Everything I Never Told You

You knew I loved you.

I told you you were

the best dog in the world,

though everyone else thought

you were probably the worst.

You knew that I would miss you.

It's why you tried so hard,

towards the end,

 to stay.

You knew because I told you

--and you really listened--

that when I die,

I wanted you to be the one 

to come and get me.

But what I didnt tell you,

what I couldnt fully understand,

back then,

was just how much,

and for how long,

I really couldnt bear it

when you left.

for Mary's prompt, the title taken from the book Everything I've Never Told You, by Celeste Ng.

Susan and Gabriela have written to  this, as well. Check out dVerse Open Link, to read their poems.

This Poem is the Breath of Dawn

Morning Beach

This poem is the breath of dawn  on a windswept
morning at the edge of the sea.

This poem is a murrelet on the wing.

This poem is a gray whale, spy-hopping.

This poem is misty with early morning fog.

It drapes shawls over the shoulders of
Grandmother Cedar so she wont be chilled.

This poem loves the morning.
It looks to the sky to see all the colours of the day.
This poem is the breath of dawn on a windswept
morning at the edge of the sea.

This poem is a tiny bird who makes her nest

deep in the forest.

This poem must fly great distances,
out to sea and back again,
in order to find sustenance.

This poem sometimes grows tired,

and in need of rest.

Its perch is precarious,

its nesting sites vanishing

along with the old growth.

This poem is sometimes in need of rescue

and protection.

This poem is a murrelet on the wing.

This poem swooshes up in placid waters,

takes a look around and finds that life is good.

Then this poem does a series of dives and breaches,

just for the sheer joy of it.

This poem is an ancient voice

which sometimes speaks

with an old soul.

This poem is a gray whale, spy-hopping.

This poem is the breath of dawn, on a windswept
morning at the edge of the sea.

This poem is a murrelet on the wing, heading for home.

This poem is a gray whale, spy-hopping
for the sheer love of living.

This is my attempt at Hannah Gosselin's newly-created  Boomerang Metaphor Poem, which you can read about here. This exciting new form leaves the door wide open to what can be created. I love it!

Ghost Antlers

Ghost antlers, and I see your baleful stare

as you endured the moments 

till the camera clicked

immortalizing your eternal discomfiture.

And I am so sorry, now,

for thus offending your dignity.

So sorry for so many things:

the unthinking months and years

when your presence was taken for granted,

when I forgot how terminal

is loving dogs,

a hopeless condition,

as we cant help falling in love,

even though we know from the outset

it will break our hearts.

I hereby forever remove

those antlers from your head.

In Apologia,

do I send my love to you

out there in the cosmos,

where you wait,

I hope, eternally, 

for me.

for Marian's cool prompt at Real Toads: to write something inspired by the Paul McCartney video Dance Tonight about dancing with ghosts.

Summer Morning

Our new filly, Reba, on the left

On the right, our boy Rowdy, surveying the morning

Summer morning

sweet-scented and blithe with birdsong,

you gladden my heart.

It is now afternoon, but Blogger was misbehaving all morning!

Dear Diary

usatoday.com

Dear Kitty,

In the attic, looking up 
through the window
at the blue sky and puffy clouds,
I dream of a peaceful tomorrow.
As I write, my sorrows disappear,
and my courage is reborn.

I don't think of all the misery,
but of the beauty that remains.

Look at how a single candle
can both defy and define the darkness.
I wish to be that candle.

Soon the war will end,
and, oh, how I dream of living!

In spite of everything,
I still believe
that people are really
good at heart.

Wait! I hear the siren.
I hold my breath
until it passes. 
But, this time, it is stopping 
at our door.
The heavy boots 
are tromping up the stairway.
My mother is weeping.
I turn to Peter for one last kiss.
I go to stand beside my father.
I watch the door and wait,
our lives suspended.

It is not the beginning of the end,
but the end of the beginning.
     and all I know is
I want to go on living,
even after my death.
love, Anne

for Susan's prompt at Mid Week Motiff: Diary Stories
I chose the best known diary in the world, The Diary of Anne Frank.
The italicized words are Anne's.

