THE SINGING KITES OF WAT OPOT

link to the book here

Khleng ek - the singing kite -

flies the heavens

in gratitude for harvest.

It sings its prayers to the God of the Wind,

for dispersing the clouds and bringing the sun,

so the rice grew well.

Below, the orphans of Wat Opot

know joy,

watching Brother Kite carry their dreams

and prayers

to the heavens, where all their parents live.

In long gone days, the old kite masters

could fashion kites that sang in seven tones,

a glorious symphony

heard below, especially in darkness,

when the heat and clamor of the day was done.

The orphans' kites sing in three tones,

sometimes five,

a miracle of small hearts

that try to hold big dreams

against the certain knowledge

of all that took their families

away.

Some time back, I read In a Rocket Made of Ice, by Gail Gutradt, about the AIDS-impacted (and many HIV-positive) orphans of Wat Opot, in Cambodia. The orphanage, which now houses many orphans, and offers medical and supportive care to nearby villagers, as well as programs for the children, was begun by Wayne Matthysse, a former Marine corp medic in Vietnam. When he saw the need and responded, he had only fifty dollars in his pocket.

Now, he says he still has only fifty dollars in his pocket, but the work they are doing there, the lives they are helping, sustaining and, often times, honoring at their closing, is phenomenal.Gail has spent much time there among the children, and relays the children's stories so beautifully, that at each's chapter's closing, my heart felt a regretful ping. I grieved at the end of this journey among the children, upon closing the last page.

It is not the sadness of their plight, but the joy with which they live, that holds great lessons for the rest of us.

reposted for The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Radiance

tree-health.com

Angels always dazzle.

Watching the heavens,

sad fools will awaken

from their dark dreamlike dance,

and remember only radiance.

I found this  loitering in my draft file. Sitting in the glow of my daughter's Christmas tree, the world does seem to be bathed in radiance this morning. I hope your holidays have been sprinkled with magic dust, as have mine.  And here comes a brand new year, full of hope and possibility! Yay!

Gone Carolling!

batemancatholic.org

I'm off to Victoria, my friends, to spend Christmas with my youngest, Stephanie, her husband, Gord, and their two  dogs. I am taking a stocking of toys and treats for the puppies , of course, as they expect it of me. Smiles. I won't have computer access until I return home Boxing Day evening, so I will catch up with you then. I hope you all enjoy whatever celebration you may be observing. As winter solstice has occurred, I know we all will be celebrating the gradual returning of the light as we turn, once again, towards another spring. On-going miracles!

Happy holidays, along with my thanks for another year of sharing and appreciating poetry. Bless each of you who takes the time to read my words. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that you do. And may you all be visited by Christmas angels, as i have been this week. Blessings abound!

MERCY

Mercy is.......

the mother in the refugee camp giving her slice of bread to her child to eat....
and that child sharing it with his small friend.

is a man jumping into the freezing river
to rescue a deer fallen through the ice.

is the girl playing dead in the Bataclan
telling herself in what she thought were her last moments
that all that matters is love, and that the light in human hearts
will always outshine the darkness.

is death when it comes after a long painful battle with illness,
when the soul is peaceful and ready for release.

is a town, a city, a country, opening its doors and hearts
to refugee families fleeing terror, and telling them
"you are safe and  welcome here."

is rescuing an abused or neglected animal, watching trust begin to shine in his eyes,
and discovering he has brought more mercy into our lives than we did his.

is waking up the morning after a difficult day, to a brand new opportunity
to begin again.

When the World Was Young

Wolf

photo by Deborah Steel

Ha-shilth-Sa newspaper

In the lifetime before the lifetime before this one,

and again the lifetime before that,

I danced under the blue sky at the sundance,

when I and the world were young.

The beat of the drum sang in my blood

and my feet moved in joy,

      and I danced

          and I danced

as if it would last forever,

when I and the world were young.

The Old Ones smiled on me

with kind eyes, but with sadness, too,

for their dreams foresaw suffering

for the people.

Over in the meadow, grey wolves flitted

in and out among the Standing People, 

paws prancing high,

and the backs of the buffalo carpeted the earth

in the days when I and the world were young.

And now I live again in an alien skin,

in a world grown cold.

The buffalo are gone and all that moves

is made of metal.

And I am an Old One with kind, sad eyes,

watching the young dance in a world gone mad,

and the ancient spirits are crying still,

remembering the days of dancing under the sun

when they and I and the world were young.

