Tuesday, November 20, 2018

Prayer



When my heart has no words
when there is too much to pray for
and not enough hope
in the world
to right all the wrongs

When California is burning
as the naysayers say nay
I walk my speechless heart
into the forest

to try to find my way

Each tree
a living prayer
offering balm and breath
to the soul-weary
Each birdcall a note of hope
in the planetary song

humankind has
gotten wrong

When my heart has
only tears,
and there is too much to pray for
and not enough hope
to find my way
I let the trees pray for me
Breathe their peacefulness
into my being
Listen to all 

they have to say

Each tree
a living prayer,

each human adding either
dark or light
to the planetary plight





for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Prayer, and shared with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads.


Saturday, November 17, 2018

I Go To The Shore



When the world weighs heavily
upon my shoulders,
I go to the shore.
As the sea breeze blows
through my being,
thoughts grow still.
My heart takes comfort
in the sound
of the eternal breakers rolling in,
wave on endless wave,
upon the sand.

The beauty of the sea
strengthens my spirit,
its ever-breathing roar
replenishing my stores of peace.
The susurration of its
eternal song
washes through me,
through my eyes, my ears, my being
until I am as calm
as the lull between waves,
as strong and silent
as the smooth stones
scattered by the tide,
as patient as the sand dollar
that spins its house
from the sand and grit around it
and carries it along.

When the world weighs heavily
upon my shoulders,
when wildfires burn towns
to apocalyptic landscapes,
as people and wild creatures perish,
and whales are slowly starving
out at sea,
when chain saws bite and
trees are slaughtered
right outside my window,
when the phone brings bad news.....

I go to the shore,
let the sea breeze blow
through my being,
am soothed by the susurration
of the sea's eternal song.
My thoughts grow still
as starfish in the tidepools,
as a moonsnail shining
at the edge of the surf.
And when I turn away,
walk the path back to my car,
I am restored,
like the sand dollar,
carrying my home
- and my peace -
along with me,
ready to protect
each whale, re-plant each tree,
repay Mother Earth
for all she gives
to me.



for my prompt at Real Toads on Saturday: The Places That Heal Us. And shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United on Sunday.



Wednesday, November 14, 2018

Miracles and Wonder*




The older I get,
the more amazed I become
at the way every life form
is designed to be interconnected
with every other.
We live surrounded by
miracles and wonder*.
Now I'm waiting
for the greatest miracle of all -
the transformation of consciousness
on the planet,
so we can all set to work
healing Mother Earth,
saving all the trees,
and planting more,
freeing all animals from abuse and torture,
cleansing all the life-giving water,
living in gratitude and awe,
the way we are meant to live
in this earthly garden.
The way we were always
meant to live
with other living beings
and with each other.


* Miracles and Wonder from the Paul Simon song on his album Graceland.

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Ode to Age. Note to self: rather than waiting for everyone to awaken, I'll just start planting trees, shunning plastic, picking up litter, and signing petitions right where I am. I am thinking of the man who began years ago planting a few trees at a time, who  created an entire forest.

Even LADYBUGS work together to help each other out. Oh my goodness.

Friday, November 9, 2018

A Thousand Years of Living



When we walk through speckled landscapes
where the shape-shifters dance,
we are walking in the footsteps of the ones
who came before.
There are signposts they have left us
all across the forest floor.
A thousand years of living -
we don't set our sail  by chance.

We are walking in the footsteps of the ones
who came before.
The Old Ones' songs I hear upon the breeze.
A thousand years of living -
we don't set our sail by chance.
I sing wolfsong to the mountains and
knock on midnight's door.

The Old Ones' songs I hear upon the breeze,
under my feet the brittle leaves of summer past.
I sing wolfsong to the mountains and
knock on midnight's door.
The night air whispers: here you are,
here you are at last!

Under my feet the brittle leaves of summer past.
There are signposts they have left us
all across the forest floor.
The night air whispers: here you are,
here you are at last!
Walking through a speckled landscape
where the shape-shifters dance.


One from the fall of 2013, kids, hauled out again to share with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

Thursday, November 8, 2018

Just An Ordinary Morning



Just an ordinary morning, fingers of light
filtering softly through the trees,
a sleepy chirp from a waking sparrow.
I plug in the kettle for tea,
turn on the tv.
Breaking news:
another shooting.
More young people killed,
a fallen officer,
who died protecting lives.
More parents grieving.

