These Days.......

Stuart Madden

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

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

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.

Rising Above

source

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.

Sailing On

NASA photo: Norman Kuring

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
spaceship
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
why.


for Kim's prompt at Real Toads: Boats.

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.

Peacefulness, 

beauty, 

calm.

Why is it that

the second scene

is the one that seems 

surreal?

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, 

listening.

In the silence. 

I feel an awareness,

a presence.

I sense the trees,

bending towards me

in return.

They are attentive, 

listening.

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!

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.

POEM IN SEARCH OF PEACE

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.

Reconciliation

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.

Dancing For the Trees

The blockades of 1993 in Clayoquot Sound -

the greatest incidence of civil disobedience 

in Canadian history ~

thousands gathered, 932 arrested, 856 charged, to stop

the clearcutting of the last of our Old Growth forests

This is Sally Sunshine, now departed

Both photos by Lynn Thompson Photography

Wild Woman remembers

dancing on the earth,

a hundred women

spiral dancing

to the beat of the drums

at the blockades of '93.

Primal, pulsing woman-power,

faces radiant, joyous,

powerful with love

for Mother Earth,

dancing for the trees,

in defiance of the Machine

whose voracious jaws, agape,

threatened to devour

everything

loved,

necessary,

sacred.

Ululations,

wolf howls,

little girls with 

honest, determined eyes,

rainbows painted 

on their faces,

teens on the cusp 

of young womanhood,

mothers, sisters, grannies,

grey-haired women,

wise with living,

all deeply rooted 

in the earth,

united in the passion

of this moment

on the road,

a hundred women

dancing on the earth,

for the trees.

I am writing here of the Woman's Blockade. But all summer, thousands came to join us on the road. These were the most passionate hours and days of my life, the summer of '93, gathering before dawn on the road, the smell of smoke from the campfire, people sleepily arriving from the Peace Camp, the low beat beat beat of the tom toms. And then the big trucks pulled in, huge, intimidating, and the official would read out the proclamation to clear the road. Some of us stepped back. Those who volunteered to be arrested that day remained standing or sitting and were carried off bodily, to cheers and tears.

The protests received world wide media attention, creating national support for the protests. The clearcutting of the old growth was stopped and a Land Use agreement was eventually reached. 34% of the Sound is protected; 21% is under special management; the formerly 80% designated for resource extraction was reduced to 40%. But that is 40% too much for most of us.

The fight continues to protect Clayoquot Sound's ancient forests. 

For more info: Friends of Clayoquot Sound. These are the folks who made it all happen.

for Brendan's prompt at Real Toads: to write about what moves us, what powers us, what is our juice.

In the Dreamtime

Dreamtime by Linda Sannuti

In the Dreamtime,

the ancestors sang of

the way of humans,

being in the world.

They followed songlines

across the land.

Songs and chants

relayed spiritual truths,

the wisdom of how to

belong to the earth

in reverence.

If you go out

under the heavens

in the darkling hours,

harken to the sound

of the sky,

its great bowl

stretched over you

in loving protection,

its stars, signposts,

to guide 

your every step.

Listen, with presence
and attention,
to Mother Earth
and Father Sky,

for the Old Ones

are still singing,

still trying to teach
this wayward,
slowly awakening species

how to be.

Grandfather Cedar,
Grandmother Baobab, 

carry their prayerful messages

on the wind.

To be shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where you will find poems to delight you every Sunday morning.

Patient As Nuns

Patient as nuns,

they sit,

through all the

everness

of time.

Whether the apocalypse

comes, or not,

somehow,

they will

endure.

I took a walk for Sanaa's prompt at Real Toads: to go for a walk, and see where our thoughts take us. I live in an area of surpassing beauty, so when I step out onto the beach, all worries fall away, and I mostly am thinking: "How beautiful!" But as I wandered, the peace and steadfastness of these rocks impressed me, and the above lines popped into my head. So I thought I would share them with you, along with some of the other photos. Enjoy!

Frank's Island

So much life, everywhere,

often growing in seemingly

impossible places

The happiest part of my walks

is meeting all the happy beach dogs.

This little sentinel was chilling,

guarding his humans,

who were chatting.

For the Children

"Make it a better place...heal the world....save it for the children." Michael Jackson


The sun comes up,
the sun goes down.
We live in a world
of beauty.

I pray to Everything That Is
that we humans may
awaken,
learn to
live upon this land
as beautifully
as life itself,
remember the Old Ways
we have forsaken.

May our better natures rise
across the land and sea.
May we "heal the world
for the children,"
as well as for you and me.

All is designed
for our purpose and our pleasure:
seeds grow, trees breathe,
the eternal waves
ebb and flow upon the tides,
under the moon's soft sigh.

Across the land,
may we lay down
our weapons and our wars.
Just. Stop.  Become
one with life,
in reverence and respect
for all that lives,
as we once lived
Before.


for Sanaa's prompt at Real Toads: to go for a walk and write what thoughts come. Here, I am surrounded by beauty. The natural world lives with design and interdependence. That is how we are meant to live, interconnected with all things, with all of life, and with each other. We see in disasters like the present ones, how humans come together and help each other, without division. The best in human nature arises.

