OF SHAMANS AND HOOTY-OWLS

A Port Alberni back yard owl

The shaman walks the medicine way

leaving no footprints.

The cry of the owl bids you follow.

Take up your staff, wrap up well in your cloak,

for the night is cold and the fog will poke 

its chilly fingers

into every exposed inch of human skin,

seeking to steal some warmth

for itself.

Hush! for there be spirits here.

If you listen, you will hear

the heartbeat of an ancient cedar.

In its bark is the memory

of who you were a thousand years ago,

when it and you and the land 

were young.

In the night sky

is written the promise

of who you are becoming

a thousand years from now.

Gaze well, and remember,

so when at last you meet, 

you will recognize yourself.

There are dreamers, and there are

the ones being dreamed.

Awaken!

The journey of transformation

is the shedding of the false self

- the one who meets the world -

and the stripping away of everything

that is not essence, joy, wonderment,

trust and awe.

Peace

is knowing

all is as it is meant to be.

All we need do

is Surrender.

The mystical hooting of the owl

bids us safe passage

through this eery midnight world.

Hasten, for the shaman guide's cloak

is already swirling 

with the swiftness

of his being gone.

Reposted from 2013, for dVerse's Open Link, where Mary is tending bar. Check out the links, folks! The reading is guaranteed to  be good!

Baby Wolf Rescue

Five wolf cubs were rescued from the Kenai wildfire Tuesday. Firefighters on the edge of the fire, near Anchorage, Alaska, heard yipping. They called wildlife officials. When they arrived, one baby wolf, very dehydrated, walked out of a den at the river's edge.

Baby with Alaska Zookeeper Jim Rutkowski

He looks just like Pup - same Attitude!

Five live cubs were extracted from the den, all dehydrated and with porcupine quills. A sixth pup was already dead, its face covered with quills. Officials think a porcupine wandered into the den to escape the fire. There was no sign of the parents, and as the pups were in distress, they were removed for veterinary care and placed temporarily at the Alaska Zoo.

As they have been handled by humans, they cannot be returned to the wild. The zoo already has a wolf pack, so a good home is being sought for the babies, who are all recovering well. I would take one in a heartbeat, if I could.

So precious!

photos and information taken from the Anchorage Daily News

EARTH REVOLUTION

Earth Revolution ~ Caring for Creation from Salish Sea Marine Sanctuary on Vimeo.

One of my youngest heroes is Ta'Kaiya Blaney, of the Sliammon Band on the West Coast, whom I have written about before. She is now thirteen years old, and has been a singer and activist for Mother Earth since the age of ten. She very recently made an intervention at the United Nations itself, speaking on behalf of Indigenous children and youth. She blew them away!

This video is a visual delight for anyone who loves wild creatures and the natural world. But listen to the words of this girl's song : 

"Stop waiting for Tomorrow.
Stop living Yesterday.
Cause there wont be Tomorrow
If we dont change Today.
Generation Now
Children of the Future
Earth's Revolution...."

Ta'Kaiya writes her songs herself, in collaboration with a relative. The one she wrote and sang at age ten still brings me to tears. 

A small girl with a warrior's heart - a Rainbow Warrior. The Old Ones sent her here to give us this message. May it ring in every human heart. May we hear her in time.

My Buddy

We were in tune.

We were both wild

under the moon.

I've been bereft

ever since you left,

and you left

too soon.

for Susan's prompt at Mid Week Motif: Best Friend

Sunset

Aging

assuaging

changing

courage-ing

blissfully derange-ing

constantly gauging

sometimes even Raging (Granny)

ever rearranging

occasionally sage-ing

ever so strange-ing

always waging peace

brokering negotiation,

yet wandering through wonder:

  Not Gracefully, but Gratefully Old Aging.

for Peggy's prompt at Poetry Jam: Aging

I should explain that Raging Grannies are a group of elderly B.C. activists who appear at protest gatherings and sing. They are rocking it, and I dont mean rocking chairs!!

TURTLE WOMAN

Woman With Turtle

National Geographic altered art

by Mary MacGowan

In search of home,

Traveler carries a turtle shell

around her heart.

This shield protects vital organs,

lends strength,

consists of skeletal and dermal bone,

remains when everything has gone,

endures.

Turtle Woman

pokes her head out,

surveys the cloudscape,

retreats within

in response to any threat.

Traveler carries a turtle shell

around her heart.

SMOKEY

My gorgeous newest granddog, Smokey, has gotten so big so fast, just the way Pup did - it is like they are being inflated! He reminds me of Pup, as he has wolf in him, has that intelligent look in his eyes, and has a considerable amount of energy and mischief!