What fuels this shooter-rage?
How do we heal it?
When will there be
ordinary mornings again,
that don't report
a shooting?


for Kerry's prompt at Real Toads:  How does the story end? I wish I knew.

Wednesday, November 7, 2018

Truth Is Stranger Than......



I used to read fiction,
when I was young,
dreaming away the days
imagining the fine romance
that would, one day, be mine.
The plot didn’t work out that way.
I set forth, starry-eyed,
without a clue,
not knowing that
what happened to me -
the not-choosing -
was, itself, a choice.

Heartache ensued,
as it always does
for starry-eyed fools,
who mistake Heathcliff’s surliness
for high romance and undying love,
instead of sensibly fleeing.

Next, to heal
my shattered illusions,
I chose novels
written by liberated women,
trying to find a roadmap
out of Clueless,
onto a road
with some sort of
reasonable destination.

Living in a shoe,
surrounded by children,
after the leading (con)man left
and we started over with nothing,
it occurred to me
that I was living
a more complicated
and messy plot
than any of the fiction
on my shelves.
In fact, had I sent in the synopsis,
any editor would have said,
“None of this is believable”.
It was just that weird.

Thankfully, the universe sent in
some gentle people,
midway through,
to heal my heart
and turn my life
back into blue skies
and sunny days.

I turned, then, to reading memoir,
lived experience,
tales of people who survived –
nay, transcended –
impossible situations.
I read of the Gulag,
concentration camps, women captives,
child soldiers, refugees,
people hanging onto life
by a shred,
breath and memory
and a soupcon of hope -
all that anchored them here.
They showed me how
our spirits rise.

I read a book dictated
after a stroke,
one eyeblink at a time,
one alphabet letter at a time,
and told myself to NEVER complain again
about how hard it was to write.

No, I don’t read fiction
any more.
Our lives are plots
to rival that of any novel.
My memoir will make
interesting reading,
if I ever have time
to write it.


LOL. For Susan’s  prompt at Midweek Motif: Reading fiction.

Saturday, November 3, 2018

BLOGBLAST FOR PEACE 2018




In 2006, Mimi Lenox, of Mimi Writes, began the annual Blogblast for Peace. Over the years people all over the globe have sent in their peace globes to post for peace. If you would like to join us, visit How to Blog For Peace, grab a globe template and link up.

Look at those eyes - innocent, hopeful, like every child's. Let's dream children a world where they can blossom in peace and harmony. Let's not forget to  dream a world for creatures, both wild and domestic, where they can live free from harm by humankind. While we're at it, Mother Earth needs our help, to demand that legislators draft the laws that will slow emissions, so she can begin to heal. It's a big job, but it is doable, if the global village works together, and all governments cooperate.

Beam Peace. Let's shift the consciousness on this planet - for Lunabella and all the beasts and children.

Join the Blogblast for Peace 2018.


My Inner Inukshuk



Towards the rising sun, I turn
my morning face, ever hopeful.
Vision obscured, I peer through cloudy glass,
towards the brighter sky.
Beyond the meadow, I can see
the ghostly shapes of ancient horses,
shape-shifting among the trees.

The shaman sits on a fencepost,
smiling, wise and kind,
with an owl perched on his shoulder.
He will not point the way,
for I must find it for myself.
But he gives me a blessing
for the journey,
as the road is steep,
rock-strewn,
and he knows there will be storms.

To the south lies treasure, precious stone,
inukshuks to point the way
for lonely travelers.
Their arms point west, always west,
where my spirit flies, up over the mountains,
along the familiar highway
that leads me forever home.
A row of prisms cast rainbows, for beauty,
refract the light, for brightness
and clear-seeing.

Towards sunset lies the illumined path,
following footsteps I trod before,
called ever forward
by the unceasing song of the sea,
siren, lover, clarion call,
to fly my spirit home.
I heft my kit bag full of memories,
tuck in a soupcon of wonder,
and a song to merry me along,
towards my nest at the edge of the world.

North is an inner compass, a knowing that,
whatever the direction I am headed,
however long or short the journey,
I am my own
True North.


