Friday, October 13, 2017

Animal Spirits

After an oil spill,
the mist above the inlet
is filled with the spirits
of all of the animals
who have died
in the spill.

Orca-, eagle-, heron-spirits,
hover over the ocean.
They rest in trees
along the shore.

They carry a message
for the people of the earth:
Wake up.
Wake up to
Mother Earth's cries.
Heal her wounds.

After the wildfires,
the smoldering, parched earth
releases the spirits
of all the animals
who were burned
in the flames.

They remain near
the black, dead land,
near the horses' bones,
near the burning hooves,
near the deer, and rabbits,
and wolves,
near the lives
they loved and lost.

They carry a message
for the people of the earth:
Wake up.
Wake up to
Mother Earth's cries.
Heal her wounds.

After flood waters recede,
and all of the bodies
of drowned creatures
are bagged and carried away,
the spirits of that place
sit vigil near the watery graves,
praying we humans
will awaken to our mandate:
to replenish and heal
Mother Earth.

They carry a message
for the people of the earth:
Wake up.
Wake up to Mother Earth's cries,
her distress.
Awaken to all
you can be,
all you can do,
to heal the Earth Mother,
the only home 
of all creatures.

The idea for this poem came from reading Into Great Silence : A Memoir of Discovery and Loss among Vanishing Orcas by Eva Saulitis. Eva spent twenty years among the orcas of Prince William Sound, both before and after the oil spill. The animals she grew to know like her family are now vanishing due to the after-effects of the oil spill, the intrusion of human development into their wild habitat,  and the warming seas of climate change.

Thursday, October 12, 2017

When a Thousand Women Gather......

When a thousand women gather,
you can feel the power,
the joy, the deep, sweet Knowing,
looking into each other's eyes:
I see you.
You are beautiful.
Together, we are strong.

When a thousand women gather,
saying Enough! War is not the way to peace.
Enough! You will not have
our sons and daughters;
Enough! Life, earth, air, water
are more important and necessary
than money,
then Change begins.

All over the world,
women are planting trees,
because we need to breathe.
In response to the clearcut mountains
that filled the wallets
of the multinationals,
a billion seedlings are
going into the ground,
to green the barren deserts
and heal the earth, the air,
and our breaking hearts.

All over the world,
women are rising up,
doing what they can
for the earth and each other.
Yes, we can!

And now we join hands
across oceans, across sky,
across all man-made boundaries,
to birth a new way of being
with Mother Earth,
that is a very Old way of being,
understood by all aboriginal peoples.

When a thousand women gather,
the Divine Feminine is unleashed,
in all her power*.

On October 19 at 11 a.m. Pacific time, (2 p.m. EST, and 7 p.m. UK) the Call to Dream Ceremony will be held, online, in an effort to empower women to feel strong and hopeful in the face of climate change. It is sponsored by the Tree Sisters, whose goal is to plant a billion trees worldwide, in an effort to heal Mother Earth. The first goal was a million trees, and the response has been so strong, it is now a billion.

Time to rise in sisterhood. The male model of leadership has failed. Capitalism, based on the Myth of More, is destroying the earth and is untenable for all but the wealthy. Time to listen to the earth, to work with Her. Time to dream a better dream.

The launch is the beginning of a seven week  journey of collective discovery. Clare Dubois is putting out the call to all women to 1) plant trees worldwide and 2) unite in an attempt to birth a shift in  consciousness to a nature-based consciousness, to counter the aggressive momentum that is now going on in the world. I'm in. You can hear Clare talk about this here.

*In Tibetan myth, when a thousand women gather, the sacred feminine is birthed through their collective energy.

Wednesday, October 11, 2017

Once In Autumn

“Choose the least important day in your life. 
It will be important enough.” 

Once in autumn.....
Nekiah hand-stitched every leaf,
with unerring eye,
making Tree Spirit costumes
for you and your friend,
Isaac Blue Sky.

We didn't know, 
back then,
just how precious
were those fleeting days
of grace,
how quickly life
was flying by,
too fast the pace.

First, you grew.
Too soon,
before I was ready,
before you were, too,
you were out of the nest
and away;
for your heartbreaks
my heart, too, would pay,
you, so young and heedless 
and rash,
my hair slowly turning
the color of 
silvery ash.