Two nights ago I attended young Sebastian's Christmas concert. I have been babysitting him since he was two and he is now a big boy of six. He attends a First Nations school outside of town, where the curriculum instills pride in culture, teaching language, respect of the old ceremonies, and the songs and dances of the Nuu chah nulth people. 

So the concert was a wonder: two hours of song and dance in full hereditary costume. The last dance was named Everything Is One, (what happens to one, happens to all).  As the drums beat, children of all ages twirled and swooped and dove, dressed as hummingbird, eagle, heron. Children wore the pelts of bear, cougar, wolf, and they danced a long, joyous dance of interconnection with all of Mother Earth.

I was, in a word, in heaven. And I knew, as I have always known, that in another lifetime, I was one of the people, for the drum quickens in my blood like a homecoming, and I feel more at home among First Nations than among my own culture. I always have. 

We came out to thick, fat snowflakes falling, the children running with joy, faces upturned to catch the flakes upon their tongues. For them, hope is alive,  and joy is catching snowflakes. For them, the world is still young.


posted for Kerry's prompt at Real Toads: Going Back in Time, and for Poets United's Poetry Pantry.

A Grand Design

Tree of Life in Chinese mythology
rationalfaiths.com\TreeofLife

In the breathtaking design of the universe,

God's hand can be seen:

in the intricacies of the tiniest cell,

in how the pattern of the placenta,

womb and portal,

  echoes the trunk and root systems

of the Tree of Life,

in the way the planets and stars 

align in the sky,

moon and sun traveling in tandem,

to provide us with warmth and light

and seasons.

It is impossible to look at the intricate design

of a flower, the amazing colours of

the creatures of the sea,

to see the design in everything,

how everything is linked,

and not see the Hand of God

in every blessed thing.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Design

We Are Not Well

In the Sangwa, the elephant family 
moves serenely across the floodplains,
rumbling contentedly to each other, 
grazing overhanging branches,
stopping occasionally to reach their trunks 
into wells they've dug to access the water there.

Suddenly, they all turn, 
trunks raised high like periscopes, sniffing danger.

As the thwack-thwack-thwack of the helicopter 
clears the nearby ridge,
the big grey beasts begin to run and scream in fear.
The shots ring out.
It is a government sponsored cull,
warfare on elephant families,
large and small mothers, grandmothers, babies
running, falling, dying in great pain,
lifeblood seeping into the hot sand.

And thwack-thwack-thwack, 
the noisy machine lifts up and away,
work done for the day, ledgers ticked off, 
numbers counted and recorded:

Say the names: Jabula. Miss Piggy.
Friday. Mufambo. 250 beings in all.

a "necessary cull" for some misguided reason,
by those who don't allow themselves 
to think or feel the genocide. 
Those who do not stand 
and watch the traumatized survivors, 
standing over the bodies of their slain family,
trunks whiffing in distress over 
the eyes, the ears, the orifices, 
trying to sniff if any life is left.
Who do not return to watch them 
standing for days over the bodies, mourning.
Who do not see them finally walking away, 
with the shooting etched forever in their memories,
stark and bloody as any mass shooting always is,
to be as grievously mourned.

In Shona, there is a ritual greeting, when you meet:
"How are you?"
"I am well."
"I am well if you are well, so we are well."
Things are not well in the land of dying elephants,
so we are not well.

I just finished reading Katy Payne's Silent Thunder: In the Presence of Elephants, about her years of research, tracking and coming to know well groups of elephants in the Shona. Katy was studying their infrasonic communication over distances. In this book, the reader comes to know the elephants well,  along with Katy, so when a bureaucracy-ordered culling occurs, "to protect habitat",  towards the end of the book, it is almost as devastating to the reader as it was to the writer. 

Katy discusses how, due to poaching, the elephant population diminished from 1.3 million to 500,000, as of the writing of this book, back in 1998.  

Wikipedia states there were between three and five million African elephants as recently as the 1930's and 1940's - the population was halved between 1980 and 1990, due to trophy hunting and poaching. It is now estimated to be somewhere between 400,000 and 600,000, but only 20% of elephant range is protected.  

Central Africa  lost 64% of its elephant population in just three years, 100,000 being lost to poaching between 2010 and 2012, according to a study  reported by National Geographic, stating one in every twelve elephants was killed by poachers. The relentless poaching threatens the survival of elephants in Africa. Elephants are also endangered through habitat loss, having lost over 50% of their range.

A Great Elephant Census is currently underway to estimate population, but it is clear elephants are under threat of extinction. Thankfully, four countries - Botswana, Namibia, Gabon and Uganda, are acting as safe haven for elephants, according to the Great Elephant Census.