This poem arrived in 2015, when I lived at the farm. It was created thanks to an exercise by Elizabeth, to turn in all the directions, make notes on what I saw and turn it into a poem. Thanks, Elizabeth! Sharing it with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

Thursday, November 1, 2018

I Count My Wealth in Trees

Photographer unknown
No copyright infringement intended


I count my wealth in old growth trees,
trails meandering along the forest floor,
in cloud-draped slopes and rounded hills
and in shorebirds that swoop and soar,
in watching sunsets paint the sky,
in peaceful walks along the shore,
and, when I walk in my door,
in rooms where my spirit finds succor,
when my cup is full
and can hold not one drop
more.

For Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Money. Of which I have none, but likely am happier than the millionaires in their mansions at the beach. Smiles.


Sunday, October 28, 2018

Tofino Waves

















The waves are in full roar, these days, just the way I love them. This is the south end of Cox Bay. I will spend this winter in search of the elusive Ultimate Wave Photo. Smiles.

Saturday, October 27, 2018

My Musey Meez



I write surrounded by wolves
and nature: wolves and herons and elephants
gaze down on me, and a wall of trees,
green and alive, and full of birds,
thrives outside my window.
My wolf-pup's eyes gaze ever at me:
steadfast, patient, loyal, eternal.

Often, my  eyes go to the trees outside,
to watch them dance, to witness
my lone hummingbird coming to the feeder,
leftover from the summer past.

My meez offers keys or pen, in invitation.
The muse is balky; it starts and stalls,
then spits out a few words or lines.
I look into the eyes on the wall:
the eyes of the wild that I love
and celebrate in my work,
that companioned me throughout my life,
that I live and die for.
A wolf howl is lodged in my heart.
Now and then it escapes
into a poem.


for Toni's prompt at Real Toads: to write about our "meez" - the actual physical place where we write. Mine, as you can see, is surrounded by wolves and nature: my greatest inspiration.


Friday, October 26, 2018

In Love With Place





When you are
in love with place,
the winds
blow love your way.
Every day
begins and ends
with pure contentment.
The white, soft sand blesses
the bottoms of your feet;
dune grass
burns golden
in the amber light
just before dark,
when the sun goes down.
Your heart
takes flight
on every eagle's wing,
when you are
in love with place,
and it knows
your name.


sharing this with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, my friends, where there is good reading every Sunday morning.

Thursday, October 25, 2018

Monster of the Ghostly Shore




He is an upright monster
who doesn’t know he is a beast.
He devours all in his path,
cares not the price tag of his feast.

His thoughts are tormented
as he walks the ghostly shore.
He knows only one word:
“More. And More. And More.”

Under his footprints,
ecosystems collapse
and species go extinct.
Beings tremble at his passing,
and are gone in a blink.

The locals think the nightly wails
are his grievous sighs,
but it’s the sound of all things dying,
that we hear; their mournful cries.

His song : “I Can’t Get No
Satisfaction,” ‘cause there
never is Enough.
He fears the Others might unseat him
so he blusters extra tough.

He treads the shore wearing
the ball and chain of his desire
and nothing more.
He is immune to reason and to plan.
He is the species known as Man.


For Isy’s  prompt at Out of Standard at Real Toads: to write about a monster. The most destructive one, to me, is man.

Wednesday, October 24, 2018

Invincible Hearts



Having crossed the Siberian winter
of the heart,
with nothing living,
I came to a green valley,
where smiling people,
living gently on the earth,
were planting seeds.




"Come in from the cold," they said,
making space for me,
and giving me some time
to feel safe.
They knew the warm sun,
safety, love and trust
would do the rest.





My heart began to melt.
It hurt, and I resisted,
but they told me
it was time.
Time to spread my wings and fly.
And so
I flew.



albernichamber.ca photo


Now they and I, one by one,
are crossing another valley -
the Valley of Trust.
I learned its language long ago,
in the Green Valley of Melting Hearts
and Flowering Buds.
It is the language of love,
of acceptance, of holding close
and letting go.
It is Memory, lit golden
by those years when we were all
Forever Young.


for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Winter. The title is from the Camus quote: In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.


Sunday, October 21, 2018

Tofino October Sunset













Glorious colours at the shore last night! Yay!

Saturday, October 20, 2018

Fairy Tale Treasures



When I was young,
I couldn’t imagine being brave enough
to climb a beanstalk into the sky.
But, in life, that is exactly what I did,
stepping off into the abyss,
a bemused Ms Magoo,
somehow managing to land 
more or less upright.