NEVER ALONE

Traveler has been traveling alone

for most of the journey.

Times, she sought a companion 

to help ease the passage

through difficult terrain.

But none could stay the course.

Each turned off at the nearest byway.

Traveler grew accustomed

to making her way alone.

A wolf companion stayed  by her side

for fourteen years,

the truest companionship

she had ever known.

His turning was involuntary;

they both mourned greatly.

Solitude was emptier once he had gone.

But in time, Traveler began to realize

she was never truly alone.

All around her was the ghost

of a big black wolf; he walked invisibly

by her side.

There were trees breathing peace to her,

birds on the wing

who companioned her eyes through the heavens,

reminding her to Keep Looking Up;

the moon bathed her in silver

and spread its canopy of stars

for her alone;

there were wind voices singing secret love-songs

just for her, and wave-tops lapping shores 

of forever beaches, where each one knew her name.

Alone is never lonely

as long as you love the wind,

Traveler says now, reflecting.

When you stand in an old growth forest,

when you watch the butterflies flutter by,

when you look into the knowing eye of a small red filly,

you are surrounded

by loving friends.

for Mary's prompt at Poetry Jam: Alone, a topic I must have my Masters in, by now :)

Blue Fire

colourbox.com

when things fall apart,

when the center cannot hold,

when the roof caves in

when the beloved is gone

that is when your soul becomes

blue fire,

when your eyes seek the heavens

because there are more answers there

when you walk hot coals

when your heart digs deep

when you feel you're being honed

from sorrow, flesh and bone

that's when you remember

that once there was a Camelot,

when all was shiny-beautiful,

and young and never-ending
all was grace

everything was shining golden

like the sun

and life and happiness had just begun.

Then, comes the work,

as we begin again.

though we start with empty hands,
our hearts are full,
grateful for everything
that brought us here

and we search our souls

and gather up our strength

until our courage and our vision clears

for Marina's prompt at dVerse: shattering and rebuilding

Felled by fatigue again, kids.........resting and trying to keep up, but far from inspired.

THE TERRA COTTA WARRIORS

The Long Lost Terra Cotta Warriors are Called to Battle
wodumedia.com

for Hannah's prompt at Real Toads: China: Tea Fields, Terra Cotta Warriors,  Pandas,all things Chinese. The Terra Cotta Warriors have always fascinated me, since I read Annie Dillard's description of her visit to see them, in For the Time Being.

nationalgeographic.com

Briefly, farmers digging for a well in China in 1974 uncovered a terra cotta face. On further investigation, an entire underground army of life sized terra cotta figures has been discovered, surrounding the tomb of China's first Emperor, Qin She Huang, 260-210 BC, who became Emperor  at the age of thirteen. In 210-209 BC, they were buried with him as a type of funerary art, depicting his living army, each figure individually represented. 

absolutechinatours.com

Thousands of army figures,   both cavalry and infantrymen, along with horses and chariots, have been unearthed at a depth of 23 feet, surrounding the burial tomb as far away as a kilometer and a half outwards. It is as if they were placed around the tomb to protect the Emperor in death as their live counterparts did in life. As artisans brush away the surrounding clay, they free the figures, in amazingly pristine condition after more than two thousand years underground.

lycheetravel.com

age-of-the-sage.org

They swim up out of the earth, clay warriors, 

terra cotta faces peering from red dirt,

faces astonished upon seeing light, the spark,

after centuries of living in the dark.

Terra cotta faces peering from red dirt,

a man, a horse, swim upward through the clay,

After centuries of living in the dark,

emerging as if birthed into the light of day.

A man, a horse, swim upward through the clay,

full chariots, where men and horses ride,

emerging as if birthed into the light of day,

as the artist gently brushes the soft powdery dirt away.