Too soon,
Nekiah was gone.
It was cancer.
Isaac Blue Sky's life 
was forever

Those innocent faces 
up there,
those round trusting eyes
that enraptured,
those smiles that had 
not yet known pain........
remind me that once,
once in autumn,
we all lived precious days
that will not,
              will not ever
                            come again.

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Autumn. I re-worked an old poem from 2010, for this prompt, as autumn always reminds me of those fleeting, precious days. Ouch. A pang in my heart.

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Boat Trip Through Clayoquot Sound

Yesterday, my friend Chris invited me along on a trip to 
her floathouse, a short boat-ride from Tofino.
This is the harbour, before we set out.

Lone Cone, wearing a cloud like a toque.
The small native village of Opitsaht
can be seen along the shore.

We were briefly in the pathway of a floatplane,
trying to take off. Oops!

The Tofino shoreline as we sped away.

A cute off the grid cabin

Beauty, beauty, beauty.....

Lone Cone from another perspective

A heron on the mudflats

The trees look so alive, and fully themselves,
when they are safe from human interference.

Many choose to live off the grid

The Camel

An oyster  farm


Such a peaceful little home this is.

Chris's greenhouse.

Heading home past the hazy mountains.
A wonderful day!


Mother Earth
by Caitlin Taylor 2008

Hope is the belief
that light can dispel darkness,
love can overcome hate,
there are more good people
than evil in the world.
It is understanding
that social justice is
both possible and necessary,
(and long over-due),
that most people are kind,
and want to live in peace.
Hope is hands held out
to help each other
in times of crisis,
proving this is possible, also,
in ordinary times.

Hope is turning off the news,
the angry, divisive rhetoric,
the deranged killings,
and going out into the village
to smile at people, pat the dogs,
raise our eyes to the skies,
the mountains and the sea,
and giving thanks.

Hope is cherishing each golden day
in belief they will continue,
just in case they don't.

Mostly, hope wears the faces
of the children of tomorrow,
of the planet and all of its creatures,
who are asking for
their own time in the sun.

At Toads, Sanaa asked for some hope this morning. This is what popped out.

Sunday, October 8, 2017


 source: Wolf Howling

Along a forest trail,
we met,
wolf and old woman.

Our eyes locked.
He took a step back,

"Don't worry," I said.
"I love you.
I won't hurt you."

I backed slowly,
turned away,
retreated from
his habitat.

At a bend in the trail,
I looked back.
He was still watching me.
His eyes were sad,
for all the embattled wolves
and humans
of the world,
for the friendship
there could be,
among the species,
not possible
until humankind

I walked a forest trail this morning, and these lines popped into my head. A friend once met a young cougar on the trail. It meowed at her. True story.


Photo by Karoline Cullen - Orca Network

She is grieving.
The loss of her child
is something no mother
should have to bear.

The water is dark and surging.
It takes strength to push through
the waves,
to believe in a horizon unseen.

She gives a keening whine,
then blows, then dives,
her fluke arching
black against the sky.

Slowly, she makes
her lonely way
back to her pod,
her calf no longer
beside her.

I am reading a wonderful book about a young woman who spent twenty years watching the whales in Prince William Sound, both before and after the oil spill. The pods she followed are now vanishing. So much grief in this world. The book is Into Great Silence by Eva Saulitis.

Saturday, October 7, 2017


Great-granddaughter Lunabella,
at the beginning of her journey

[*title taken from W.B.Yeats]

Where has it all gone,
scattered like pebbles
from a toddler's pail,
as if there will always be More,
until, suddenly, there isn't?

Look back, look back,
down all of those sun-dappled years,
to the very beginning,
all fragrant with apple blossoms -
the dark and the light,
the bitter and the sweet,
such a terrible beauty*,
that catches at the throat,
mixed, as it is, in the
crust of parched earth,
slaked by a madman's draught
at the very last moment
before expiring.

The dying's last request
is always for water,
my grandmother's long white finger
pointing at the glass
when no more was she
able to speak.
And water,
that single tear
rolling down her cheek,
as she said goodbye to it all
and began that slow slow walk
across the mountains of the moon.

The older one grows,
the heavier that backpack of grief,
an endless well
we can draw from at random:

a paean of gratitude with its counterpoint of pain,
(so beautiful! so beautiful!),
a lament that catches in the back of the throat,
joy that aches, stirred like a slurry,
prickling, like cactus,
a lump of regret
that can never be swallowed,
as the hot tears roll down one's cheeks
because it is too soon,
too soon,
to be faced with leaving.