There were times I felt
the giant’s hot breath on my neck,
but I was nimble,
I was quick,
and hopped fast away.

The goose that laid the golden egg
eluded me.
My treasure was found
in the forest,
by the sea,
in golden friendships,
in music and the love of words,
in dogs, and all wild creatures.

My journey taught me things
I have been happy to pass along,
- not that anyone wants to listen -
they are all too busy leaping off
their own precipices.

I now sit in my counting-house,
counting golden memories.
My treasure still lies
in the heart-lift to be found
in that vault of blue fairy-tale sky,
the sheen of that
shimmering rainbow,
in windsong and the sight of
birds on the wing,
and the memories of so much love,
                      the memories
                                        of so much love...


I revisited a poem from 2016.........to share with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. Wishing you all a sunshiney day.


Wednesday, October 17, 2018

The Beans of Autumn

Sunset on the Somass River, Port Alberni
Lyndon Cassell Photography

This used to be the season
of gathering the garden in,
storing it away to
feed my children
through the winter.

Now, there is just me to feed.
The CoOp has a sale on beans:
kidney, chick pea, black beans, lentils.
I lug them home,
tuck them into the cupboard
like nuts for a winter squirrel.
I have an abundance of beans,
a surfeit of  succulence,
a   sufficiency of legumes.     

Let the Southerly blow in
the gales and lashing rains of winter.
I dream of steamy soups
bubbling on the stove,
a   perfect plenitude of  potted plenty,
thick with a preponderence of petite  potatoes,
a veritable Enough of Enough-ness
to see the winter through.

For Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Abundance.


Thursday, October 11, 2018

A WOLFISH TALE

Image found on facebook
Creator unknown
No copyright infringement intended


After years of keeping
the wolf from the door,
I let him in.
Oh! He was wild!
He wilded me along the shore;
I'd be untamed
forevermore.

Through Wild Thing's door,
we loped along,
cavorted 'cross the forest floor,
howled under the moon
our song.
I wasn’t lonely any more.

He led me such
a merry chase.
Toothy grin
and wolfish face,
feet and paws
never apart,
he claimed each corner
of my heart.

In time our steps slowed
to a hobble.
I knew that soon
I'd be bereft.
His paws still padding soft
beside me,
I grieved his loss
before he left.

I've mourned his leaving
all the years
from the day
this wolf tale ends.
In dreams, he asks,
"why are you grieving?"
I say, "I've lost my dearest friend."
He smiles his toothy smile at me,
reminding me,
"Love never ends."




for my prompt at Real Toads: Un-Fairy Tales  and shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

When I look back at those years, he and I truly did live a fairy tale. Those years are golden in memory. I have been given many gifts, this lifetime.

The Princess Who Ate the Pea


[image from favin.com - original source unknown]


She'd been told, of course,
about the princess and the pea,
the girl with such delicate sensitivities
she could feel a pea under 
fourteen layers of mattresses.

What does it mean, then,
when her bed has rocks in it
and the message is
"you made your bed,  now lie in it.
What doesnt kill you makes you stronger"?
How strong does a woman
have to be?
(Damn strong!
Strong as steeped tea.)

In her world, the prince did not come.
There were no glass slippers,
no magic pumpkin.
She got stuck in chapter one
of Cinderella,
never met a princely fella.
The Good Fairy got the address wrong,
so she has been cleaning chimneys
and other peoples' messes
for way too long.

Not Sleeping Beauty,
(and she envies her all that rest!),
she was, for years,
the aging woman in the Dickens parlour,
draped in spiderwebs,
waiting for her suitor
for decades.
She was always brushing
those damned cobwebs off her face.

Un-fairytales are her medium.
Definitely.
She has got un-fairy tales down.

She learned to hack her own way
through the thornbushes,
free herself from her own stone garret.
She galloped alone at a high lope
across the fields
on the great adventure of life,
with a brave heart for the journey,
no need to be rescued by a knight 
on a white horse,
with a back to cling to as he led the way
forward into Tomorrow.

Un-fairy tales can get repetitive,
the same old Rescuing of Others,
page after page.
Or, one may feel like she is beginning
a new chapter every other week.
It gets exhausting.