Full chariots, where men and horses ride,

faces astonished upon seeing  light, the spark,

as the artist gently brushes the soft powdery dirt away,

they swim up out of the earth, clay warriors, escaping from the dark.

disclaimer: this is supposed to be a pantoum, but in order to make the last line have some relevance, 
I had to add a phrase. 

A Beautiful World

for Tony's prompt at dVerse - the repetition of a line in poetry

When sunrise reddens the morning sky,

in a sailor's warning,

do you see the mist wrapping breathtaking shawls

around the shoulders of the shivery hills?

Notice the cedar pointing poky heads through the clouds,

as if they are peering around

to see what kind of day it will be?

Hear the slap of a beaver's tail on the sleepy lagoon?

To creatures both rooted and rootless,

it must seem the most beautiful world.

When you think of red-robed monks,

walking prayerfully in the tracks of the snow leopard,

to hang prayer flags atop the snowy mountain peaks,

can you envision them gazing upwards towards heaven,

where their prayers are ascending,

then straight down to the valley floor,

where they bestow devout blessings?

Do you not agree that

it is a most beautiful world?

When noontime is lazy with the heat,

and bees buzz sleepily 

around the summer gardens,

when you bite into a ripe red strawberry

and juice drips down your chin and you laugh

as you catch the drops,

when the mourning doves call

from the top of the willow,

does it sound like they're singing:

it is the most beautiful world?

When sunset turns the horizon 

into a crimson canopy,

with accents of gold and purple,

to majestically close the curtain

on the dramatics of the day,

when the moon rises up in the indigo sky

and the stars come out winking 

like mysterious mystical messengers,

when the dark hills huddle like a sleepy giant

along the inner harbor,

and the fading song of the whippoorwill

echoes across the inlet,

is the song in your heart the same as sings in mine?

It truly is a most beautiful world!

LIGHT AND DARK

firstpeople.us

On the longest day, small wolf cubs

peek out of the den and wobble down the bank

on their unsteady legs,

to explore the Big World.

Mama watches, lying near on the riverbank,

alert to any danger lurking in the dark green

forest, unseen.

Mother Bear leads her gamboling cubs

into the river itself,

to paw for salmon.

They splash about like bumbling cartoon bears,

making Mother Bear smile.

On the longest day,

I walk by the river

with wolf howls in my heart.

I embrace the light 

that lasts long into evening,

and comes back at dawn 

after a too-short sleep.

Life is a valley we travel,

between light and dark.

We build our lives 

in the hours of daylight,

mourn our losses

when the stars come out.

Our hearts gauge the distance

we have traveled

at every sunset.

Every morning, our eyes go first

to the sky,

to calculate 

the level of the light.

Belatedly, for Susan's prompt at Mid-Week Motiff: Light and Dark

Wings

clipartbest.com

The cool thing about being a poet is

a single word, a passing thought,

a wondering,

can suddenly turn into a poem.

It's like, you're sitting at your desk,

sipping tea, so mundane, 

nothing at all going on,

and suddenly someone 

scotch-tapes 

some wings on you.

This Poem is a Steam Train

columbiariverimages.com

Our friend, the talented Hannah Gosselin, has been writing a series of poems lately, that has had me really excited. In fact, she has now created a form around her approach, which you can read about on her site, here. The form begins, "This poem is a __" and one proceeds from there. This morning, as I woke up, I had that line in my head and it began to travel......so here we go:

This poem is a steam train,

sitting at the station,

belching smoke.

The conductor yells, "All aboooard!"

and we set off.

This poem takes us on a journey.

We open our minds and hearts

to all that will be revealed.

We suspend disbelief and expand our vision

to see out the window

through the poet's eyes

and perspective.

And then, if we're lucky

 and the poet does her job well,

this poem is the train

that takes us home.

Hannah and I will be discussing her new form in a Chat Between Two Poets at Poets United in mid-July. Meanwhile, keep an eye on Hannah's site. She is onto something pretty exciting! 