Too fast it all goes.
Towards the end, one’s life
begins to gallop like a willow-whipped horse,
frothing and frantic to escape the lash,
hooves relentlessly pounding, pounding,
carrying us off, all unwilling,
with still so much to do,
doomed riders
in a race to the unknown,
on which we wager
the biggest long-shot of our lives:
that somehow
we will still continue on
after death.

My worn old kit bag of memories
is filled to the brim with all I was given:
more laughter than tears,
more challenge than ease,
song and story and a high, hopeful heart,
an optimism I hold like a mantra,
refusing to surrender in the face of all that is daunting,
and more gratitude than can be put into words
for this magical realm,
where a leaf is a miracle
and a red fox sheer brilliance,
where the owl calls from the forest
in her quavery voice,
beckoning us in with her feathery wing,
where the grey wolf howls through our very souls,
where loneliness and fullness
compete for the same square inch
of living space in the hearts of the solitary,
and where daybreak and hellfire
alike streak the sky
with a Van Gogh's palette of vermilion and indigo,
whose silvery stars set us dreaming
into the soft sighing dark
of that welcoming Night.

* from W.B. Yeats

A poem from 2012, since I am pondering and processing death this week, with the passing of a dear friend. Apologies for its length. It was the only poem that spoke to me, for sharing with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

Thursday, October 5, 2017


We walk the fine edge,
between this world and the next,
trying to heal our pain, 

recover from our illnesses,
adjusting to the decline of the body
that has transported us so far.

You have fought a long battle, 
old pal of mine.
I am sensing your grasp on life 
slowly slipping away.
Your eyes are on the eagle, 
flying free of his fetters.
You are communing with deer 
in your garden.
The orcas pass by, 
your mind engraving
the vision and the joy.
Your heart is loving and mourning 
this beautiful earth
you are slowly leaving.
We are never ready to let go
of the beauty we have loved so well.

For 37 years, you have always been there:
at the other end of the telephone,
through my joys and sorrows,
on the other side of my screen,
sharing all I was learning.
We have witnessed, 
encouraged and supported
each other's journey,
collaborated on songs,
shared our love of the wild,
and music,
and sunsets.

You have been my friend, my mentor,
my guide, my guru.
You have shown me the way,
walking your pilgrim's path of the soul,
listening to your inner guides.

You can never really be gone from me.

On the other side, for you,
there will be a radiance:
your face shining as it did 
in coffeehouse days,
when candles flickered on you, 
smiling in the glow,
singing Gentle Jonathan 
and Forever Young.

I will see you forever
strumming your guitar, 
singing your songs
of trees and rivers 
and eagles in flight.

On the other side: 
Manders, curled,
purring on your chest -
and no more tumors,
shortness of breath,
fatigue and diminishing health.
Just an expansion of the soul
which has grown too large
for your chest to contain,
and needs more room 
in which to grow.

In memory, you will always be
on stage at Brock and Friends,
or, later, stalking the sunset,
camera in hand, 
at Chestermans Beach.

It is in sunsets I will 
forever see you,
old friend of mine.

Always remember, 
on the other side of sunset
comes the dawn.
That is where I'll find you,
once you're gone.


My friend from coffeehouse days, Matthew, departed this life night before last.  He passed peacefully, and was ready to go. He was always attuned to Spirit. He did walking meditations, where he said "I love you" to every rock, and dog, and tree he passed, and he told me that after a few minutes everything started loving him back. He was always Spirit-led and so I know he trustingly followed into the spirit world.

He was my friend, mentor, guru, supporter and guide. He knew me when, when I was just awakening, recovering from trauma. The coffeehouse in the 80's was filled with souls living gently on the earth. I walked in the door and I was home. They watered my parched roots, and gave me space, and acceptance, till my petals slowly unfurled. I have such gratitude for the gift the coffeehouse, and those gentle people, were for me. Matthew was one of the special people in my life. I sent him the above poem when his health began to fail. I wanted him to know what he meant to me, and he told me my poem moved him. 

I will miss him. And I will be forever grateful for having had such a friend.

Wednesday, October 4, 2017


photo by Stephanie Oien
taken from her balcony

They live in families,
like us.
They feel happiness, love, fear,
loyalty, devotion, pleasure,
heat and cold,
hunger, pain, distress,
like us.

They help each other,
protect each other,
sacrifice for each other,
grieve for each other,
like us.