And delicate sensitivities?
One needs to toss those overboard
right from the start,
develop a hearty cackle
and a Can-Do attitude.
"Eat the pea, young women,"
is her best advice.
"You will need the nourishment."


for my prompt at Real Toads: Un-fairy Tales. This is an old one, that I re-worked considerably.  I didn't think I could say it any better. But, for all that, I still do believe in fairy tales. For other people, lol.


Wednesday, October 10, 2018

SMALL OWL



Small owl,
harbinger,
traveler-between-worlds,
(all that we know
and the unseen),
what do you see
behind those heavy-lidded eyes
when you dream?

What wonders do you witness
in the darkest dark
of night?
What do you remember
when comes
the morning light?
Mice, skittering across
the forest floor?
Or in your daydreams
do you swoop 
and soar?

Do you conjure shamans
in the nighttime woods?
Commune with wolves,
ululate, as small owls should?
Have you seen my black wolf
as the midnight air grows thin,
at the edge of the Other-world
trying to
get back in?


for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Owls. I have written often about owls, with whom I have had a few encounters, one quite mystical. 

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

Skybird's Song



Traveler falters
on the path.

She is wounded.
Her wolf companion
has left her side,
and her hand
is empty
when it moves
to touch his head.


It is a blow,
a hole torn
in the
fabric
of her living.

But, soon,
she hears
a skybird's song.
It mends and weaves
the sore place
in her heart, bids her
resume her journey,
encourages her
from low branches
till she
gets up
and walks again.

She follows
that bird
the whole
day long.


One from my Soul Card Journey of April, 2011, shared with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads. We can listen for that encouraging bird, as we walk through this dystopian forest of bad news. Perhaps she sees farther down the path, to where the news is better. We live in hope.



Friday, October 5, 2018

Wild Woman Goes for Tea




There is a dangerous old woman
who lives in the forest.
Her house is whittled inside a tree trunk,
and her music is the rainfall on the leaves.

"Whu-hoo", says the owl 
on the cobbled doorstep,
blinking her yellow eyes
and rustling her feathers.

"To enter, you must have passed 
seventy years of seasons.
The map of your life
must be drawn upon your face,
and your eyes droop with 
sadness and the memory
of your journey.
Yes. You are
sad enough and wise enough
to pass."

I enter and, within, the fire is blazing.
A grizzled white-haired crone bends
to pour my tea.

"And what are you wondering?
What question brings you here?"
she asks,
dipping a dainty finger
in her teacup
and stirring.

"What do I have to do,
to have my dwelling in a tree?"

"Grow back your clipped wings,
and remember how to fly."


google picture - original source unknown


One from 2013, kids. Because I am in need of a cup of tea. And wings. Or at least a bunch of helium balloons, to hold up my tired Head. LOL.  Sharing it with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

Thursday, October 4, 2018

A Whale's Tale

Nuu chah nulth whaling circa 1700


The Nuu chah nulth people of the West Coast have cared for the land, water and its creatures for ten thousand years, according to the principle of Hishuk Tsawalk: "Everything Is One". Each being is seen as a relative in the tapestry of life. Even the lowly slug has territory that is respected. “There are spirit forms in everything that surrounds us,” the wise ones say. When someone harvested cedar bark, back then, permission was asked of the guardian of that area. After harvesting, that tree and that part of the forest would be left alone for many years to heal.  

In those days, pre-contact, the whaling canoes set forth from Echachis, at the south end of Wickaninnish Island. A whale hunter was trained from birth for the hunt. When grown, for months before the hunt, he prepared with prayer, bathing and fasting.  He and the whale would meet in dreams, to agree that that whale, and no other, would be taken. It was a sacred contract. He would paddle until he found the whale, and fulfil their agreement. After the hunt, everyone would gather to process the whale into the products they would use for food, trade, barter or sale. Then all would feast in celebration, with many songs of gratitude and respect being sung for the whale whose life sustained the village. First Peoples have always understood the necessity of maintaining the balance of the ecosystems that support all life.  How they must recoil at the mamalthni’s* heavy footprint on the land, our disregard for tomorrow.