The Aging Heart

explore.org

I was thinking this morning of that wonderful love poem by D.H.Lawrence, The Elephant Is Slow to Mate, which meant a great deal to me the last time I attempted such, back in 2000. (I must be part elephant, I might manage it by ninety, at the rate I'm going!) I was reflecting on how the solitary and peaceful heart is loathe to trade in its serenity for the roller-coaster ride of love, generally fraught with alternating mania and angst, at least in my admittedly limited experience. So these few lines arrived in time for me to tap them onto the screen. Wild Woman's Advice for the Aging Lovelorn, hee hee.

The aging heart will take its time

in choosing one with whom to rhyme.

In search of comfort and succor,

it finds it needs contentment more.

It loves its slow and steady beat.

When that is threatened, it retreats.

No more a plunging over falls.

It's tired now. It needs four walls.

If you would woo an aging one,

shine strong and steady like the sun.

Be patient. Plant love's little seed.

Grow it with kindness in word and deed.

Maybe, a slow heart

will be freed,

and to the suitor will concede......

if promised a love 

that doesnt bleed.

Connecting the Unconnected

shutterstock.com

If I had a magic wand,

I'd connect the scruples 

of a Monsanto CEO

with his conscience,

a logging executive

with the state of the ozone,

a canned hunter with the pain 

of the creature he shoots,

and every baby seal  hunter

with the impact of his club.

I'd send every able pair of hands outside

to pick up litter, plant trees and food,

feed the homeless,

and rescue suffering animals.

If I had a magic wand,

I would wave it towards the ocean,

and direct all the ships

to the floating garbage dumps,

mandated to pick up

what debris they could.

I would abolish any thought of coal mining

on the Great Barrier Reef

(because that would be insane!)

prohibit clearcutting, oil sands development,

and fracking, 

and the infamous oil pipeline

would no longer happen.

Emissions from industry would be 

drastically reduced by legislation,

like, yesterday! -

and - novel idea -

the rich would pay more taxes

than the poor.

If my wand was powerful enough,

I would reverse global warming,

stop the rise of water along coastal shores,

and put Band-Aids over

all the owies on earth

so they could heal.

My wand would connect every person's brain

to his heart, and every heart

would feel its connection to the earth

and every other creature.

Soon, we would be a planet of villagers.

Connection would replace disconnection.

The blinders would fall off

and every CEO would directly feel

the consequences of his decisions.

And there would not be 

enough money in the world

to staunch his pain.

for Claudia's cool prompt at dVerse: connecting the unconnected

Vision Quest

My soul goes up into the forest

on a vision quest.

Amongst the breathing trees,

the white owls are speaking,

softly, so as not to be overheard

by the Others:

My child,

you have journeyed far,

and you are tired.

Just a little more,

we promise,

and all will be

as you dreamed.

My soul sits itself down

at the base of a great green cathedral

whose trunk has grown

for almost one thousand years.

My child,

you are weary and heartsore,

and can find no surcease.

Place your hand on my trunk

and I will tell you all I know

about Enduring.

My soul tiptoes up close to

a timid, gentle, startling deer.

She tilts her head, recognizes

that I mean no harm,

and does not turn away.

My child,

you have learned to keep

a distance from the world.

I understand.

My way, too, must be one of caution,

for there are fast unthinking cars and

heavy boots and killing guns

out in the Land from which

you come.

On the shores of my soul,

I hear waves,

forever advancing and retreating,

while I perch in this desert of the heart

as precariously 

as a cactus flower,

afraid to take root for fear

the wound of blooming

will be

life-threatening.

Bloom and thorn-

sometimes the messages

are mixed.

My soul emerges from the forest

somewhat comforted

and quieted,

but as directionless

as any traveler

seeking an answer

that is only found

within.

Thirteen

Freckle face, ponytail, pedal pushers,

and a bike that was my steed;

together we rode  along the country miles  to the foothills.

In the trees, I was at home.

Indoors, I dove between the covers of a book -

 A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, My Friend Flicka,

Thunderhead - to escape my current reality.

In the house, I grew silent and distant, numb.