How the heavens must shake their heads, when they see us, in our earthly garden, running around with weapons, warring and creating havoc and chaos.  I thought of Michael Jackson's song: "Heal the world we live in, save it for the children." And offer you the gift of hope that is this video.

An Evening Walk

Last evening, I walked down to First Street dock,

to take in the setting sun.

Lone Cone

with Catface to its left

Watching the colours deepen

The amber light begins to glow

As we walked home, it became clear

the main show was continuing on

without us.

I snapped this between the hospital grounds

and the daycare.

Such beauty.

Reunions

We gather 'round the table,

come from afar,

the table that we have circled

for decades, made by one ancestor,

stained black by another,

reclaimed and stripped 

to its original beauty by a third.

The food and bubbly and plates

are passed;

we chat and joke,

and ply our forks and knives

with appreciative murmurs.

Everything tastes so good,

enjoyed together.

"Tell us one of your stories, Grandma,"

one of the kids will ask,

eyes fixed on me expectantly,

and I will tell them,

to much laughter,

sometimes a tear,

and many a 

"Remember when?"

What we don't talk about

is how each of us

is remembering

the beloved faces 

no longer here:

the ones who once made the meals,

and were central to our gathering,

now gone ahead,

their cackles silenced,

and forever missed.

How many more  before

I am missing, too?

When that day comes,

I hope the children

will re-tell some of my stories,

will say "Remember when?"

And, if they fall silent

and listen, in the midst of 

their laughter and tears,

perhaps they'll hear

a whisper of 

Wild Woman's cackle,

echoing faintly

down all the 

glistening years.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Reunions.

WOMYN OF THE MOON

source

We womyn of the moon,

following in the footsteps of 

the shamanic dreamers of the past,

hearts attuned to the sound of the drum

and the voice of the Watcher within,

know that, in every sister's herstory,

is an old wise woman with wrinkled cheeks,

a cackling laugh,

and earth-based knowledge 

of how to Be,

how to be She.

In this grey-cloaked winter of the dream-time,

we must remember to water 

our parched womanly roots,

hold fast to the place in the earth that is ours,

as the winds whip our branches,

and the icy cold seeps at the edges of our being.

There be danger in this domain,

if we try to stay.

As the days slowly lengthen,

we reverberate with the rhythm of the tides,

those wild winter waves which knock our hearts 

off the shelf of safekeeping,

into the depths, where we rediscover

what we had forgotten

that we already know.

There will come a time, just before spring,

when a woman has to step from 

the shore of the familiar,

into the ocean of womynkind,

open our eyes in the space

between the old world and the new,

the darkness and the light.

There be no old maps to guide you.

You must follow in trust,

with a wild, instinctual, wolfish Knowing,

from which you will emerge,

keen of eye, imbued with wisdom,

to mother the whole world.

A poem from 2014, shared with The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads.

A Girl, a Book and a Tree

Heathcliff, you were
a dark figure of romance
who taught me
that love equals pain and loss.

But oh, Francie,
lit up in the window,
your arm arced overhead,
as you prepared
for your evening out,
your friend, the old tree, outside,
it was you who taught  me
to dream!


For Magaly's prompt at Real Toads, to write about what a book meant to you in 132 words or less. I used 50. When I was 13, Wuthering Heights was a book with great impact, but it was A Tree Grows In Brooklyn, that really spoke to my circumstances, and offered me hope,  a way up and out.

Just Before Dawn

Sunrise over the mudflats,

Tofino Inlet

The dawn is peeping a red and ribald eye

over the mountain.

No one is awake.

The morning birds will not yet sing.

The sleepy valley is still nestled

in the arms of night.

But out in the meadow,

in the mist rising up from the icy fields,

a young doe is dancing lightly

on her tiny hooves.

An elven chorus, murmurous,

is chanting in the veld,

and the skybirds awaken, 

all a-flutter.

In a feathered heap,

they tumble out of the trees.

To witness this magic,

you must arise

just before dawn,

and disguise yourself

as a shrub.

- One from 2014, my friends, shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. 

Coyotes at Last Mountain Lake

I heard the coyotes howling

as evening fell

at Last Mountain Lake,

and I thought of you,

my old wolf-pal,

and how you would tip 

your nose up to the moon

and howl mournfully

for all the wild places you loved

that we had lost.

Then you'd come to me and rest

your forehead against my knee,

wearily, for comfort.

We loved and lost so much together,

old pal of mine.

But, always, we had each other.

And now I am alone.

My nose tilted up

towards the moon,

an inner howl

expressed in secret tears.

Still missing our wild beaches.

And you.

From 2015. For Pup. When I wrote this, I was living inland,  missing the beach. And now I am - gloriously, miraculously - here. Life continues to give gifts as we journey. I am grateful. Grateful for all the adventures I have had in my life, grateful for this peaceful time of savoring and summing up, of just Being with the sea and the sky.

To be shared in the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.