Because of a mix of human desperation, poverty and greed, elephants are as desperate these days as any other refugee, fleeing terror, seeking safety for their families.

A Grain of Sand

sand grains multiplied 110 - 250 times

photo copyright Dr. Gary Greenberg

Each grain of sand unique,

we walk, unaware, on jeweled beauty.

If a lowly sand-grain 

harbours such loveliness,

how much more, the human eye,

the human smile,

the human heart?

for Kerry's prompt at Real Toads: In a Grain of Sand ~ Micro Poetry

THE DOGS OF HEAVEN

The Black Dog of Joy

The dogs of Heaven

are running through my dreams,

all the loved little creatures

that blessed my life.

Their paws,

a trail of footprints

'cross my heart,

their happy eyes remembering

all we shared

"until we part."

At the front of the pack

runs fast a big, black wolf,

his eyes aglow with joy 

of release and no more pain.

To see such joy 

within his eyes so plain,

I'd set him free

one hundred times

again

and yet

again.

A poem from 2011, posted for this week's Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where there is good reading every Sunday morning. I miss that big old laughing black dog so much.

Earth and Sky

azothalchemy.org

Water comes first, then we follow,

gasp in a big breath of air, and then we cry.

Thus we are introduced to the world

as it always was and always will be.

Water: essential, blessed,

part of our beings from our very first day.

Through the Sacred Medicine Wheel I journeyed,

dipped my toes in a magical sea,

soul thrumming with the song of the waves.

My sign, my element, my spirit's home:

Mother Ocean.

Above, the sky, the air, the vast expanse,

curving over all

the great blue bowl of aether,

underfoot, the earth, brown and humble

and mothering.

I bow to you, Sky, I sing with you, Wind,

I dance in the rain, laughing

at the great clap of thunder,

feel the rushing whoosh of wind on my face,

raindrops falling on my spirit,

cleansing me anew,

healing the riven places, washing

all negative energy away.

When I am clean, 

when the Great Bowl Above grows dark,

I creep homeward, 

settle beside a crackling fire,

remember the winking stars, 

the great wheeling seabirds,

wonder at the beauty gracing this span of time 

that is still mine.

To the earth I bow, in gratitude, 

in homecoming. 

It waits to receive me

when that final moment comes,

when I will become one

with All That Is.

First, there was water,

at the end

only earth and sky.

for Hannah's Transforming with Nature's Wonders at Real Toads: to write about the elements.

Blue

The Farm

photo by Lori Kerr

Winter blues out my window,

fresh morning breaking,

doves at the feeder,

horses in the lean-to.

The colour blue wraps my winter world,

weaves through my winter heart,

peeks through my winter sky.

Blue.

The colour of goodbye.

posted for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motiff: Colours

"We Do Not Want to Die in Silence"

demoncracynow.org photo

Once again, we, 

first peoples of the land and waters,

we, who have so much to teach 

about living in harmony with Mother Earth,

have our voices silenced.

Hear us.

We speak to your minds and hearts,

out of love for the earth.

We do not want to die in silence.

Indigenous people protested in a canoe flotilla a day after a draft agreement was reached in Paris for what is hoped to be a global accord to curb carbon emissions. Indigenous spokesperson Clayton Thomas-Muller explained his people are very concerned that, in the draft agreement, the voice of indigenous people has been annexed, set aside. Reference to indigenous rights and human rights has been removed from the draft agreement, "for discussion later".

"We want our rights included in the final agreement. We ... demonstrate our commitment to protect the sacredness of Mother Earth," said Mr. Thomas-Muller. "We're...asserting our territorial jurisdiction and sovereignty as indigenous peoples."

Indigenous people have been protesting oil drilling on aboriginal land, and raising their voices seeking protection of the waters.

They, who have lived in harmony with Mother Earth for thousands of years, have so much to teach us. Their voices should be heard first of all. That their valuable voice and input is being set aside greatly concerns me. 

a link to the video of the canoe flotilla demonstration can be found here

source: http://www.democracynow.org/2015/12/7/we_do_not_want_to_die

RAVEN'S GIFT

allaboutbirds.org

Raven travels the Blue Road

to bring Wild Woman a gift.

You carry a message of trust,

says Raven,

light for the darkness of our times.

There is magic in the void,

creative forces swirling in the cosmos.

Reach up, and grab yourself a fistful of hope.

Scatter the news that all is far from lost,

that for every troubled soul, 

there are one thousand more

dreaming only of peace,

of justice.