Away, I clung to my friends, longed for their lives.

My dreams were  of Normal Life:

picket fences, milk bottles on porches, and peace.

The summer I turned thirteen, my father died.

So that was the end of being a child.

Thirteen lines for Susan's Mid Week Motif : Thirteen

Lost and Found

google image

She misplaced her life

in the lost and found,

took a random turning,

God knows why,

got hopelessly lost,

and no one came to look for her.

Enough laps around the track

- about a million or so -

and she found the opening in the maze 

and clawed her way out,

standing in the light of a new day,

battered, weary, scratched and bleeding,

but with her eyes

firmly fixed

on Hope.

for Gabriella's prompt at Poetry Jam: Lost and Found

Family History

Grandma Julie - "Ma"

Great-Grandma Julie came from County Cork, 

married her husband,

who was working on laying track  

for the first railroad to cross North America.

There were still ruts in the ground near their house

in northern Montana, that had been 

made by covered wagons,

not too long before.

It was a harsh and make-do life:

travel by horseback, 

even through 30 below snowstorms,

tend the fields with horse and plough,

tend animals, grow gardens, preserve food,

and hope it lasts the winter,

haul water, wash laundry - and oneself -

in tin washtubs with a bar of yellow soap,

build your cabin of logs by hand,

give birth to your babies at home and pray they lived.

Some of them didn't.

My grandma told me stories 

about her mother and father:

how her father doted on my grandma,

who was his youngest child,

and how he sat in his brother's kitchen and cried 

when she left home to marry.

My Grandma - age thirteen - "Floss"

She told me about the night 

she and her mother fled in terror

to the barn,

when Pa got drunk and 

danced with the moonshine jug

in the kitchen,

before firing off random shots 

in the direction of the barn

where they cowered in terror,

till he finally fell asleep.

She could laugh about it by then,

the big man, dancing with the jug.

But my Grandma always hated "the drink" after that.

Still, it got handed down through all the generations,

and is alive and well today.

Or the time when Ma sent Dolly to town 

on Punch to pick up the mail.

The snow was deep and Punch didnt want to go,

rearing and whinnying in his stall.

"He had an instinct," my Grandma told me, darkly.

"I should never have let her take him."

Dolly headed him along the railroad tracks

for easier passage.

The snow started falling thickly,

vision was obscured;

the train whistle blew.

Later, they could see huge leaps

where Punch tried to escape the oncoming train.

They were hit. Dolly survived. Punch did not.

Hard times, those days. Hard times.

The women were made of steel; they had to be.

My mother always called her Grandma Julie

and told how, when the girls were in their teens 

and "Ma" lived with the family, in Saskatoon, 

she taught them all to smoke, 

and they'd line up their butts

on the window ledge and act innocent 

when their mom came in to check on them.

And the time she heard a ruckus upstairs 

and sent their father upstairs 

with the rolled-up Saturday Evening Post 

to "settle down those  girls - they're disturbing Ma".

He came back down, smiling.

"Well?"

"They were having a pillow fight,

standing up on the beds,

and Ma was right in the thick of it!"

My sister still has a small flowered cotton dress 

Grandma Julie wore back in the 30's.

My grandma, when she was in her own last years,

remembered how her mother would ask her 

to do her hair and then say

"Oh I know, no time, no time, no time!"

By then, my grandma understood, in her turn, 

how too busy all of her family always was,

in turn, who had so little time to spare.

We have the Irish in us:

the mischief, the cackle,

the ghosts and goblins,

the hopeless dreams, the unanswered prayers, 

the  resignation to our fate.

We are rife with unnamed longings

and misspent youth.

I look back at the line of strong women,

who walked here before me, with awe.

They lived through unthinkable times.

They rolled up their sleeves;

they did what was to be done: no choice.

Stoic, staunch and with cackles 

edged with hysteria: 

my foremothers, my clan.

My mother "Renee" and my Grandma

Such a cool prompt today from Grace at dVerse: family history

 I could write a hundred poems!