In spring, I watched three whales rubbing themselves on the sandbar in the channel. I gazed across at Echachis,  reflecting on long-gone days, when the canoes would head out to meet the cetaceans. Whales, the keepers of  our collective memory, are now making their difficult trek through warming seas, pollution, hunger and death, brought by the colonial culture of domination, greed and money. The great beasts are the wisdom keepers, intuiting how all that we hold dear is coming perilously close to being lost. No wonder their song is so mournful, and their ancient eyes so sad.

If only  mamalthni*
would learn we are but one link
in the chain of life.


*Mamalthni is the Nuu chah nulth word for white people. I have been told these things by the Nuu chah nulth people of this land, in workshops and gatherings. If this earth is to survive, we need to hear their wisdom and learn to live with Mother Earth as they do. Soon.

A lengthy haibun for Margaret's Artistic Interpretations at Toads: a Whale's Tale.


Wednesday, October 3, 2018

The Slap of a Beaver's Tail, at Morning




To steady your steps
in this turbulent world,
enter the marsh
at the edge of the pond.
Listen to the thrush
sweetly singing her morning song.
The slap of the beaver’s tail
sends ripples across the water.
Your dog smiles.
There is only this moment,
right now,
breathing in,
breathing out,
your heart like a reaching root
warmed by the sun.

Perhaps you woke this morning,
as I did,
with the words of your dream
still speaking:
“The planet is burning,
and our leaders don’t care.”

We do all we can:
make the calls, sign the petitions,
make wise consumer
and life choices,
plant trees, help our neighbours.
Pray. March. Vote.

The reeds lining the pond
thank us for our good hearts;
the sun bathes the trees
in golden light, gifting us
with another day
of trying.

Enter the marsh
at the edge of the pond.
Listen to the thrush
blessing us
with her morning song.
Our hearts like reaching roots,
warmed by the sun.


for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Balance. Hard to find if one listens to the news. I did wake up this morning with those words from my dream. Sigh. I guess the rich crocodiles figure they can pay to protect themselves from whatever disasters come. Won't they be surprised!



Saturday, September 29, 2018

An Imperfect Offering



Light the incense.
As the smokey vapours rise,
may they carry all our prayers
into the otherworld.
Let the hundred candles shine,
illuminating and banishing
our dark night,
in this early morning 
transitory light.
Scatter the petals of aging blooms,
making a carpet on which to kneel,
and pray the prayer
you feel.

When you are ready,
sound the bell
one clear and solitary ring.
As our chants begin,
we meditate
on what we have to bring.
May the All That Is accept
our most imperfect
offering.


One from 2012, my friends, to be shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, fine reading every Sunday morning. I thought we might need to revisit some light and some peace, in this moment. Smiles.


Thursday, September 27, 2018

Let's Not Bring Home the Bacon - Warning: Distressing to animal lovers


We live in a world gone mad
where, in advance of storm,
the Keepers of the pigs and chickens
lock the warehouse doors,
climb into their comfy cars,
and flee the flooding 
that drowns five thousand terrified 
sentient beings.

They're not worried,
since insurance will repay them
for "lost inventory".

Can we scream loud enough 
to wake ourselves up
from this nightmare of corporate
indifference to all but profit?

Can we do something more
than wince and abhor?
Instead of a howl,
can we stop eating fowl?
Can we give up our bacon, 
yes, you, and yes, me,
and set all the pigs free?







for my prompt at Real Toads: Earth Grief. I have more than enough of that to go around, but this week it is the pigs and chickens that drowned in the flooded Carolinas in late September, and the massive release of manure into fresh water systems that has gotten me down.

These are all personal choices, no judgment, when it comes to what we eat. But it hit home for me, lover of dogs and of wolves, that all animals feel love, happiness, fear, pain and terror. They all want to live, free of torture, confinement, and the screams of their fellow beings dying, knowing they are next. Factory "farming" is barbaric. There is no farming going on. They say one cant be an environmentalist and eat meat, as livestock is one of the biggest producers of greenhouse gases.

Turning to a plant-based diet, or at least reducing our consumption of animal products is one choice we can make to help the planet. 

My cousin calls this "no one got hurt" meals!   

To advocate for ethical and humane treatment of animals, we can bombard our legislators with a demand for regulations that protect helpless non-human beings, who are victims of our disgusting corporate culture. As are we. There is a difference in meat from factory farms and meat healthily and humanely grown, on real farms, as it was in the old days. No trauma, no hormones, no antibiotics. No fear and abuse.

For a better world, my friends. We live in hope.