To my heart's distress,
so many of them
are treated cruelly,
as if they are.......
not like us.

for Susan's prompt  at Midweek Motif: Animals. I have written so many poems about animals through the years. But if I had to distill my thoughts about them in a nutshell, it is the fact that so many of them suffer terribly at the hands of humans that weighs on my heart the most. We, as human beings, should long since have demanded that all animals, especially those in "factory farms",  be treated humanely during their lives - and their deaths. At the very least. 

"The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated."
Mahatma Gandhi

In North America, we are not doing very well.

Saturday, September 30, 2017

These Days.......

These days
I often find
my thoughts
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
back to you
never very far
from where you are
if you
but knew

Through all
those years
I saw your beauty
and now I am

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 
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

For the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. I wrote this poem in 1994, remembering a man I loved in 1980's Kelowna. 

Thursday, September 28, 2017

Dog of Joy

[This morning, watching another black dog at the beach,I was reminded of my big black dog of joy, who cracked me up every day of our life together for fourteen years.]

My eyes went right to him,
a black lab mix,
whose people were ignoring him.
No matter.
He knew how to have fun
all by himself.

He was pouncing on the sand,
leaping from side to side,
a loopy grin on his face.
Then he would dig, furiously,
for a few moments,
and return to his 
side-to-side dance.
He was digging up
a buried stick,
with the most intense delight.

He made me laugh,
and remember.
I fed him a cookie,
and his nose snuffled 
into my pocket.
He wanted the second one, too,
which I was happy
to give.

It was small payment
for a moment of joy,
this morning on the beach,
in the amber September sun.

for Karin's prompt at Real Toads: Thinking of the Little Things: to write about a small moment, one of those moments that remind us how good life is, no matter what the larger world happens to be doing.

Tuesday, September 26, 2017

Rising Above

Rising up,
rising above -
hope soaring on eagle wings -
we dwell on the threshold
of a dream -
a world at peace.

Rising above the talk
of division,
we meditate upon
the fact that
all of our cells
in this old world
- human, plant, animal -
creatures of air and earth
and sea -
are connected.

Rising above the rhetoric
of war, we ponder:
how can we bomb
other mothers and fathers, 
sisters and brothers,
aunts, uncles, grandparents,
and babies with eyes 
still full of wonder?

Everything alive
just wants
to live.

Time to rise up, 
young men and women.
Time to take to the streets.
Time to rise up
                     rise up
                              rise up
and march to a
different beat.

"Ain't gonna study war 
no more."*
Time to play
the pipes of peace.

Time to right this tilting world
of pain and sorrow
and make it ready
for the children
of tomorrow.

for Sumana's  Midweek Motif prompt at Poets United: Rising Above

*an old African American spiritual, dating from the civil war. If only world leaders studied peace as much as they have studied war. Or spent  money on caring for the planet and its people instead of the instruments of war.

Saturday, September 23, 2017

Sailing On

The sun goes up,
the sun goes down,
and this ship of fools keeps
sailing, sailing on,
as if there will always be
a tomorrow.
While Rocket Man and Loco Man
toss insults and puff their chests,
we wake surprised
to find ourselves
still alive
with every dawn.

The earth quakes,
the earth shakes,
while water
covers the ground
with death.
The wildfires burn on,
as do the fossil fuels
that feed their every breath.

We are a blue and green
sailing through a
universe of sky.
From out there,
we look so peaceful
but, to a trained and closer eye,
we are sailing towards disaster,
too half-asleep
to even question

for Kim's prompt at Real Toads: Boats.

Friday, September 22, 2017

Is This a Dream Within a Dream?

I gaze at the tv screen:
hurricanes, flooding, wildfires,
earthquakes, collapsing buildings,
people crying, digging through rubble,
picking through destroyed homes.

I step out onto a West Coast beach:
sand and blue sky, the eternal waves,
ebbing and flowing for forever,
stalwart hills,
wrapping protective arms 
around the village.

Why is it that
the second scene
is the one that seems 

for Shay's prompt at Fireblossom Friday: to look at life through a distorted lens. I wrote a first one, but it was too dark, so I flipped the perspective.

The Trees Are Praying, Too

The Hanging Garden Tree
on the Tall Tree Trail,
Meares Island

Entering the peace 
of the forest,
a cathedral of giant cedar,
I incline my head,
bend towards 
the tender trunks.
I am attentive, 

In the silence. 
I feel an awareness,
a presence.
I sense the trees,
bending towards me
in return.
They are attentive, 

I am praying:
for the trees,
for the world,
for all the wild things.

