart, coming to understand we really live here, that this is really the continent we're on and that our loyalties are here, to these mountains and rivers, to these plant zones, to these creatures. The real work involves developing a loyalty that goes back before the formation of any nation state, back billions of years and thousands of years into the future. The real work is accepting citizenship in the continent itself. 

              - Gary Snyder

On the same day I read these words, I read a letter to the editor in our local paper which was not a joke,  seriously suggesting, in order to "prevent damage to cars by wild animals getting in 'our' way on the highways" that they - (a representative number, I surmise, perhaps two of each?) - be HERDED INTO ONE of the national parks and that it then BE FENCED. Only one park. That would solve a lot of problems. Leave the other national parks for people?????

You cannot make this stuff up! Human consciousness has SUCH a long way to go! Sigh.

When Women Are Warriors

This morning, kids, I attended a global crafts fair at our community centre, full of the most wonderful articles made by people in the developing world. The money for the items purchased goes directly to the people who made them, which makes me feel very good. No middle man exploiting the impoverished. I could have bought the entire stock were I able, as the energy, the messages, the awareness in that room was so wonderful. LOVED it! I could have moved right in, been bundled up with the leftovers, and sent with them back to Africa! If only.

I was unable to resist a couple of treats, and I bought my Christmas cards there - cards with a beautiful message. YAY! 

I am still away from home, and can only access a computer for a couple of hours a day. The panic is building as I cannot possibly keep up. Nine days to go before life is restored to what passes for normal, on any given day. This morning I began my day by falling over a fat golden lab, to our mutual consternation. "Wild Woman rides again!" Hee hee. (No dogs were injured in the performance of that feat. Thankfully. A vet bill would have wiped out my earnings.) 

This message was in a poster from the crafts fair, which fell upon my eyes and now is waiting for a spot on my almost-covered walls. Here it is, for your delectation:

WHEN WOMEN ARE WARRIORS

When women are warriors

they still make dinner

and try to explain the world

to their mothers

and their daughters.

When women are warriors

they go on being grandmothers

whispering warrior words and singing

ancient songs about love

and justice.

When women are warriors

they plant gardens and walk

the stone beaches, gathering driftwood

and watching sails on the horizon.

They brew tea for friends

and gather in small groups

for silence.

When women are warriors

they still think of themselves 

as girls, before they knew

they needed to be warriors.

-J.Jefferson

I googled J. Jefferson, trying to find more info.....no luck. Will keep looking.