Continue affirming

that being more, not having more, 

is where peace lies.

Raven hopped onto the hood 

of Wild Woman's car just yesterday morning.

She gifted him with crumbled biscuit,

and he flew, swift, away,

bread in his beak, and happy.

A gift for a gift.

One from 2014, my friends. Just because. This day has brought gifts, wanted to give one in return.

Waking to a Nightmare

en.wikipedia.org

"Mom!"

It's his hoarse voice,

desperate, frightened,

and she comes awake at 3 a.m.

to the vision

of her tow-headed son,

in the black, oily water,

navy boat behind him,

bombed, in flames, sinking,

her beloved son drowning,

calling her with his last breath.

True story, told to my grandma by her friend, about her son's death in WWII.

When I Dance

unknown - via pinterest

When I dance,

I am light as a feather.

I am Song, I am Grace

mixed together.

Those boys down there

can jeer and stare,

and say rude things

and look askance.
I do not even hear them
when I dance.

I give them not a solitary glance.

I take my stance,

enter deep trance,
my heart suffused with fine romance,
for every heart must have its chance,

and I am light and beautiful,

especially when I dance.

for Words Count with Mama Zen over at Real Toads ~

to write a poem with an emphasis on eckphrasis.
I exceeded the word count by sixteen words.
My bad! I did not want to remove the hope, LOL.

Message From the Universe

"I feel I am meant to give you a message," 

she said, walking up to me, smiling.

I had never seen her before.

But my ears perked up.

I am always alert for messages.

"In a dream, I saw you walking on a beach

with a little black puppy.

And there was a wolf somewhere, watching,

in the trees.

Does this make any sense to you?"

"Oh, yes! This is the dream of my life,

and your message gives me hope

that it will come true.

And yes, I know the wolf,

who is watching."

We smile. She walks away.

Now, here I am,

walking on the beach with a little black puppy.

I smile over towards the trees,

where I know a big black wolf

has his eyes on me.

for Grace's prompt at dVerse: Secrets of the Universe, to write about everyday life with a note of wonder, or the mystical. Some of this poem is true - the message part - the ending is my fantasy, LOL. Great prompt, Grace!

TREE

Wild Woman has the opposite of vitality.

Her life force has been ground down

to powder

by the whirlygigs and bumper-car 

collisions of others.

Even a tree gets tired,

sometimes, of holding up its branches,

eternally entreating the heavens,

tired of supporting the weight

of those who shelter in its branches.

She walks into the forest 

to commune with her sisters.

Deep peace.

She breathes. She listens. She absorbs.

Along with the raindrops,

balm sluices through her being.

Distress lifts off and flutters away.

When she emerges, 

there will still be problems,

clamorous voices, and disharmony.

But there will also be

replenishment, steadfastness, 

renewed strength.

She returns home

and lifts up her branches

once more.

Even a tree gets tired sometimes,

of bearing arms.

But its trunk holds fast

to the end.

for Susan's timely topic at Midweek Motif: Energy/Vitality.  I had little yesterday, when I penned this. But a day spent in my fleecy pj's, putting up my tiny tree, greatly improved the situation. Smiles.

WILD WOMAN DOES BATTLE

Wild Woman arrives at a hobble

to do serious battle with  the Iris Bed.

"Oh, woe is I!" she mutters,

at the shocking sight.

The tangle of weeds is higher

than  the fair Iris's head.

Errant fattened Dangerously Prickly

blackberry vines and assorted mayhem

proclaim Serious Neglect

has long overtaken the hidden blooms.

And, most frightening of all,      

the Fair Iris is having the life

choked out of her

by the hideous, tightly twining Horrible Ivy,

whose death grip around Iris's throat

is so tight Iris can only utter

a faint, desperate "gleep, gleep",

which Wild Woman translates  as

"Hurry! Hurry!"

Wild Woman hoves to: At great personal risk,

she steps bravely into the tangled thorny patch.

She clips, she mutters, she heaves.

A satisfying pile of debris forms a mountain

of limp, expired weeds

and thorny vanquished branches

behind her.

But! when she is done,

the Fair Iris stands proud and tall,

evidence of Persevering Midst Completely

Untenable Conditions.

She takes her first deep breaths.

She sways and preens.

She is Free At Last!

Liberation has likely never

felt so sweet.

And Wild Woman? Her back

fairly shrieking in protest,

smilingly  hobbles away.

a poem from 2011, my friends, posted for Real Toads' Tuesday Platform.