And I can feel it :
the trees
are praying, too.

Te idea for this poem came from the book, The Global Forest, written by the forest sprite, Diana Beresford-Kroeger, who tells of an instance of communing with the trees.

I will share this with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United on Sunday morning. Do join us for some fine reading!

Thursday, September 21, 2017

Brother Bear

Troy Moth photo

CBC video about this image here
The video is short, 1 minute long,
but haunting.

In the landfill,
the fires are burning,
flames flaring high.
The ground is smoldering,
as the food burns to char.

Brother Bear
is waiting
for the flames
to lessen,
so he can eat.

With decreased habitat, increasing scarcity of food, human encroachment, it is getting harder and harder for the wild creatures to live. The photographer saw this bear in a landfill in Ontario, waiting for the flames to die down, so he could eat the burning food. As he watched, the bear went down into the smoldering pit, looking for its dinner. This image haunts me. It is not just our home we have ruined; it is his, too. I remember a First Nations elder speaking of watching a mother bear and her two cubs walking across a clearcut, and how she cried, because it was so pitiful.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017


This poem is a search for peace
on a suffering planet.
This poem remembers what we have forgotten:
that we are all one.
This poem has trouble seeking personal peace,
when most of the planet is struggling to survive.

This poem is looking at floods, hurricanes, 
wildfires, earthquakes, wars, genocides,
humans and animals terrified and dying.
This poem feels the pain of Mother Earth, 
of the wild things, of the children, 
of the mothers watching their children die.

This poem can’t bask in the sun 
while its sisters and brothers,
and the blessed creatures, 
both domestic and wild,
are fleeing for their lives in a world askew.
This poem can’t be all about me,
when the “us” of the world is in need.

This poem is a hope and a prayer for a peace
that swells from the grassroots 
and topples the tyrants.
This poem links hands with those on the ground,
trying to save the lives of those around them.
This poem believes that most of us want peace,
and that we have to build it ourselves,
community by community,
for our leaders have gone mad.

I adapted Hannah Gosselin’s Boomerang Metaphor form for this poem. For Susan’s prompt at Midweek Motiff: Peace. It is hard to hope we will turn this mess around, yet now is not the time to give up. A lot could be changed if one person were removed from office. The nuclear threat would lessen, for example. he is a danger to the world.

Monday, September 18, 2017



My friends, yesterday I attended 
a most inspiring event. 
At the Kwisitis Centre, at Wickaninnish Beach,
representatives of the Nuu chah nulth bands 
of the West Coast, 
and of the villages of Tofino and Ucluelet,  
came together to speak of living together 
in this wonderful place, 
 to talk of reconciliation and moving forward 
from the wounds of the past 
to the First Nations of this land. 

We were invited in by the sound of the drums.

On the beach, salmon was being prepared
in the traditional way,
 for our feast

Singing and drumming
by the Ahousaht band

Tofino's wonderful mayor, Josie Osborne,
told a story of being warmly welcomed
on a visit to Ahousaht,
and encouraged Tofino residents to welcome
visitors to our town as warmly. Then she invited
some of the local poets to come forward
and read poems about life on the West Coast

Jan McDougall

Greg Blanchette

Christine Lowther

Joanna Streetly

Many speakers addressed reconciliation.
An elder said words that struck  my heart:
"Speak without giving offence.
Listen without feeling offended."
That is respect, in a nutshell.

People listened with attentiveness to the speeches,
and demonstrated a great desire to live amicably 
and respectfully with those around us,
to remember that we are living
on unceded land, in traditional  territory. 
We are guests here,
as we are on Mother Earth.

These people of the land and water
know that everything is one, and interconnected.
They have much to teach we newcomers
about how to live with and on the land.

Closing words.

This was the day we had. In the morning,
there was a cloudburst, but West Coasters 
are not daunted by rain.
We donned rain gear, and the event was well attended.

At noon, the sun came out, unexpectedly,
to our delight. Bubbles soared through the air, 
children got their faces painted and, though I missed it,
arial dancers were dancing in the treetops down at the parking lot.
Using ropes, they performed among the tops of the trees. 

It must have been a wonderful sight.

I had waves to my heart's delight.

A most wonderful and enriching day.
Soul food.