Check this out. He is such a happy boy and is the perfect camping dog for my son and daughter (in-law, but she's my daughter!) who go camping most weekends that the weather is even remotely camp-worthy. 
                                 

                                                                    

This photo of Zenny and her boy really touches my heart. A woman and her dog and the wild..........so lovely.

 

And here Smokey proves indisputably who is in charge around here. Hee hee. I so love this dog. I cant wait to meet him in person in September!

My son Jon, Smokey and

eighteen year old Yogi, the cat

Jon and Zenny live in Saskatchewan where they have emerged from a winter colder than Siberia (no exaggeration). It is still cold there, just a bit above zero, so am amused to see Jon in bare feet and shirtsleeves in the yard - I guess it feels warm now that it is no longer fifty below. 

Mind you, B.C. had snow on the Coquihalla Highway today. Odd weather.

Sometimes The Feelings Go Too Deep

Sometimes the feelings go too deep

to find the words.

You were so much mine

for so long,

that your withdrawal

is like the skin

parting from my bones,

the song

parting from my heart,

the blue

fading from my sky.

How does one say

come back,

when the leaving is internal,

but the distance like

another galaxy,

a place where another language

is being spoken,

and I have

no translator?

Sometimes the feelings go too deep

to find the words.

for Marian's prompt at Real Toads: So Much Mine, (the song by Jonatha Brooke and Jennifer Kimball, mothers and daughters, the 80's, whatever the song inspires. 

Owl Dreaming

hifipapers.com

Darkling the night spins its web of stars,

Hazy the moon in its tangerine shroud.

Owl Woman calls out from the forest deep:

Waken, all dreamers, from your sleep.

I rise, all unwilling, from my wildish dreams.
The midnight is peopled with wild creatures' screams.
The trees lie in wait with their strangling roots,
ready to trip my scruffy boot.

The forest moans low as the fog moves in.
When I look up,  the starry heavens spin.
Dark and drear, the ground I tread upon;
When I turn to go back, the path is gone.

The opening phrase has been nibbling at my mind for a few days. And the moon, last week, did have an ominous orangey shroud. So when Kerry set us the challenge at Toads to use pathetic fallacy, and I saw the opening lines in draft, a light bulb slowly flickered on above my head. (Trust me, the phrase pathetic fallacy has great subtext for me these days!) 

GREEN

I.

Green and verdant is the colour

of my Mother Earth: lush, sloping valleys,

treed mountainsides, forests stretching to forever

in the places where man has not yet been,

brown the human footprint upon the planetary garden.

Green is the color of life, of growth:

from seed to sprout to tendril, root to stem, branch to flower,

life follows its predestined path from birth to death,

at every level of existence.

Our DNA is programmed to be awed by green,

as we watch the weeping willow's yellow winter branches

begin to sprout, until they surround us like a verdant cloak,

us hidden sweetly inside,

the scent of summer deep within its leafy bower.

II.

******

Humankind took this verdant, luscious Eden

and had but one desire:

to gobble all the green

until only brown bare dry scorched earth

remained.

III.

******

I believe trees  scream in green

when they see the
grappleyarders coming.

for Susan's Mid Week Motiff prompt: GREEN in fourteen lines or less. 

BLACK WOLF OF MY HEART

freewebs.com

Black wolf of my heart,
your intelligent eyes look out
on a world
full of unexpected peril.

You have to struggle

to survive, to find food,

to find shelter,

to make it through

hungry winters,

to raise your young,

to not be killed

before they are able to

make their own way.

But most of all

you must be wary

of the Two-Leggeds,

who drive their noisy machines

through your wilderness,

tossing beer cans left and right,

raising their guns,

their crossbows, their arrows

at anything that moves,

back-slapping, raucous,

completely disconnected

from the land

they tromp through

so heedlessly.

God and Goddess

of the All That Is,

protect these creatures

that live more intelligently

than we do.

Guide them to

secret and sacred

pathways,

that they may survive

our thoughtless

and predatory ways.

For a world without wolves

is a world I cannot

contemplate.

This poem was inspired by a quote by Paul Watson of Greenpeace: "You cant love nature with a gun." My heart is hurt by continued reports of wolves and other wildlife, having been stripped of their habitat, being driven ever closer to "civilization" (??), and thereby coming to harm. Not their fault.

Posted for Mary's prompt at dVerse: write a poem inspired by a quote.

Pretty Bird

googlebird

"Pretty Bird, Pretty Bird,

what do you say?

Something chirpy

and cheerful

to brighten my day?"

Pretty Bird sits 

on her feathery butt,

with nothing to say

and her beak snapped shut.

My Muse is stubbornly silent at the moment, all unwilling. But thankfully her alter ego has a sense of humor:)

Night in the Black Forest

photo: Google images : myswiess.wordpress.com

Night is falling fast within the forest deep.

My pace quickens. I  feel the dark trees breathe.

Paws pad beside me, faithful, guardian.

We must find shelter, somewhere safe to sleep.

My pace quickens. I  feel the dark trees breathe.

Tall, dark, foreboding, branches lean above my head.

We must find shelter, somewhere safe to sleep.

The night draws close. The forest fills with dread.

Tall, dark, foreboding, branches lean above my head.

My wolf companion whines deep in his throat.

The night draws close. The forest fills with dread.

I lean to pat his ruffled, glistening coat.

The night draws close. The forest fills with dread.

Paws pad beside me, faithful,  guardian.

I lean to pat his ruffled glistening coat.

Night is falling fast within the forest deep.

a pantoum, for Hannah's prompt at Real Toads: Transforming Friday: the Black Forest

Skybird

Skybird by puniboy.deviantart.com

Is there a longing in your heart,

a dream of freedom?

 An ache, a vision,

longing to break free?

Watch Skybird

as she swoops and soars the heavens.

She is showing us how

life is meant to be.

If the room you're in feels small

and too confining,

come out into the day

and lift your eyes.

Loose the longings in your chest

and watch them rise.

Pursue those dreams.

Join Skybird as she flies.

Pelicans!

photo by Jon Merk

Riiiiing!

It's Life calling.

What is it saying?

"Expect the Unexpected."

In the middle of that opening through the brush, out in the river, you can just make out a........pelican! My son took the photo yesterday at Montreal River, in La Ronge, Saskatchewan, where winter is trying hard to be over. I was astonished. Unless this fellow was following one of those GPS directions that says "Take a U-turn. Now take another U-turn. Now go endlessly along the wrong back road till you are lost," (I've been in the car. I heard her!), there seem to be pelicans in the prairies. I thought they lived in warm climates, which Saskatchewan, decidedly, is not. Who knew?

FRIENDS WITH THE SKY

gotofino.com

A solitary Traveler

is wise to make acquaintance

with the sky.

It accompanies her

on every step of the journey.

It raises her up in the morning

with its radiance,

fills her soul at eventide

with its purple passion.

Look up! It's a Sky-show

going on this very second - 

always changing,

clouds ever rearranging.

If you feel moved to do so,

utter your encouragement

and appreciation.

It will whirl its clouds for you

and, after dark, will scatter stars across the heavens -

just for you.

By way of introduction,

you might scale the nearest peak,

and befriend a forest

on the way up.

The creatures on your path

will bid you welcome,

for they will know you come in peace.

A Traveler is never lonely

when she makes friends

with the sky.

Kids, I wrote this sitting at a table in the heart of the village of Tofino, with all of that good energy swirling around me. Today I saw: a small beach, an old friend, a half dozen eagles swooping and swirling above the harbor, and a barking old sea lion, who put on quite a water display, and then flipped and caught a fish in his mouth, just to show off. Sigh. It restored my soul. I am back in the land of the living and out of my Funk. Yippee!

This is posted for Gabriella's prompt at Poetry Jam: Friends

Cycle of Life

On the great cycle of life,

I've pedaled hard,

up many a hill,

gasping for breath, skidding down the other side,

grateful for the ease, but

trying not to go off into the ditch.

I spent some time getting bugs in my teeth,

grinning over some doofus man,

but that got.....buggy......

so I settled in for a solo ride. 

The scenery has been spectacular,

my stretch of the highway.

I cant get enough of it,

always one more mile to gaze upon,

one more cloud or tree

to make me catch my breath

in wonder.

I'm tiring now as the road yawns ahead,

other cyclists whizzing by.

I leave them to it.

These days, I like to stop and stare,

just be with the clouds and the earth and the sky.

I'm getting into the sidecar now,

for a slower, gentler ride.

I'm going to let God

do the pedaling, now,

to get me to the other side.

For Susan's prompt at Mid-Week Motif: Bicycling. I used to cycle daily in my 40's - I'd head out of town and make an hour and a half round trip, just to find some countryside.......now I have a three wheel cycle, which is precarious enough on these bumpy country roads.

Turning Towards Home

I am Traveler,

who spends a decade at a time

poised to move on,

yet marching in place because,

sometime, 

I just might be needed.

I have been a mother

since I was still a child.

What to do with my mothering,

when my whole life's work

has been weighed 

and found wanting?

I am the quiet heart waiting

and waiting 

for someone to give something back.

I am loneliness,

surrounded by busy, distracted people.

What is left when all is said and done?

My dog's anxious head,

thrusting itself under my hand, to say

"I'm here, I'm here."

A heart bruised and battered, 

and filled with chagrin,

for the choices made,

that could have been other,

and for all the years gone.

This morning I woke without fear.

But it is even more frightening

to wake without joy.

The sad gilt edges of the day

nibble at my toes

that dont want to go out,

though the sun is broad-beckoning.

In my soul is a great turning,

like a sonar,

towards the western shore,

alive with seabirds,

ablaze with sunrises and sunsets,

where every morning I once woke with joy,

- alive! alive! -

in a life that was wholly,

and completely

mine.

And with everything that's in me,

I am turning,

one last time,

towards home.

[I have been in a funk, without one idea of anything to write, till I read Marina's intriguing prompt at dVerse: to answer the following four questions, based on Banhu Kapil's Vertical Interrogation of Strangers. 

1) Who are you and whom do you love?
2) What else are you, that no one has seen before?
3) Describe a morning you woke without fear.
4) What lingers when all is said and done?]

Cloaked Hearts

foxnews.com

I wear the cloak they have draped me in.

I bow my head under their darkness

and mouth the words they make me say.

I do as I am told. I act compliant.

But in my soul is only

the hope of

freedom.

Mother's Day

In her day, Traveler was

as fertile

as Mother Earth,

giving life to

four small voyagers,

who grew like saplings

off her sturdy trunk.

She fed them with laughter

and snippets of moon,

(for wonder),

and soon

they grew beyond her,

reaching for

an infinity of sky.

Now, Traveler

reflects and remembers,

basking in the glory

of their

exuberant

flowering.

Happy Mother's Day,

to the four special beings who

made me 

a Mother

originally written in April 2011, and reposted here for Mother's Day in the Poetry Pantry

Walking the Fine Line

the art of Seraphine de Senlis

Up the gray stairs, 

chipped and drab, 

I smell the smell of Institution.

At the nurses' station, 

they size me up and find me lacking:

a mother whose son has fallen apart-

(what has she done

to fail him?)

Down the hall to his bare, gray room......

His head emerges from the bedclothes.

We hug. He is trembling.

He smiles at me:

his same big smile, 

he looks at me,

his same blue eyes.

I am relieved.

This is still my son.

I will tether him to earth

with all of my mother's love.

I will never let go.

He has walked the fine line

between daybreak and hell-fire,

and has fallen.

Where will his beauty find a place to land

in halls so bleak and bare?

How will his life go on,

his hours measured out in hospital trays 

and paper pill cups?

We talk.

"I want them to make it stop:

this bad trip that never ends."

I tell him I am proud of him

for going for help.

I look at the faces, the eyes, of the other people

in these rooms, these hallways,

whose common denominator

is pain.

One of them chases the doctor - coat-tails flying - 

down the hallway, entreating

"Please, Doctor, Please!" 

to his retreating, harried back.

Looking out at the gray rain 

trickling down the speckled windows,

I recognize what a fine, thin line exists

between coping

and suffering that is too great 

for the mind to endure,

how, at any moment, 

under enough pain and provocation, 

any one of us 

might find ourselves here,

in this place of desolation, pain 

and no more hope.

He goes back to bed.

Living is too tiring right now.

On his bedside table, I see a little note

he has written in his spikey script:

"I am Cloud. 

Someone blow me away."

My heart stops, then begins again.

I go back along the gray corridor 

full of shuffling, suffering souls,

down the drab, chipped stairs,

out the heavy doors into the light of what is

- for others - an ordinary day.

Behind me, up two flights,

my son is sleeping.

Beside him sits a little

note to the world

he finds so painful.

I think upon those words,

with all of a mother's love, and pain, and fear:

"I am Cloud.

Someone blow me away."

For Shay's prompt at Real Toads: write about the "fine line" (as described at Real Toads), a topic with which I have had some experience.

Lace

wikipedia.org

The grand ladies wore bustles and lace,

white gloves and hats with draping veils.

And nobody thought of the small, strained eyes,

nimble fingers that made them. Lace tells no tales.

The drawing room tables are draped in lace,

gleaming with polish to a high shine,

by servants, all creeping about the place

with averted eyes, in the mansion so fine.

Behind lace curtains high society postures.

Only the staff know what really goes on.

Twitch the bed curtains and what a surprise!

The master and maid dont have a thread on!

This started off serious but in the last stanza, Kay took over my brain and I couldn't stop her. Hee hee. Posted for Susie's prompt at Real Toads: Lace.

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

underfoot

where we walk

heads thrown back

-alive!-

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

birdsong

ringing through

the silent canopy

piercing me through

with each piercing

I'm made new

becoming

becalming

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

till we are gone

One from the archives this morning, kids, as I am in need of some meditation on green.